Miranda, Graubunden, Tarasp – Walk Down The Brahmaputra
5/20/10
Dear Roger,
What’s going on??? From my bunker in the hills I hear stories about things considered sacred in America, a household name: the Miranda Rights, protection against coerced confessions made by persons in police custody being mutilated (apparently the AG is asking congress to enact legislation codifying an exception to the Miranda rule in the case of a terrorism suspect). An appropriate song for my current state of mind, do check it out.
What’s Going On:
Miranda Rights based on the 5th amendment to the constitution ( right against self incrimination/Right to remain silent) and the 6th amendment (right to counsel/legal help) which every man woman and child has taken for granted reflected by the courts which have upheld it as they have been averse to overrule Miranda for the last 34 years, subsequent cases have in fact reaffirmed it by stating that unwarned (un-mirandized) statements may not be used as evidence.
American TV programs, motion pictures, songs, media all seem to reiterate this right as core, a right which appears to have become so integral to a culture. Even a seven year old kids playing Cops and Robbers will playact asking for an attorney before speaking to his friend The Cop. In the instance of the Times Square bomber, which really blew things up (to me it looks like the bomb actually went off as the repercussions of the act, the far reaching impact of the preventive measures destroying something core/dear to a nation, appear to be many times worse than the actual physical impact of the bomb). It does not take a rocket scientist to understand that upon arrest you can invoke your fifth, even a seven year old can playact that. The Times Square bomber and others like him who have the smarts to build a bomb, plant it and plan an escape, would most certainly know to ask for their attorney (like that 7 year old) and would not need to be reminded of their rights necessarily, as was the case with the Times Square bomber who spoke before being mirandized and continued to speak as easily after. The persons who WILL suffer if we chip into this armor, this safeguard of the 5th amendment granted through the Miranda Rights, is the minority/ low income immigrant community, single mother in a ghetto who has stayed away from school because she is pregnant with her second child and is now facing arrest and interrogation because her drug dealing boyfriend has left his stuff in her locker( drug money could easily be stretched by savvy attorneys to have terrorist links). She is the one who needs to be Mirandized, informed, guided, jolted out of her hysteria and told that society has some help out there for her, because it would all be irrelevant if we were unable to uphold some core values : Presumption of innocence until proven guilty( do we not agree that we would free a 100 guilty men before hanging an innocent one?)
In fact CJ Rehnquist wrote in 2000 Dickerson decision that Miranda warnings had ” become so embedded in routine police practice to the point where the warnings have become a part of our national culture”. Somewhere this seems to me to form the core, the fabric of the people, a cultural evolution, something people take for granted in a society (as the French with their privacy) what is that if not somehow enmeshed and becoming a part of the constitution of a people? I have been exploring these core ideas/rules which I understand to form the basis of our society, and am concerned about “the checks and balances” which all might be “persuaded” to do away with “in these times of terror”, The Queen of Hearts would say”Off with your head”, “Off with all your heads, both the ‘tellectuals and the terrorists”, we do have a pretty collection accumulating in our backyard now, don’t we? I would love your thoughts on this. Do check out this rap version of the Miranda rights with my all time favorite star Tom Hanks.
Miranda Rights:
OK, so over with the intense stuff, now I must share with you my incredible journey to Graubunden, exploring the easternmost canton of Switzerland. As I mentioned in my earlier mail, I was bubbling with excitement because not only did it have my much fantasized about peak the Weisshorn with its namesake in my neck of the woods, The Weisshorn Solang, but also the fact that the flag of the canton of Graubunden has a majestic black ibex rearing on its hind legs signifying freedom, independence, swiftness and bravery, all the qualities that I so admire!
We first drove to Chur, the capital of the canton, a with a settlement which dates back 5,000 years located at the foot of the most important alpine passes. A charming town with old cobbled streets and fountains carved with the most ferocious facial expressions to the extent that they were comical. These reminded me of fairytale goblins who patrol the passes extracting their due fee for safe passage.
In fact, the next day on our way taking the road via Davos and over the high and very dramatic Fluella pass, with sheer icy mountainsides stretching endlessly on either side, I witnessed nature in its stark raw beauty and realized how in a flicker millions of tons of snow, rock ice could tumble upon us from any nook and extinguish us forever, it was avalanche season, making me realize how insignificant and helpless we really are. These passes are remnants of a pre Roman time and my mind wandered to the fierce and formidable people who used to patrol and maintain this pass (and do so even now), a gargantuan task! And it brought my mind to the numerous Swiss men I see with their teddy bear looks and cute goatee beards, are essentially a people of the mountain, hardy stock that have for millennia patrolled the passes, been in sync with communication, information. Know through the caravans that pass through (and often have to pass through) their passes the pulse of the world, the treasures hidden, the secrets carried, a value far greater than the toll they extract for safe passage. Yes, the Swiss seem to have stayed synced, and do wield an impact in the passes of today, one where financial information flows, and through this maintain their edge, with a birds eye vision of the world as everything is entwined with finance.
As we crossed the Fluella pass onto the lower Engadine, a mythical, magical place I cannot write enough about, and made our way to the charming towns of Scuols, Vulpera and Tarasp, I was reminded of the Swabian wars, or the Engadine Wars where the Swiss confederates squabbling over the control of some passes engaged into an intense war with the Habsburgs who had Swabian support. The Swiss with their military skills and determination routed a much superior force of the Swabians and massacred them as they fled with their infamous and much feared most menacing weapon: the halberd. The Halberd was a long pole with a large axe head on one side and a smaller cutter on the other, later the tip had a pike. Today it’s the ceremonial weapon of the Swiss Guards. With this they could slash and pierce every armor and were a threat to every mounted warrior. This edge that the Swiss acquired with this notorious weapon reminded me of the modern day edge they must have with their patrolling of the modern day passes: the ability to pierce any corporate veil and unmask any armor/identity as everything is so closely tied with the passage of money. What do you think?
We stayed at a charming hotel that looked like a little palace on a hill in Scuol with a room with the most mind blowing view, which the camera refused to capture and embarked upon an adventurous walk up the mountainside to the Tarasp castle. This is a place that I cannot describe, all i can say is that in my mind this is the place I always journey to.
This was my dream! I spin through time and the decades fly before my eyes as I find myself, a four year old (I still have a vivid memory of that time) with my parents in an incredible old British colonial home on the top of a hill in the town of Gauhati in Assam. The house had the most magnificent gardens stretching all the way down the hill and at the bottom the mighty river Bhramaputra flowed.
Just like Tarasp castle a landmark of the lower Engadine, built a millennia ago, poised on the top of a hill surrounded by a magical setting, a home for the governors of Austria till the 19th century; similarly, I was told this house has been taken and was converted to the Governors house. The Bhramaputra, the largest river in India originating from Tibet flowing across the plateau, through the deepest gorge through the Himalayas and finally passing Assam, my home on its way to join the Ganges in the delta of the Sunder-bands. There has been much local lore, many myths and stories around this magnificent river, but the one comes to mind is the age old tale of lord Brahma the creator(one of the trinity), enchanted by Amodha wife of the brahmin Shantanu(the gods are truly relentless), asked her to make love to him. He then magically inseminated her (this is where they don’t seem to have any fun) giving birth to the mighty river Bhramaputra, or son or lord Brahma.
Well, here goes the true story, at the grand age of four, I decided I must embark upon an adventure. So, I took the hand of my friend of the same age, the cooks daughter (a cook who had served as my fathers man Friday on his numerous adventures in the Himalayas) and decided to find the source of the Brahmaputra. So, we walked and we walked and we walked down the hill and along the river for miles while the entire household, was going ballistic with gardeners, cooks servants running up and down looking for ‘baby”. Mom broke down realizing that this was going to be a long journey with her child who really belonged to the “other” (fathers) side. All this while, I was really looking for a way across the river to the forest of pixies (promise you, a true story that I remember vividly), but could not find a way to get across. So, i walked and walked and walked hoping that one day I will find a way to get across the river to the land of the pixies. Well, I did. I crossed the river but this was not the Brahmaputra but the river Inn (in the Engadine), and walked up the hill to Tarasp castle a place that came closest to that dream of the land of the pixies of my youth. Well, guess what, I did make it to Tarasp castle, it was picturesque but there was not a pixie in sight. Finally in the distance, I discovered the one I was searching for all my life, the one I ran down the hill and along the Bhramaputra for; upon seeing him, I clasped my arms around him and gave him a long kiss, even though he had been turned to stone, yes a life size sculpture of a Pixie/Gnome(do see picture pasted below):
As for my journey down the Bhramaputra, it all ended well as some worker recognized us and took us back up the hill to a furious and frenzied crowd. There were slaps, a bath and lights out.
We visited the other charming villages of the Engadine like Ardez which had homes with beautifully depicted facades especially one with Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, see below Purnima in the Garden of Eden:
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Zuoz and Guarda with the sgraffito, designs etched onto the cemented facades distinctly reminding me of other northern Italian journeys the Italian influence making the designs strikingly attractive.
The villages were silent other than the church bells but the sculptures seemed to possess a life of their own and dance around the central square to mimic the life and humanity of the silent villages. Since Graubunden is the land of Heidi, we decided to take a walk around Heidisee (the lake) with our little Heidi, Tara. Our final destination was St. Moritz where after three days together we barely managed to avoid drowning each other in the icy waters of the glorious lake!
See pics below of a ski trip to St Moritz traversing scenic Zuoz and Graubunden:
Good night and I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday!
Dear Purnima,
I have long since ceased to be surprised about any of the actions of the US government in the area of constitutional rights. Since 9/11 and Bush’s declaration of war on terrorism, the Homeland Security Department has run rough shod over the rights of citizens (and non-citizens)! What bothers me even more than the seeming disregard of the Miranda Rights is the total disregard of those same fifth and sixth amendment rights for anyone suspected of even the slightest collaboration with the so-called terrorists. The many prisoners held for years at Guantanamo in a kind of legal black hole with no rights to legal counsel, a swift and fair trial, no incarceration without proof of wrongdoing, etc., etc..
A slightly related topic. Did I tell you that the family has decided to leave Spain and move to California (Ventura)? I’m not so sure that I will feel really uncomfortable going to visit them there, and I will miss going to Valencia. We really like the place.
I loved your description of your trip to Chur, Tarasp Castle – I had no idea it was such a charming site, and the picture of you hugging the bearded Swiss mountain gnome is priceless. Did you realize that you are standing on your tip toes, extended vertically as well as horizontally?
And your tale of going off in search of the source of the Brahmaputra at the age of four brought back vivid memories of a similar adventure I had as a young 3-4 year-old in the mountains surrounding our home. I wasn’t looking for anything as poetic as the source of a mighty and mythical river, but the effects of my disappearing in the middle of the afternoon with my best friend (another Roger) were very similar.
Have a great Monday and see you tomorrow or Thursday.
Roger
PURNIMA VISWANATHAN
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
Of Beasts and Men, The Jabberwocky and Laal Kaan, Traditional Knowledge and The Tale of The Ice Mommy
2/09/10
Dear Roger,
Guess what…we are off to Graubunden tomorrow for the long weekend, and I am VERY excited, not only am I returning after a span of 13 years (and many lifetimes) to my first stop in Switzerland, a place that completely stole my heart, but I am returning to the place where my Ice Mommy story is based: the Weisshorn!
Unfortunately, I think that story is gone, back into the glacier, my diary is long lost (sob, sob)…but the ghost of the Ice Mommy still lingers in the shadows with a macabre twist.
As usual, your mail takes me journeying to distant lands and dynamic exhibits. I would have loved to catch a glimpse of this particular exhibit at the Tokyo museum of modern art, but your words painted a wonderfully fulfilling picture. I know somewhere its Murakami at work, the old TV monitors being a reflection of what is left of the man, his series of memories and experiences captured in the mould/ hardware of his time, it all sounds breathtaking.I continue to be intrigued by people with the uncanny ability to so subtly exhilarate the mind. After reading your mail, I discovered that a number of my memories were also wrapped up in little parcels, like an old song played by my first love, which then floods the mind with associated memories of place and time and food and dress. So, more Murakami for me… I can’t wait to read Sputnik Sweetheart. I always wanted to be an astronaut you know, now of course it would be impossible, i am sure they would not allow lipsticks on board, not even Dior!
In your mail about my trip to Paris, you had mentioned something about getting back to the “right” side of the mirror, now do tell me what would be my “right” side if I am UPSIDE DOWN??? The mirror inverts the image in any case, so the “right” side is always the FUN side. Three guesses to where that might be!
Talking about Paris, and my previous email where I mentioned that I was on a lifelong quest for the holy grail: the idea of Privacy, hoping to somehow find it in the alleyways of Paris, the arteries that run through the core.
You do know that I have been on a lifelong pursuit of understanding the idea, exploring the concept of privacy, which, as we have discussed in the past, is getting more alarmingly relevant in this technologically accelerated universe of ours. And, in my opinion, should forms the core, the fulcrum, the basis upon which any legal system that is to be relevant in this world is to be built. The French, somehow so intrinsically live, breathe, and represent this idea that it appears to be enmeshed in them and their culture. Which makes my journey to their heart soooo attractive. I am convinced somewhere within its alleyways lies the Holy Grail!
But, I did not want to make the fatal mistake of searching for this pivotal idea in the words and expressions of the “pundits”. A lesson I had learned during the years in America where I saw and heard repeated time and time again forceful, passionate, eloquent, apparently educated, debates and discussions by persons held up as the pundits of society, the intellectuals who “we the people” thought could make a rational logical argument/call on most pertinent issues, especially issues of peace and war. However, I saw these very faces so seduced by themselves and their own arguments, that all they wished to present was the agenda of the day and when the agenda changed and the “call to war” fell flat on its face and the agenda changed, these very persons spoke with the same passionate fervor presenting rational arguments couched in high flying intellectual verbiage that would make us all crouch with reverence and admiration.
Of course, my skeptical upside down brain would just NOT accept this and i ran. My name has been annoyingly shortened from Purnima to “P” by my “loved ones”, since we have gone this far, I often tell the children that I might change it to the symbol representing “pi”. (If Prince can change his name to a symbol, why can’t I) And that pi is such an irrational number unruly, impossible, unfathomable number, its value cannot be expressed exactly as a fraction and its decimal representation never ends or repeats…to the point where Lewis Carroll apparently based his Queen of Hearts, that irrational unruly character on this irrational pi. So, being true to my nature, an upside down irrational girl, oops lets change that to woman (who is always in love, real or imaginary), I say, just like Lewis Carrol’s Queen of Hearts, “Off with their Heads” “all of them”, lets get funky Fred to lead the gangplank (and oh how I loved him).
So, similarly, I decided to abandon any discussion on the idea of privacy with my friend, for I suspect he would represent that very spectrum, that I ran ran ran so far away from. My goal is to get to the core of this idea, an idea which is so integral to these people that I believe is woven in the fiber of the average man, who has some beliefs that he treasures as being integral to his identity and not one that is thrust upon him by the media or authority political or intellectual and similarly cannot be wrestled away. I think my search will have to involve a longer stay and many conversations (including my fancy dancy friend) with all I encounter to get a glimpse of that holy grail. It looks like I’m back to my French lessons!
Well, since we are back to Lewis Carroll, I did see the movie Alice in Wonderland and enjoyed rereading the Jabberwocky, a supposed nonsensical poem, a fantastical play on words.
“Beware the Jabberwocky, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
However, The Jabberwocky is not so nonsensical from my perspective (an upside down look through the mirror). I have been told that this fierce beast resides in a magnificent castle on the periphery of Lake Geneva! And, since I have found myself thrust in Wonderland, the eventual clash with the jabberwocky is inevitable I’m afraid! It’s written somewhere…
A little background, if you are able digest big game hunting, but of course in another time another world. As my son embarked upon the biography of his maternal grandfather for his school project, and I scurried around looking for appropriate photos of my father, I found that his grandest and most glamorous ones were by the side of a tiger or cheetah, glowing in the glory, sitting broad chested, sporting his signature Tyrolean hat beside the slain beast gun in hand. OK, those photos WILL NOT WORK. So, how about a biography on my grand father, again the Bavarian hat, the fierce and formidable beasts “the jaws that bite, the claws that catch”… man testing his wits against nature, raw gut instinct and the pulse of the jungle. The Tale of Laal Kaan. No, not a good theme for my sons middle school project, but a good one for us, yes?
See below pics of The Mysore Palace with a mounted tusker akin to Laal Kaan a pic of the Game Room where you can still get a glimpse of the Raj superimposed by images of The Maharaja and Viswanathan:
I am taking you back over half a decade to the jungles of the Deccan. The Maharaja of Mysore (a state in south India) was very perplexed with stories of a rogue elephant heard to be rampaging through the villages killing cattle destroying property and crushing human life in his path. The rogue elephant was massive and very fierce, far removed from his herd he had turned mad, aggressive. He was called Laal Kaan meaning red ear by the villagers as he used to rub his ears on the tree trunks till they were bloody and charge onto the villagers. My grandfather was invited by the maharaja (buddy) to take this beast down and the story of my grand father who chased the rogue through the forests on his elephant with his massive elephant gun (which would send most people flying off) is to be heard to be believed. There is really only one shot, one chance you get at a stampeding rogue elephant coming right at you, and that is between the eyes. The rogue was shot, the villagers were triumphant, my grandfather returned to the North with his tusks to his dear wife and double patiala peg (scotch), melodious Sanskrit verse and mathematics!
Following on their footsteps, I sense somehow my future too has been written, and the Jabberwocky awaits the final battle in the deep dark depths of lake Geneva.
Good night and hope to see you next week.
Purnima
May 11, 2010, 2:54 PM
Dear Purnima,
I can well imagine that your brief foray to the other side of the mirror has left you in an heightened state of despondency after returning to the “right” side. Flights of fancy, be they real or imaginary, almost always leave us longing to be able to remain in that ethereal state of bliss rather than returning to the hard realities of our lives. AND, the memories of those often dizzying times keep flashing through our consciousness when we least expect it, like flickers of light through a pitch black room. We went to the Tokyo Museum of Contemporary Art the other morning, and there were several exhibits that really struck me. One was devoted to the memory of a very famous newscaster in Japan who died in the 1980’s His son found a whole collection of old videos and audio tapes that his father had done, and went through them all and edited them into a superb exhibit involving the sound of his father’s voice, images on sever smallish tv monitors spread around the room, and text (both in Japanese and English) on a large screen, all of which was in a totally dark, round room. The effect was really spell binding, and many of the tv images showed events that the correspondent had covered throughout his life. It was uncanny how my own memories of many of the events from the past that were evoked played a central role in how I reacted to the exhibit. One of the things that I loved was a short bit from when he was in New York to cover a story. He said that one morning while he was getting ready to leave, the phone rang. He said that before he even picked up the phone he knew it was from Tokyo and from his tv station. He went on to explain that for some reason an international, overseas call always had a slightly different ring to it, and while it may seem illogical and that the phone is a machine that responds to a signal and electrical impulses to activate the ring tone, it nevertheless sounded different. The description of the exhibit also quoted his son as saying that the small tv monitors that were used to show the various images were tv sets from the period of time when his father did his extremely popular nightly newscasts and that it was most likely that the images of those broadcasts had been shown on those very sets and that they had somehow left an imprint!!!
Another exhibit in the collection was an entire wall covered with black and white photographs of people living in Switzerland during the 1940’s. The people were all totally anonymous and the pictures themselves were without any artistic merit in and of themselves, but they had been found in a box by an artist that creates her art by using objects she finds and in the way they are arranged and presented. One of the photos really got to me. It was the picture of a young girl together with what were probably a group of her family members. The mood in the photo and the girl herself for some reason took me back to a time when I was much younger and in Denmark and a young girl that I had known there, the memory of whom often flits through my mind. Those events only live in my memory now, and are real only in that context, but I was really effected by that one picture and the effect it had on me. The past is completely unretrievable and yet lives on in my mind. It is evocative of both pleasant, unforgettable experiences that have shaped my life and the way I view the world and yet profound nostalgia.
You asked which of your stories I preferred. I love them all and always marvel at the mesmerizing prose you are able to weave, but I think your evocation of Morocco was so rich and moving that I like that one best of all. And I loved you description of how you tip toe through La Place Mollard of a morning taking great care not to step on the transparent cobblestones that carry their multi-language greetings!
And talking about war and atomic bombs, I heard an interesting discussion about warfare on NPR this morning (we can pick it up on the radio from the American military radio station). There was a lengthy interview of a fellow of the Brookings Institute who has just published a lengthy study of the history of warfare. His rather gloomy, I must say, conclusion is that warfare, in spite of all its violence, uglyness, death and destruction, is part and parcel of human nature. Even though those of us who constantly hope for a more enlightened humanity that will attempt to find other means to settle dispute and differences have always felt that we just might be capable of moving toward a higher plane of awareness (knowledge, as you put it) and do away with warfare, that simply hasn’t happened ! It’s a terrible thought and conclusion, but I’m afraid that he is right!
So much more to share, but I have to run. We leave again for Geneva on Friday morning and arrive that evening, that is if the volcano doesn’t interfere with things. So far SAS’ flights have been operating normally, so I think we’ll be okay.
You didn’t say anything else about Boise???
See you next week sometime. I’ll let you know when I can get away for a long coffee break.
Bisous,
Roger
Apr 22, 2010, 2:34 PM
Dear Purnima,
Your email came just in time to brighten an otherwise grey, rainy day in Nagasaki, especially that image of spring and flowers in Geneva ! And one of my favorite all time movies, to boot. I agree that Bogart has to be the quintessential hero in that film, and Ingrid Bergmann is so tantalyzingly beautiful, and I love that final scene when Bogart and the French policeman walk off together to shape a new world in the future.
From the barren sands of northern Africa to the lush countryside and rolling hills surrounding the harbor of Nagasaki is quite a leap, but the two are, sadly enough, connected by a tragic war and suffering and sadness. Your thoughts about the a bomb are an uncanny reflection of my very own this morning. We spent several hours at the a bomb museum and memorial, and, as was the case last year in Hiroshima, I was engulfed with a whole gamut of emotions from deep sadness to disgust and dismay over my own governments decision (taken at least three years earlier by Roosevelt and Churchill) to drop an atomic bomb on innocent civilian populations. It must surely rank as one of the great crimes against humanity, but then history is always written by the victors and the feeble rationalizations given at the time that the two atomic bombs saved hundreds of thousands of American lives just don’t wash any more. Japan was already reeling in the war and had already approached the Russians to act as arbitrators in peace negotiations – rejected by the Americans, and there is no justifiable reason for killing so many innocent civilians (not to mention the totally arrogant assumption that American lives are somehow worth more than Japanese), and the long-term effects of the radiation, something that was far from being understood at the time, are another terrible consequence of that act. I am convinced that once the machinery to produce a bomb and the decision was made to drop it on a Japanese city (specifically without any prior warning), it was next to impossible to stop it. The Americans were not only bound and determined to punish Japan for the attack on Pearl Harbor, but also to demonstrate to the Soviets that they possessed a super weapon that made them superior to everyone else in the world. Who cares if it set off an arms race to acquire the largest arsenal of nuclear weapons that could many times over obliterate the human species. What a colossal exercise in futility !
I was also beyond myself this morning when I read that the city of Kyoto was also placed on the list of potential targets for the A bomb. It even made the final cut of the last three targets. Can you imagine that? That they even considered obliterating such a jewel of a city with such historic importance is beyond me. I really can’t fathom it.
Your mention of the recent talks and agreement on arms reductions made me think that each and every participant in any such talks should first of all be required to visit both Hiroshima and Nagasaki before ever sitting down at the negotiating table. I don’t know if I wrote this last year from Hiroshima, but it was interesting that only one president of the United States has visited Hiroshima, and that was Jimmy Carter! They should have all, each and every one of them, beginning with Harry Truman, made a pilgrimage to both of these cities so they could vow never to unleash such searing suffering on innocent victims again.
Well, there’s my rant about one of history’s great foibles. Other than that, I have really enjoyed Nagasaki. It is much more picturesque than Fukuoka and has lots of narrow little alleys and streets lined with shops and stalls. We stumbled quite by accident onto a kind of fish market yesterday that consisted of a couple of dozen small stalls in a very narrow little street about two meters wide. It was really great.
We’re off tomorrow for the island of Sukuoku and the city of Matsuyama and some hot spring onsen close by. The Japanese trains are a real delight and a long day of riding the rails will give us a bit of a respite from rain we’ve had in Nagasaki.
And to answer your other question, it was far more than ten years. It was more like 23, but only the last three or four were really unbearable and we both kind of sank into a state of non-understanding and non-caring, compounded, largely on my part, by longings for something else and greener pastures and lush gardens of delight, which led me to a brief respite and an eden like rapture that soon turned rather sour, but that’s another very long story for another rainy evening.
By the way, I just finished another Murikami novel – Sputnik Sweetheart. It is by far his best and most subtle evocation of the possibility of a parallel existence where one part of us can dwell and where dreams are the connecting link.
Bisous,
Roger
On Sun, Apr 18, 2010 at 2:15 PM, Roger STEVENSON wrote:
Dear Purnima,
It’s our last night in Kyoto, and we’ve had a
marvelous time here, although my feet are tired and sore from all the
walking we have done. Yesterday was the fascinating Gion section of the
city where the few remaining geisha who still work are a major
attraction, but it is a part of the city with small wooden houses that
are very traditional and a striking contrast with the otherwise modern
architecture in the city. We also went to the international Manga
museum and a great museum of traditional crafts. I am more and more
impressed with the painstaking efforts Japanese artisans go to to
produce such exquisite and beautiful things. Nearly everything we saw
(and see in many of the shops in town) is the result of very distinct
procedures that have been handed down over the generations.Last night
we had an aperitif in a little Irish pub called The Hill of Tara,
which, of course, made me think of you, and tonight we ate in an Indian
restaurant, Kerala, which was really great. The Japanese seem to be
drawn to all kinds of international cuisine, and they sometimes do a
better job at reproducing other countries dishes than many other
countries I have visited.So much to tell and so little time to do it.
We’ll have to go for a long lunch when I get back so we can share all
of our respective stories. Your mingling with the spirits of the Atlas
mountains sounds ever so intriguing. Thanks for taking the time to
write it all out. I’m really sorry that you are suffering so from
loneliness. I know just how down that can make one feel. I very often
experienced that during the final years of my first marriage.We take
the Shinkansen bullet train to Fukuoka tomorrow morning. It is the
port city of Japan that is the closest to Korea, and the Korean
influence on the cuisine is apparently quite prevalent. And the city
is famous for its blowfish dishes – a poisonous fish that if not
prepared right can be fatal. Not sure I’m up to trying it. From
Fukuoka we go to Nagasaki and more wrestling with the conscience of a
citizen of the only country that has ever dropped an atomic bomb on
another country.Take care.
More from Nagasaki,
Hugs,
Roger
On Fri, Apr 16, 2010 at 1:12 AM, Roger STEVENSON
Dear Purnima,
Just a quick note. We’ve had a whirlwind two days in Tokyo –
it’s so great to be back in such a civilized and fascinating country –
and we’re leaving this morning early for Kyoto.
Loved your two installments on Morocco. It’s really
intriguing the many points in common that you have outlined between
that and your own Indian culture. Keep them coming ! I’ll have more
to say once we are in Kyoto.
In spite of the sometimes overwhelming numbers of people in
the streets, subway and shops, Japan continues to fascinate me because
of the wonderful sense of appreciation for all things refined and
beautiful AND the innumerable practical aspects of life that they have
developed PLUS the omnipresent politeness and smiles and helpfulness,
not to mention the stunning beauty and gracefulness of so many of the
Japanese women!
Hope you’re well and that the demons that seem to plague you
so much have gone into hibernation (it’s almost wintery cold here, and
we didn’t bring our warm coats).
More from Kyoto and points further south (Fukuoka, Nagasaki,
Unzen)
Roger
May 10, 2010, 4:08 AM
to Roger,
Dear Roger,
I can’t believe this wonderfully descriptive email slipped through my fingers! I read it of course, but waited much too long to respond and it somehow got lost out there in ether. So, I decided to put all my correspondence (mainly our correspondence), covering my time/adventures in Geneva, in a folder labelled “The Geneva Diaries”, to be read at leisure at some later date. However, you must tell me which stories you enjoyed the most, was it Alice in Wonderland/ Purnima in Geneva, the Moroccan trilogy, the tales of Tavernier or the tale of dodging the multiple assassins in Pink Panther returns/ Sing is Kiing? The last tale surprisingly continues and appears to unfold around the glorious central square in the heart of Geneva, Place du Molard, where the sandstone cobbled streets interspersed with glass squares with greetings in numerous languages jump out to greet you. A place bustling with life and energy, people sipping wine enjoying the sunshine as they become spectators, cobblestones awaiting the drama to unfold. I find myself scampering past these cobblestones across the Place du Molard, which is on daily route to the health club, carefully avoiding the glass squares as they upon being touched morph into the assassins (in The Pink Panther Returns), representing the language they are written in, and mingle with the cobblestones awaiting their moment to strike. Something tells me that these tales must be kept between us, don’t you agree?
Back you your mail, thank you for this incredible email sharing experiences of your time in Nagasaki, the bomb museum and memorial and a slices of US history. The series of decisions that resulted in dropping the A bomb, boggles my mind as it does yours, but what completely blew me off is the fact you mentioned, that Jimmy Carter was the only US president to have visited the bomb museum and memorial! Incroyable!! In my mind, this would be the first shrine any US president visits, remembering, reliving, relearning the lessons of the past as he is entrusted with that absolute power to save or devastate. Of course, not only should this be a lesson limited to the president, but one taught to every middle/high school child using modern technology to virtually visit this very place that shook our souls, so that when this generation is in a position to make some pivotal calls having unravelled their celestial weapon of devastation, they are able to revisit this place in their minds before they make that call to fabricate or fire. If they could look through time, would the great minds that started this process, split the atom, have enjoyed the science and the cerebral speculation without proceeding to the next step, or is this beyond us, bound in this human form do we lack the strength to manage the very weapons we have brought down from the realm of the Gods?
All this brings me back to Drona’s Art of Warfare: Knowledge is the best deterrent as it somehow levels the playing field, everyone has the knowledge and everyone through their proxies have the nukes. The situation today, relation to nuclear deterrence with its many conventions, treaties and summits to scale back and secure reminds me of a Mexican stand-off scene from a Western movie: the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A Mexican stand-off is a stalemate or confrontation where neither side can conceivable expect to win, a situation where all weapons are raised immediately, either directly at each other or through proxies everyone all at once stands exposed, stands covered. This was dramatically depicted in the above mentioned movie, with Clint Eastwood as the Good (bearing an uncanny resemblance to a blue eyed cowboy in common, don’t you agree?), Lee Van Cleef and Eli Wallach as the Bad and the Ugly, all chasing after the same gold end up in the graveyard with a Mexican stand-off. The scene unfolds with the three staring each other down, evaluating dangers , calculating alliances each with his gun drawn pointed at the other, frozen, somehow drawn into a reluctant partnership of restraint for 5 LONG minutes! How long have we been waiting nukes drawn, how much longer do we have?
Back to lighter subjects and romantic interludes, after that memorable 24 hours (in Paris), my life feels even more desolate. The lack of communication, the absolute dearth of concern, the high stress seems to be dragging each day to an irreconcilable juncture. Perhaps, I should not have peeked through the door and glimpsed the other side? And, to add insult to the injury, I was told that the Taj Mahal of Marrakech, a dream built by my dear friend and the one responsible for the introduction to this alternate realm, where our story (yes me and my beloved froggie) was to unravel in its second phase was usurped by the girls in my favorite TV series, Sex and the City, who took her Taj Mahal for a month to stage their next drama (movie). True! So, I have at least one return planned for Marrakech!
And Roger, before I jump onto the next subject and let this pass (regarding marriage and timelines) do let me reiterate, that the last ten years have been insufferable and not that much shorter than your incarceration! Roger, some people are just not made for this type of thing, and most certainly not Genji…I am still trying to figure how I got so stuck!?!
Finally, to distract my mind and keep the machinery in proper functioning order between dodging assassins and preparing breakfast, I have spent the last couple of days mulling over a topic which we discussed at length over lunch/coffee thus sharing yet another wonderful afternoon of thoughts and ideas (unfortunately not in french), the topic of Traditional Knowledge and Biodiversity. Traditional Knowledge, the knowledge generated by local communities, indigenous peoples, used and passed down from generation to generation encompassing knowledge of plants, minerals, processes, combinations, even artistic expression which enhance the health and welfare of a community. A knowledge so integral to a people, a community, that it forms an essential part of their cultural identity. We had discussed the case of the Indian herb turmeric which and the neem plant being patented and the uproar that followed. The neem plant case was a landmark case as it was the first case where a patent issued on the traditional knowledge of a country was successfully challenged as it was demonstrated that patenting would lead to expensive seeds which poor farmers would be unable to purchase and plant thus a plant which was integral to a culture and whose products are used across India for multiple agricultural and personal uses, would be unaffordable and not be planted thus patenting would lead to the erosion of the diversity of the neem tree. Similarly, the case was made for turmeric based on traditional knowledge, which is used in Ayurveda and has been used continuously in India from 600BC both internally and externally as herb and medicine and is very much identified as an integral part of the culture resulting in the US patent office revoking the issued patent. Thus an understanding arose that the issue of a patent is both dangerous and powerful as it excludes others from its purview. And, more so in the field of Traditional Knowledge, where that knowledge is so integral to a community and culture that it forms an essential part of their cultural identity and issuing the patent to an outsider would exclude the very people who have been using that knowledge, process, expression for generations that it would be like relinquishing a part of those indigenous people to a third party.
This reminds me of the famous painting in the Louvre and at the Metropolitan Museum titled “The Rape of the Sabines” by Nicolas Poussin.
This painting represents the myth behind the founding of Rome where the roman men after having secured their land and organized themselves under Romulus realized that they needed women to procreate and populate their tribe, so they invited their neighboring tribe for a grand feast. The feast was in reality a ploy to abduct these Sabine women and make them their wives. The Sabine men were unaware, in-alert, and inattentive and thus relinquished their women, which represented their biodiversity, their essence, their flora and fauna to their more powerful and smarter neighbors. The women then become Roman women and give birth to the roman empire and the Sabine men have to forever look upon their own women as the ones from the neighboring tribe. As I saw it, this rape, plunder, abduction, was the first representation of the essence of a people, their Biodiversity/Traditional Knowledge (for in the women lie the traditions and the knowledge of a tribe) being snatched from them from right under their noses as they did not have the leadership, knowledge and tools to secure, protect or reclaim it. The Sabines would represent the indigenous communities that do not have the knowledge resources or ability to secure their own biodiversity.
Unlike the turf wars of yore, we are onto another plane, a deeper more insidious one, where its no longer an issue of relinquishment of territorial space, one fluid and changing with times, very short times, but one of usurping the knowledge, herbs, plants, traditions, that have been a part of a people forever and sometimes the people themselves, changing both the face of the acquirer and acquired forever, one completely consuming the essence of the other.
Good night and hope to hear from you very soon! When do you return?
Purnima
Jun 27, 2020, 12:04 AM
Dear Roger,
It’s been a while since we last connected. I do hope you and the family are well and safe during this pandemic.
One of the things I discovered referenced throughout my correspondence was The Story of The Ice Mommy…it’s one tale I never did get around to narrating. And time has now distorted this poignant tale of the Ice Mommy found five thousand years later seemingly intact with her long eyelashes and the rattle for her kids in her knapsack at the foot of the Weisshorn.
However, something bizarre has occurred to the story…the ice mommy who was assumed to have fallen to her death has been found with an arrow point at the base of her spine. Who would have done such a dastardly act, who would have shot an arrow into the spine of the Ice Mommy?
The tale is now one of assassination… A WHODUNNIT… Who killed the Ice Mommy?
See below Otzi the 5,000 year old Iceman (mummy) who was found intact, frozen in the Tyrolean Alps, not far from the Weisshorn. It is believed that he was murdered and didn’t just fall to his death as he was found with an arrowhead in his shoulder. See Otzi below:
PS: My Ice Mommy, is from the “other” mountain range, from a place which is like the mirror image of the Weisshorn of the Alps, but is in the Himalayas- The Weisshorn Solang. She found herself with one wonderful bottle of California wine too many and got “baked” in Sonoma 😂
See below California Wine Country where CA attorneys go to bake 😉
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
We returned to our comfy apartment in Tokyo tonight after a really great train adventure around Japan. It’s great to be back in Tokyo. It’s a city with such energy and excitement, and we’re also a bit tired of living out of a suitcase for two weeks.
We were in Nagoya the past couple of days and had originally planned on taking the bullet train back to Tokyo late this afternoon, but then we thought it would be wonderful to see a bit more of Japan, so we took a train this morning to Nagano in the Japanese alps and spent a few hours there visiting a wonderful shrine – the first place a statue of Buddha was erected in Japan. There were snow covered peaks in the distance and the scenery along river valleys getting there was really spectacular. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. They must bloom later than in Tokyo because of the difference in altitude. It was raining this morning when we left Nagoya, but as the day went on, the weather became increasingly bright and sunny. By the time we got back to Tokyo it felt very much like summer.
Tomorrow we are going on a walking tour of jazz bars and cafés in the Shinjuko section of the city with an American who has lived here for the past ten years. He has a great jazz blog and organized the Tokyo Jazz Society. There are some amazingly talented musiciens here, many of whom are women, who are next to unknown in the rest of the world. I spent an hour or so the other day listening to some new releases at a record shop in Nagoya.
Did you know that the Toyota automobile manufacturer really started as a textile business? The founder, a certain S. Toyoda, made several important inventions to the functions of looms that revolutionized the industry. With the advent of the automobile, he advised his son to concentrate on that rather than on looms and spinning machines. The headquarters of Toyota are in Nagoya, and it is very much a company town (city).
Hope all is well and the weather is still nice and warm in Geneva,
Bisous,
Roger
4/30/10
Dear Roger,
It’s wonderful to hear from you and get an update on your adventures across Japan. However, I would have enjoyed some scoop though, like the geisha who paused and smiled as she scurried passed the tall blue eyed American stranger…
Talking about adventures, it looks like I am finally off to one of my own, this time hopefully a REAL life one! Yes, I am finally off to Paris to continue an incredible Indo-American/ French-Moroccan story. A story I can’t wait to share. It all started in a marble palace suspended in the middle of another magical lake in a mystical land far far away.
See below Marble Palace in the middle of a lake- Udaipur Lake Palace Hotel:
If there is a definition on earth for paradise, it is here. Of course, little did I know that froggie would lure me with a ball of cheese, bedecked in all my jeweled finery, pull me down to the depths of the lake through the center of the earth and lock me up in a tower on another magical lake, Lake Geneva, one closer to (his) home. Looking for the meaning of Paradise across languages and cultures familiar to me, I found it to refer to a beautiful almost heavenly place, (Judea-Christian) the Garden of Eden; a garden, a palace with fountains, the definition finds a parallel closer to home, in Persian paradise is also defined as a beautiful magical place, a garden, similarly in Urdu (jannat), but when I look at Sanskrit, I find a distinction, here paradise is no longer a physical place/space but keeping the essence of that idea, a place of beauty and liberation, a spiritual space, a place within. You have to take your beloved there one day, and perhaps I could show u one way, right through the center of lake Geneva.
The weather here has been absolutely glorious with endless sunshine and temperatures hovering in the mid seventies, this has been a long winter in Geneva! Just two weeks ago I was unsure if I should pack away the winter coats, it was cold, and over cast and I felt completely sapped of spirit and energy. That was when you were getting all my mail complaining endlessly about my dead-end existence. However, in the throes of gloom, Geneva presented its lighter side which had me in splits and made my day: I was driving on a routine trip to take the kids for tennis when the radio blared in French that the listeners should wait through the commercials for the much anticipated upcoming song, “Gae-O”, this was repeated again with much passion, “Gae-O”, and I though to myself what could that possibly be, perhaps a popular French number. Then the music filled the car and I realized it was actually the hit song from the movie Slumdog Millionaire, “Jai-Ho”! The sky brightened and the clouds vanished as I almost laughed myself off the highway as I realized that in French the “J” is pronounced as a “G” and vice versa, “A” is “AA” the Hindi “ A (आ)” and “I” is pronounced as “E” (इ) and then to make things really complicated, the “H” is completely dropped! So, Jai-Ho is pronounced as “Gae-O”. How I possibly remain depressed in this French speaking part of Switzerland! How I LOVE this language, it turns me right round and upside down!!
Here is a blast from the past – The music of the 80’s that still echoes off those Swiss slopes to this very day: Dead Or Alive – You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)
Well, for some additional news from my end, Mirko just mentioned casually over dinner to some friends that he was asked to move to Boise, Idaho. I almost chocked on my potatoes (the plural always perplexes me after the lessons from your illustrious leader), this is the way I get my news! I immediately surfed Boise, “where in heavens was that”. Contrary to what I thought, a potato farming midwestern state, I discovered it was located in the North Western US and Boise River Valley (Bonneville Point) is located on the Oregon Trail (which I chant in my sleep as I have been pestered for years by my son to buy this “awesome” DvD: The Oregon Trail). Apparently getting its name from a French guide who upon reaching the lush river valley shouted “les bois, les bois” and it’s the world (US is the world is it not?) capital of french fries
Well, my head started spinning as I ignored the Forbes report of Boise being ranked as one of the best places for business and career, and it spun and spun right to the the place where I spent my 24 hours in Amsterdam, the Van Gogh museum, to the core of “The Potato Eaters”. This dramatic work, one of the first masterpieces of Van Gogh, which has always tugged at something deep within, was finally in sight. I was being propelled into its frame, as I found myself seated in this dark room with the characters portrayed in this incredible work of art which reflected the potato farmers seated for dinner in a dimly lit room, with their coarse features, and soiled clothes and hands reflecting a sincerity, labor and an honest toil. However, I found myself a bit misplaced and squeaked when one of them touched my hand and offered me a potato. My brain of course was shouting…”did you wash that in pinky (potassium permanganate) first”?
So, I spend the first of May in Paris.
Hope to hear from you very soon.
Hugs,
Purnima
Continued…
The story would be incomplete and
I could not leave without telling you that I heard the radio broadcast of my favorite song (Jai-Ho) “Gae-O” on the popular radio channel NRJ or rather N+rrchoo (sneeze)+Gii !
Funny, not funny???
If u spent as much time raising an American Pre-teenager, in a French speaking environment you might be more sympathetic to my newly acquired sense of humor.
Hope to see u soon.
PURNIMA
5/2/10
Dear Purnima,
I’m so glad for you that you had such a delightful 24 hours in Paris. I was waiting until your return to write back, since I didn’t know exactly how long you were going to stay. 24 hours sounds just a bit too short, but I’m sure it was long enough to give you that beaming smile and probably lots of lingering tingles all over. When is your next trip back?
Don’t really have any geisha tales to spin, but we have seen a few of them, mainly in Kyoto, and we did stop and take a picture of one in Matsuyama last week. I’ll try and send it to you. I must say, however, that I am not totally taken by the geisha, and with all that make up and formal kimono dress, which are, of course, part and parcel of the entire geisha tradition. But there are so many absolutely stunning modern Japanese women, especially in the Ginza area of Tokyo that . . .
We spent a wonderful day yesterday at the music festival called La Folle Journée au Japon, which is the brain child of the festival of the same title in Nantes, France. It is a three day festival with dozens of concerts each day by some marvelous, world-class performers. A friend of ours is the press attaché for the festival, and she gave us press badges for the entire festival. We saw three exceptional concerts yesterday and are going back again this afternoon and evening for more. This year’s festival is devoted to Chopin and all of his works are being performed. It is a festival designed to encourage appreciation of classical music by people from all walks of life, and it is far from the stuffy ambiance that one usually finds at a classical music concert in France. They even allow children as young as 3 into a good number of the concerts.
More about Boise later. Not so sure you would find the transition from Geneva to southern Idaho (Mormon country) to your liking, and the demons might be just as active there, if not more so than they are in Geneva.
Off to an art museum.
Hugs,
Roger
PURNIMA VISWANATHAN
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
Mulling over Morocco: Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart andWhere did all the Good Guys Go?Kyoto Nuclear Arms Race
4/21/10
On Sun, Apr 18, 2010.
Dear Purnima,
It’s our last night in Kyoto, and we’ve had a marvelous time here, although my feet are tired and sore from all the walking we have done. Yesterday was the fascinating Gion section of the city where the few remaining geisha who still work are a major attraction, but it is a part of the city with small wooden houses that are very traditional and a striking contrast with the otherwise modern architecture in the city. We also went to the international Manga museum and a great museum of traditional crafts. I am more and more impressed with the painstaking efforts Japanese artisans go to to produce such exquisite and beautiful things. Nearly everything we saw (and see in many of the shops in town) is the result of very distinct procedures that have been handed down over the generations.
Last night we had an aperitif in a little Irish pub called The Hill of Tara, which, of course, made me think of you, and tonight we ate in an Indian restaurant, Kerala, which was really great. The Japanese seem to be drawn to all kinds of international cuisine, and they sometimes do a better job at reproducing other countries dishes than many other countries I have visited.
So much to tell and so little time to do it. We’ll have to go for a long lunch when I get back so we can share all of our respective stories.
Your mingling with the spirits of the Atlas mountains sounds ever so intriguing. Thanks for taking the time to write it all out. I’m really sorry that you are suffering so from loneliness. I know just how down that can make one feel. I very often experienced that during the final years of my first marriage.
We take the Shinkansen bullet train to Fukuoka tomorrow morning. It is the port city of Japan that is the closest to Korea, and the Korean influence on the cuisine is apparently quite prevalent. And the city is famous for its blowfish dishes – a poisonous fish that if not prepared right can be fatal. Not sure I’m up to trying it. From Fukuoka we go to Nagasaki and more wrestling with the conscience of a citizen of the only country that has ever dropped an atomic bomb on another country.
Take care. More from Nagasaki,
Hugs,
Roger
Dear Roger,
A mail from you is such a cheerful thought, do keep writing! When I wrote to you last, I was in the throes of a low, it’s incredible what a difference a few days can make, the sun is now out and Geneva is glowing in the spring sunshine with glistening green hillsides and blossoming branches around every corner. Geneva is gorgeous again!
The other day, I had some (Sanskrit) verses coursing through my brain which I struggled to recollect but all I heard was the reciting of the verse that poured so melodically from my grandfathers lips and his face in bliss as he recited the glories of “madira” from our scriptures and ancient literature. Madira means wine, nectar, an intoxicating drink in Sanskrit, and it has the same meaning in Hindi, Urdu, Hindustani. Then upon further surfing I discovered that the Net seems to tell a different story: the story of Madeira, the principle city of a group of volcanic island in the Atlantic to the north of Morocco. Apparently, Madeira means wine as well, and this city is famous for its wine which it has exported around the world since the start of the age of exploration. It was taken to India by the Dutch East India Company as well as to the Americas. Thomas Jefferson even toasted the declaration of independence with his favorite drink, madeira. Incredible parallels between European usage and a Sanskrit word, I wonder if there is a connection, a journey? However, putting things in their correct chronological order, madira, a word so dear to us has appeared in our literature and scriptures millennia before Madeira became known as the wine port of call.
See below Honey Wine(madira) from Ethiopia- Alison McBeth’s album:
And still on the subject of Madira, you had mentioned the difficult last few days of your first marriage, but did it last 10 years? Well, how about stepping into my shoes as try living as I have been living these last ten years with a delusional Captain Haddock imagining me to be a bottle of champagne, (The Crab with the Golden Claws) and continually trying to de-cork me! Try and out fizz that!! See pasted below:
Still mulling over our trip to Morocco, I decided to get the famous movie Casablanca, for the family to see, which captures a slice of the drama that was unfolding in North Africa during World War II. A movie that seems to always make it to the top of the list of all time greats but we never get a chance to see (all have to vote yes). The timing could not have been better, and we each seemed to connect on our own special plane. I was bowled over by Humphrey Bogart, the dialogue, the romance, the suspense, the setting and the story. He embodied the quintessential hero, the “All American Good Guy”, the guy who will “think for the both of us” which I often plead for someone to do… and do the right thing! I know somewhere in my heart, that’s what I went to America in search of and I left asking “Where have all the good guys gone?”
But… hold on… all is not lost, I did meet some scintillating personalities whose lives brimmed with mystery and adventure, with travels to exotic lands, mastery of various dialects across the globe, danger and dashing good looks. These real life stories which would even today out rival their Hollywood personas: The King of the Kasbah reclining in his grand room in an elegant Djellaba; the 6Ft tall Rock Hudson look alike championing for California Open Spaces; and of course my favorite, the Blue eyed Cowboy Counsel with a mischievous twinkle! Unfortunately for me, they were also of Bogarts genre, I was just born 40 years too late!
And of course, to shatter this fuzzy dream, there was that close encounter with none other than The Joker (Batman), a real life nightmare, one who said with the permanently fixed smile, “if you open your mouth”… and boom the fist came down symbolically on the table(The Firm); and heh, heh, heh “I guarantee you this, that you will NEVER work in the state of California”!!!
With these memories and this endless silence, i find one hour melding into another. I find myself burrowing deeper into the Net, some print and of course my pen. As I try and race through The Rogues Gallery (a book on the history of the Metropolitan museum in New York and one from my nostalgic past), I struggle to get to Phillipe de Montebello and his all so familiar voice guiding me through the galleries. I anxiously await this meeting, somehow I sense that he has the key, the key to my mystery!
I wish to ask him for just one Night in the Museum, so that I might bring to life the relics of my culture, the sagas that have inspired me. So that I may unfreeze the friezes and breathe life into the Dream of queen Maya as she reclines on her bed waited upon by her attendants with the vision of the white elephant suspended overhead. I wish to bring her dream/ my dream to life in all its vivid colors released from its petrified form on a wall at the end of the Asian section of the Metropolitan Museum. See below The Dream of Queen Maya from the SFMOMA:
Another of my favorite story depicted in numerous forms across the ages is the romantic story of the handsome king Udayana which bears a striking parallel to the story of the Trojan Horse. Around the 6th century BC there were many changes taking place in India, new religions, rise of great states, (the sixteen mahajanapadas as old by the Buddhist texts) and many conflicts ensued as the states were battling to acquire new territory.
The Tale of the Wooden Elephant: King Pradyota of Avanti, made a clever plan to capture the neighboring king Udayana who was renowned for his love for elephants and music and had a secret for taming elephants. The king of Avanti built a wooden elephant in whose belly he placed his soldiers. Upon seeing this curious creature, a blue elephant just across the river in the neighboring territory, king Udayana charged across to inspect it from near. He was immediately captured by the men hidden in the wooden elephants belly and taken to Avanti where he was held captive and assigned to teach the princess music, the secret which tamed the elephants. The princess was told he was a leper and he was told she was a hunch back and so the lessons continued through a veil. And, as it happens with most love stories, one day the veil dropped, they both saw each other fell in love and she helped him escape and became his queen. The story is romantic, but the characters are historic as buddhist texts even mention Buddha visiting Kaushambi during the reign of king Udayana.
How did you like the story? You must remember me when you visit the Met next!
In your email you mentioned:
“From Fukuoka we go to Nagasaki and more wrestling with the conscience of a citizen of the only country that has ever dropped an atomic bomb on another country”.
Drona and the Code of War: Knowledge is the Greatest Deterrent! ( In case you go looking for this topic, I wish to inform you that this is a product of my artistic expression/fabrication)
This had me thinking about the recent arms control/nuclear deterrence treaty that was the topic of most papers last week. The endless negotiations, airtight contracts tapping into the minds of the greatest pundits of our time to ensure that every issue is covered in order to secure the world from these weapons of mass destruction.
But, do you think that it is these discussions debates and endless treaties that secure the world from the devastating consequences of these expressions of man’s muscle? The bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki have been out done a thousand times, resulting in not just bombs with a hundred times the power and impact of the dropped bombs but hundreds of those in the stockpiles of the world.
In my opinion, it happened because of a lack of knowledge. Both the droppers (the US) and the nation impacted (Japan) along with the rest of the world were shocked at the extent of the devastation, not just from the impact but the long lasting impact radio active corruption of the air, soil and gene pool leading to severe birth defects and chromosomal abnormalities (do correct me). This was not a “bomb”, as conventionally understood, one that destroys upon impact, but concealed in this false nomenclature, was unleashed a sinister core altering continuum of devastation.
I believe, that had the world known the ramifications of using this against an adversary, as we do today, no conscionable soul/nation would have permitted it. Today, the greatest deterrent is the knowledge and the memory of the devastation caused on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Unfortunately, there are possibly many other demons lurking in the closets of the giants, unknown to the world, unanalyzed, inconceivable and unfathomable by the average intellect. Would the deployment of these will give us a second chance, an opportunity to put our heads together and draw up a deterrence diagram. The question is WHAT will be the guinea pig this time: our Earth, our blue skies, our soil, our gene pools?
Good night and hope to hear from you soon!
Purnima
PURNIMA VISWANATHAN
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
Morocco I -The story of Boy, his Donkey and the Desert, The Spitting Camel, The Boy with the Eye of the Crane and the Wings of the Stork and The Cactus Bite
Dear Roger,
You would have barely landed in the land of the rising sun, and I am afraid you will find your inbox inundated with my numerous mails. Are you ready for the stories: – The story of Boy, his Donkey and the Desert; The story of the spitting Camel; The story of the boy with the eye of the Crane and the wings of the stork; The story of The Best Seat in Town; and finally The Story of the Cactus Bite.
I last left you in Marrakech, were we spent the first couple of wonderful days. We drove from Marrakech over the mountains and to the door of the Sahara desert along the road of a thousand casbahs, stopping at Ait Benhaddou, then onto Ouarzazate which was a giant Saharan Hollywood and a center for international filmmakers, spending the night at Skoura then onto to Tinerhir and the magnificent Gorge du Todra deeply cut into the mountains with an icy river flowing through this narrow gorge flanked by sheer mountain faces. Our journey continued to Erfoud the fossil city which was at the edge of a seemingly endless barren landscape to the door of the Sahara.
Ait Benhaddou this 16th century Casbah was like an incredible illusion that had arisen from the desert, an immaculate apparently deserted fortified city, a UNESCO protected fortress, situated atop a hill bordered by a stream in the middle of nowhere and nothingness. See below Ait Benhaddou:
Its only occupants appeared to be the magnificent migratory storks who have built their grand nests atop towers of this old but intact settlement.
It originally was a resting stop for caravans carrying salt across the Sahara and returning with gold and slaves. Recognizing the magic of this setting numerous movies have been staged here like my favorite Indiana Jones (and the Jewel of the Nile). So, like Indiana, I jumped upon the back of a noble looking donkey with an overtly amused teenage berber boy leading the donkey and a girl with a ponytail (me of course) across this raging stream (puddle). However, I noticed that when I dismounted that the boy released an audible long deep sigh. Then again upon my return trip across the puddle, upon dismounting he did the same! I looked him squarely in the eye and he averted his gaze turning crimson. I then sensed that I was witnessing something special, this boy was completely in sync with his donkey, one with the beast. So, when I dismounted, perhaps he sensed a burden off his shoulders or perhaps he sensed my body pressed against his donkey upon dismounting, obliquely experiencing the sensation. Well, I thought to myself that unless I was leaping dragon, there was no other way of getting off the donkeys back. So I returned a little more connected having shared a piece of the story between a Berber boy, his donkey and the demanding desert. See Below The Berber Boy his Donkey and The Raging Stream (puddle) ferrying the kids to get to Ait Benhaddou:
Erfoud, the fossil city was at the edge of the great desert, and from here it was all dirt track requiring a change of car (4×4 landrover), we of course got a bandit, an intense driver who insisted on keeping his windows down and face wrapped up driving at break neck speed over dirt and dunes. After a while Dhruvum and I got into the swing of things and started mirroring his moves like a wii game but reality hit with the grit and sore behind, it was AWESOME! We then reached the protected area of Erg Chebbi, and the Sahara. The adventure continued. At this point, we found four camels waiting for us (we were late) they appeared to look away pooh poohing us as these “wanna be” adventurers as they pouted their lips and disdainfully continued to chew gum/cud. We mounted our camels and embarked upon the second phase of our adventure over the sand dunes into the Sahara to our desert camp. As we waited for our signal to move, Mirko made the fatal mistake of peering my camel in the eye (true story, i promise), and saying to him ” Hey, I used to smoke you for 20 years”! My camel came back with a fitting response, straight from Tintin and the Prisoners of the Sun (where the Llama kept spitting on Captain Haddocks face), and spat right into Mirkos face. The kids and I almost fell off the camels laughing but had to quickly regain composure as Mirko DID NOT LOOK AMUSED.
See below Tintin and The Prisoners of The Sun by Herge:
We city dwellers spent a miserable night in the desert as we, the camels, the toilets and the tents seemed to be blown away in the most violent sandstorm. And I, of course insisted that we must all brush our teeth as we jump out of bed. After the first couple of mouthfuls of sand, I promptly abandoned the idea and discarding the dental floss having come to the realization that brushing your teeth during a sandstorm in the Sahara is just not feasible. So, devoid of water, and filled with dirt and sand, itchy and irritable we drove 10 hours to our next destination. We crossed the Sahara and the barren landscape, traversing the Paris- Dakar rally route onto the road to Fez. Our route took us just across the spectacular Atlas mountains at first vast barren stretches and then lush greenery with cows, sheep and donkeys(no escaping donkeys in Morocco) and a congregation of the most incredible bird life. It was incredible, especially for the kids to find unique interesting birds all along our route, many of whom were long migratory European birds that wintered in North Africa. Interestingly enough, these birds seemed to have blended with their environs and settled down in complete comfort in their generously sized habitations without a seeming disturbance or threat (which as I mentioned in my last mail has reduced many long migratory birds in India to be put on the critically endangered list). It was wonderful to see the love and respect the local people had for these magnificent birds, as they would not be prospering seemingly omnipresent across Morocco.
See below link for White Storks (which have been salvaged from the brink):
In the early 1980s, the population had fallen to fewer than nine pairs in the entire upper Rhine River valley, an area closely identified with the white stork for centuries. Conservation efforts successfully increased the population of birds there to 270 pairs (in 2008). It has been rated as least concern by the IUCN since 1994, after being evaluated as near threatened in 1988.
Our final destination across the Atlas mountains towards the ocean was the old Roman settlement of Volubilis with its soaring pillars and arches that framed the sky. The intricate and still intact tilework depicting motifs from Roman mythology like the labors of Hercules left us all awestruck. See images of Volubilis below:
See below Tara in Volubilis- Guess who fell out of the Stork nest?
In Marrakech, the storks are found in old ruins and towers across the city. As we sat down outside to eat in a roadside stall, I grumbled as neither the seat nor the meal looked appetizing and I had been warned about eating raw salad outside. As a chair was pulled out and I was plonked upon it, I noticed that right in front of me atop the neighboring building was a large nest with a stork family, the mama, papa and babies. The juxtaposition with these long migratory birds that have been tracked from Italy all the way to Morocco, was uncanny. Our journey being even longer and more convoluted, have travelled across large oceans and numerous continents we all meet on a busy street corner outside a souk in Morocco. I certainly had the best seat in town! See pic of the stock nest in the middle of town:
And story of the stork continues…
On our road to a 1000 Kasbahs, we stopped momentarily to admire the thick foliage surrounding the oasis in the desert. It was during one of these stops that a little Moroccan boy selling handicrafts at the corner of the road peered into our car and right at Dhruvum and stared. He then threw one of the woven reed handicrafts which he had in his hand onto Dhruvums lap. It was a cigogne, a stork, a bird that the little boy had seen around him nested up on ruins and minaret tops, and this image must have captivated him year after year, which he recreated using his reed strips to make an image of that stork. When he peered into the car and looked at Dhruvum, he probably saw in him a bird from a land far far away, a long migratory bird with the eyes of the Crane and the wings of the Stork and so out of all the handicrafts he had in his hands, he threw into the car, onto Dhruvums lap his expression, his representation of the bird that must have captured his imagination. It was a beautiful poignant moment, as the two boys, from two worlds, of a similar age, looked at each other and smiled. See Dhruvum below in the traditional Shesh or headscarf for men:
Still gritty and grimy from the sand at Erg Chebbi, we wound our way to Fez. Me, being myself, I demanded that we make several pit stops and I clambered over loose rubble steep hillsides and barren ground to “go”. On one of these adventures, attempting the shortest route possible up the hillside to the highway and the car, I stumbled and fell right into the middle of the only clump of cacti (or any vegetation) for miles. Howling, I made my way back to the car and to a grumpy unsympathetic crew who did not want to stop yet again (its got to be their elastic bladders…10 hours!).
Well, that was a pivotal, turning point of my life, for this was no ordinary cactus bite! The cactus had somehow mixed the earth with my blood and I could see, i could see everything, all the designs and colors that had eluded me (in my last email to you), the beautifully inlaid motifs, the intricate but unfamiliar patterns on the walls and the ceilings of the Riads, all came to life. So, when we finally reached Fez, and our Riad/hotel with (the much desired hot flowing water, food, soft beds,) a magnificent courtyard with the most intricate tile and woodwork i had seen in a home and of course with a gently flowing marble fountain in the center, I sincerely believed we had reached paradise, jannat! See images of our awesome Riad in Fez below:
But, more importantly, this time I did not find myself struggling to discern the motifs and designs or even to compare them with those from home, but after having travelled across the desert and the high Atlas mountains, and most probably because of the magic cactus bite, the patterns developed a familiar twist, and seemed to dance in front of my eyes jumping out of their encasings and transforming themselves into their original forms the plants and flowers from which they were created, as cactus flowers and wild flowers that dotted our route all the way to Fez. I know what you are thinking about cacti, Native Americans and hallucinations, it was none of that but just a kiss from the cactus that was keen to share his universe with me, to unravel his world to my curious eyes.
Morocco – Sights and Sounds – A Europeanized Old Delhi
Dear Roger,
I am not sure where to start the story about the magnificent journey to Morocco, its sights, its sounds, its colors and contours all so intoxicating to the senses. We started our adventure in Marrakech, where we spent a couple of days just soaking in the place and the people, all the local dishes and the fabulous marketplaces. It reminded me of a Europeanized Old Delhi. The stark contrast with Old Delhi of course being the absolute cleanliness of the environs despite being in the middle of a marketplace or public square. See below my American pre-teens in the Marrakesh Souks or marketplaces with all its exotic wares and wildlife:
The parallels were overwhelming, not only were the spices we use in our food in common, but the preparation of vegetable dishes deliciously familiar, the vibrant colors and the hustle bustle of the marketplace/souks with the over eager shopkeepers, the periodic call to prayer, the meats with their kebabs and Keftas or meatballs (our koftas). Of course, the central courtyards, intricate tile work and fountains of Morocco find a parallel in our Old Delhi a part of our capital city which most distinctly represents the Islamic influence on our culture and history over the last millennium the most vivid being the Perso-Islamic influence of the Mughal dynasty(mid 16th to mid 19th century), a colorful pattern which makes up the varied hues of our nation.
However, the one piece I found most fascinating about Morocco was the language, a language which appeared (to a lay person like me) to be an amalgamation of Berber, Arabic and French, to the extent that French had been incorporated so innately into the language that I am unsure if the people were able to distinguish it as French (as they kept saying they were speaking Berber and sometimes Arabic and I clearly heard French words).
This was a fascinating situation which finds a striking parallel in my world where English, our colonial heritage, has also been silently absorbed into the local lingo, Hindustani, to a point where it is not recognized by the average man as an English word (of course English has reciprocally absorbed many Hindustani words). The parallel however does not end here, not only do we have the language of the colonists in common (French in the case of the Moroccans and English in our instance), but in Hindustani we also have Urdu (with its Persian and Arabic basis) which together with Hindi forms the spoken language of India (and of course the Indian diaspora through Bollywood). So, between communicating in French (my very dilapidated version), English and capturing the odd Persian/Arabic word, communication became an integral part of the adventure!
Apart from the souks, the grand square Jemaa el-F’naa, and the gardens, the great Kutubiyya mosque was a star attraction, famed for its minaret a fine example of Andalusian architecture, the construction (of native sandstone) which started with the Almohad conquest of Morocco in 1150. It’s name comes from the Arabic for book “kutub” ( again familiar as in hindustani book is “kitab”). Son nom vient du fait q’elle se situait dans le souk des marchands de manuscrits ( I was thrilled when I could read this on wiki without using “translate”, we certainly did more together than drink coffee). See below the Kutubiyya Minaret in Marrakesh:
Incredibly enough, the star attraction of my hometown Delhi is the Qutab Minar, the worlds tallest brick minaret, built around the same time (1196) by Qubud-din Aibak and this red sandstone minaret is the most prominent example of Indo islamic architecture in our neck of the woods. Am I stretching your mind with the minaret?
See below The Qutab Minar in New Delhi India a part of the UNESCO World Heritage List:
Then of course there was the visit to the Saadian tombs and the Bahia Palace, I was left breathless by the beautiful craftsmanship, fascinating motifs, representing the flora and fauna from their environs; an expression of a people so unique and distinctive. I realized then that I had slipped into a parallel universe, one which in so very many ways was similar to the world I was familiar with, the central and south asian cultures and their Islamic heritage with their unique expression, detailed tilework, precious inlays in marble, fountains and courtyards, Quranic verses interspersed with detailed motifs and yet the details of the designs upon a closer look were from a universe apart, as distinct as the flora and the fauna that surrounded these two worlds several continents apart. I struggled to find the familiar pomegranate, the amla, mango seed, the creepers, the rounded outlines of the flowers perhaps a familiar beak, but none was in sight. Despite the familiar outlines, the core represented another world, another continent, North Africa, the with its unique habitat, flowers, fruits and life reduced to its unrecognizable geometric skeleton. Brilliant, fascinating but indiscernible to my eye, used to a vision from a distant land…
To be continued.
Good night.
4/15/10
Dear Purnima,
Just a quick note. We’ve had a whirlwind two days in Tokyo – it’s so great to be back in such a civilized and fascinating country – and we’re leaving this morning early for Kyoto.
Loved your two installments on Morocco. It’s really intriguing the many points in common that you have outlined between that and your own Indian culture. Keep them coming ! I’ll have more to say once we are in Kyoto.
In spite of the sometimes overwhelming numbers of people in the streets, subway and shops, Japan continues to fascinate me because of the wonderful sense of appreciation for all things refined and beautiful AND the innumerable practical aspects of life that they have developed PLUS the omnipresent politeness and smiles and helpfulness, not to mention the stunning beauty and gracefulness of so many of the Japanese women!
Hope you’re well and that the demons that seem to plague you so much have gone into hibernation (it’s almost wintery cold here, and we didn’t bring our warm coats).
More from Kyoto and points further south (Fukuoka, Nagasaki, Unzen)
Roger
4/16/10
Morocco III
Morocco – From Casbah to Castle-Prisoner Of Chillon – Nature Of Man
Dear Roger,
Its fabulous to hear from you, even if its a short note. On my end, the loneliness is devastating and I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into The Land of the Lost. It’s so wonderful to have someone coherent to communicate with, a voice, a pulse, some feedback echoing deep into my dungeon letting me know that there is life above, perhaps life beyond…
Encouraged by your note, I am sitting down to type the third and possibly final installment of Morocco: A Parallel Universe, at this unearthly hour where the only thing up and shining is the full moon!
I wandered around Morocco carrying Gavin Maxwell’s very enjoyable book, Lords of the Atlas, from point to point somehow hoping to absorb not just the intoxication of the surroundings but the ideas and words, power-plays and personas that had moulded its last century and a half. The book traces the rise and fall of the Glaoui family from 1900 to 1956.The Glaoui were one of the three principle caids (lords) of the High Atlas, that controlled and maintained the passes especially the caravans from the Sahara across the Atlas. The book centers around the two brothers Madani and T’hami al-Glaoui, the legendary tribal warlords who used not just their might but their diplomatic skill to become the kingmakers and the real power behind the throne by making a pivotal call to support and protect the debilitated army of the then sultan Moulay Hassan of Morocco who was returning across the Atlas after a disastrous encounter with the hostile tribe of the Sahara. The wounded, frozen, hungry and battle weary army of the sultan was offered gracious hospitality food and shelter as they crossed the Glaoui territory over the tizi-n-tichka pass by Thami and Madani. Their hospitality was paid back by the sultan in numerous gifts of armaments, and most importantly, the much coveted Krupp cannon, this one and only state of the art weapon of war in Morocco, which gave the Glaoui the edge over their neighboring tribes and secured their position in history as the Lords of the Atlas and kingmakers. Upon the death of his brother, due to his close alliance with the French, Thami was elected as the head of the family, the Pasha of Marrakech becoming more powerful than the Sultan and ruled southern Morocco with absolute power. The horse trading and theatrics and the power plays of the history of Morocco, during the last century covering pre-protectorate, protectorate period from reign of the formidable sultan Moulay Hassan 1893 , to the Glaoui alliance with the French and rise to power, to 1956 the fall of the Glaoui abandoned by the French who reinstated the sultan Mohammed V recognizing the independence movement as inevitable.
The grandeur and excess of the Lords of the Atlas and the sultans, the ruthlessness and the heady intoxication of power, the contrivances and manipulations of the various tribal chieftains and of course the omnipresent colonial powers a parallel found in the story that unfolded in India with the maharajas their indulgences and excesses and the rivalry within which was fully exploited by the British colonists using the infamous “divide and rule”.
Since this was a physical journey, as well as an intellectual one, I was able to connect the sights and sounds I read with the physical experience of being present in the richly adorned riads, palaces with intricate zellige tile work, fountains and central courtyards with trees clustered with colorful fruit, the all so familiar interwoven maze of floral motifs, the deeply carved ceiling with the unique stalagmite formation designs thus I was truly able to sense the grandeur of the sultans and the fierce and forceful power of the Lords of the Atlas. I sensed a people with a heightened sense of aesthetics yet battle hardened by the dry arid winds of the desert where it was all about power and survival. As I had mentioned in my last email, this was a dream, a europeanized Old Delhi, incredible infrastructure, fabulous roads, and squeaky clean, without a piece of garbage. However, as we drove into the desert, I observed barren expanses that seemed to stretch for hundreds of miles, devoid of life and habitation, seemingly untouched by man, but here in the middle of the pristine lands, billowing in the wind like some melodramatic tragic art were millions of colored plastic bags that were somehow entangled in the scattered shrubbery. This was also an expression of development but the converse side… and it certainly made me think!
Back to the Lords of the Atlas, in this, Maxwell quotes extensively from Walter Harris’s 1912 book. Walter Harris was the proverbial Englishman in Morocco, a London Times correspondent who lived and interacted with the personas through the tumultuous era of the first three decades of the 1900’s and provided a vivid and entertaining account of pre/ protectorate Morocco, royal courts Berber rebels and squabbling sultans ( like the ex sultan Moulay Hafid) who assigned to their dentist the purchase of a lion and refused to compensate until they received their dental chair throne (yes, the actual royal armchair and not the ones we mortals frequent).
In attempting to depict the ensuing intrigues, tactics and ruthlessness with which the strategy was executed Maxwell quotes Walter Harris and his depiction of events as he experienced them first hand: a description of the dreadful damp and dark dungeons under every Kasbah and the mortifying tale of two political prisoners highlighting the blackest page of sultan Abd el Azziz’s reign.
In 1894, upon the death of the fierce Sultan Moulay Hassan, his minor son Moulay Abd El Aziz accession to the throne was completed with the help of the powerful chamberlain Bou Ahmed. As is the case with most child accessions (and we have a number of examples in India), there was intense court intrigue and two factions, one of the child sultan and chamberlain and the other of the grand Vizier and the minister of war. As soon as the new government was organized, the court left Rabat for Fez. Fez was the center of religion, learning and intrigue and its influence was great. In order to fully secure his throne, a sultan needed the support of the religious and aristocratic Fezzis. Bou Ahmed, the Chamberlain knew that for the Fezzis he was an upstart and in order to secure himself he had to asset his stance in their presence, and thus unfolded the gravest injustice and blackest page of sultan Abd el Azziz’s reign.
One morning, during the usual morning court, the Grand Vizier arrived in the city and summoned by the sultan prostrated in front of him. Upon providing an unsatisfactory answer to a question posed to him, Bou Ahmed, the Chamberlain accused him of disloyalty and political crimes and appealed to the sultan to have him arrested. The grand vizier now a disheveled creature, was jeered and taunted as he was dragged through the central public square, simultaneously his brother Si Mohammed, the Minister of War was also arrested. They were sent in chains to the Tetuan to be confined in a dungeon.
The conditions prevalent in the dungeons of that time outlined by Maxwell in Lords of the Atlas as described by Walter Harris who often had first hand account:
In every Governors Kasbah, deep in damp dungeons, here lay and pined those who had committed or not committed a crime in such suffering and darkness receiving just sufficient nourishment to life. Men were known to have existed for years to emerge again after their long suffering. And what prisons! What horrors of prisons they were, even those above the ground and reserved for the ordinary class of criminals. Chained neck to neck with heavy shackles on their legs, they sat or lay in filth and often the cruel iron collars were only undone to take away a corpse.
Both the Grand Vizier and the Minister of War were chained together with iron clamps around their necks and feet, and they remained so chained for ten long years. Then the Grand Vizier died. The governor of the Tetuan afraid to bury the body in case he was accused of letting the prisoner escape, left the dead prisoners corpse rot in the summer heat of the dungeon still chained to his brother Si Mohammed Sorier. Si Mohammed Sorier lived, He was finally let go after fourteen years and he emerged from the dungeon blind and lame from the cruel fetters he had worn to find his properties confiscated and his wife and children dead. Such was the cruelty and ruthlessness unleashed by the sultans and tribal warlords in the pursuit of power.
As I lay tucked in my cosy covers reading this tale halfway through to the Moroccan desert, I was jolted back to a tale closer to home. No, not India this time, but Geneva! The Prisoner of Chillon, a poem composed by Byron (one I have read and re-read and mentioned in every passing note) during a boat trip on Lake Geneva with Percy and Mary Shelley while visiting the Chateau of Chillon on the edge of Lake Geneva. The story of Francois de Bonnivard, the Swiss patriot and historian, the prior of St. Victor near Geneva, who supported the cause of liberty and the revolt of Geneva against Charles III, duke of Savoy. Bonnivard was imprisoned in the castle of Chillon from 1530-1536 and this saga was romanticized and immortalized in Byrons poem, The Prisoner of Chillon.
The poem champions the cause of liberty by highlighting the cruel and tragic circumstances of Bonnivard incarceration who was fettered by his neck in the damp dark dungeon (finding a parallel with the Moroccan story of incarceration in the dungeon above) of a majestic castle in the middle of a magical lake.
My hair is grey, but not with years
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old,
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
When my last brother droop’d and died,
And I lay living by his side.
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
When my last brother droop’d and died,
And I lay living by his side.
Here, the poem romanticizes the historical facts by depicting Bonnivard as being chained by the neck in the dark and damp dungeon along with his two brothers whom he sees perish in front of his eyes when he was the sole captive, actually bears a closer parallel to the real life story of the events mentioned above that unfolded in Morocco with Si Mohammed and the Grand Vizier, where Si Mohammed spent 10 long years in that damp dark dungeon chained to his brother and eventually to his brothers corpse. I wonder how much Walter Harris took from the poem (which he was undoubtedly familiar with) to describe the horrifying facts of this story of Si Mohammed.
They chain’d us each to a column stone,
And we were three — yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other’s face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together — yet apart,
Fetter’d in hand, but joined in heart,
To hearken to each other’s speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made — and like a living grave.
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlock’d his chain,
And scoop’d for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
The parallels however do exist and Byron through the poem does a brilliant job of depicting the unrelenting captivity, the imposition of unbridled power, the merciless cruelty and torture. I suspect, many universes removed, here too, on the banks of this magical lake, such traits were taken as signs of strength and mercy as evidence of weakness. I wonder, if in some way these traits are inherent in the nature of man stretching from the Alps to the Atlas, from the East, to the West. Si Mohammed Sorier survived, so did our Bonnivard, will we???
It’s early morning, I should go to bed.
Hope to hear from you soon!
Purnima
PURNIMA VISWANATHAN
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
6 Blind men and The Elephant – Grislidis Real Geneva – Strasbourg – Cult of Mithras
3/28/10
Dear Purnima,
On my way back from an incredible weekend in Zermatt, your classic and quaint alpine ski resort with the misty mysterious Matterhorn looming in the backdrop. The skiing was incredible, and I met a charming Parisian who insisted on carrying my skies.
I absolutely love this place, i have to return to explore its many mysteries!
Ah Zermatt,
You know, I’m very jealous ! And a Parisian to carry your skis to boot. Another invitation for Paris perhaps ?
Speaking of Paris, we are there right now, in fact, at the Salon des Livres: besides the book fair, we’ve managed to see two plays and two films – it’s such a magical city !
Have a good week and a wonderful trip to Morocco. I’ll be thinking of you,
Roger
Dear Roger,
I would LOVE to meet your friend who is “too sexy for Versailles”, when are you going to arrange this steamy match??
Yes, as you noticed, I am always championing the cause for liberty and justice. I seek to highlight the plight of those that have been persecuted, unjustly treated and forgotten, denied what I believe are base human rights (specifically those most vulnerable, women and children both in times of peace and war), and so through my travels I select persons scattered through history and weave them into my story giving them breath and a chance to express a position man and time has denied. With the hope that through these expressions we might get a step closer to understanding, identifying and coming to a consensus on these basic or integral human rights, the ones that make us “Who We Be”.
Through the tale of Grislidis Real, the most famous prostitute in Geneva who eventually devoted her time to fight for the rights of other women in her profession, I seek to highlight (taking at extreme example) about the victimization and vulnerability of women in society across the board. In this story I wished to show how women can be abused whether at home, work, or out on the streets often because they are vulnerable and are carrying babies on their backs. I also wished to demonstrate that prostitution, one of the oldest professions in the world, has always existed and will continue to do so (technology might mould this and provide us with a sex vending machine promising to morph into your every fantasy and provide a no touch orgasm side by side with the soda machine and possibly subsidized by it) and yet, society both demands this service and devastatingly degrades its service providers. These women work hard for their money, so hard for you honey, so you better treat them right…do check out Donna Summers below:
In my last email, I realized that I had left a gaping hole, a missing link, a cultural parallel, by not fully elaborating what I understand to be the core right of Freedom of Conscience which found reflection in the words of John Lilburne in his earlier mentioned 1647 pamphlet “No man should be punished for preaching or publishing his opinion on religion”. The crucial word as I understood it, was OPINION. This idea of Freedom of Conscience that I gleaned from the above quotation appeared much broader than the often repeated freedom to pursue any faith or religion that we understand today, and mirrored the ideas of the place where I was coming from which I would love to share with you and would greatly appreciate your feedback. Freedom of Conscience as I understand it, is whatever spiritual, religious, moral view either expressed in a collective group or community through rituals, customs of dress and diet, or kept private, quiet within the core of a persons soul; is a freedom so intrinsic to man that it has been the core cause of conflict and struggle through history of man as one group seeks to stifle and control this very core thereby controlling the man.
However, as I mentioned above, the crucial word to note is “opinion” and this encompasses not just those who follow a religious order and believe in the right to preach and publish the same (which has often resulted in magnificent expressions of art, architecture, creativity thereby encouraging the flourishing of a culture, resulting in the inspiration that drives perfection), but also those that hold a faith or belief in nothingness, a form of Nihilism. From my cultural (Vedic) context I know that there were always (in the days of yore, less so today) many groups of Hindus, Buddhists, Jains and Nihilists (possibly even a form of modern day Atheists) who shared a common platform where they expressed themselves, argued debated. These debates and discussions only propelled them to attain an alternate perspective a clearer viewpoint. The essence being, that if you held a certain belief or faith and wished to live in a society where you may express it, how can you deny another from doing the same and still affirm that you uphold the core principles of a Democracy.
This brings me to my favorite story from the Panchatantra (Indian folk tales much beloved by children) of the Six Blind men and the Elephant.
Another tale retold in my words (tweaked and twirled). There were six blind men who went to inspect an elephant and upon being asked what they were touching each retorted adamantly that he had touching either a rope (the one holding the tail), a wall (the one holding the stomach) or a pipe (the one holding the trunk). Each describing the part he could identify from his experience. The 6th blind man (in my version) who upon hearing all his buddies describe the individual body parts and realizing that such a composite beast did not exist in his experience denied each of his 5 blind buddy’s individual experiences. Then of course the normal ruckus followed with the 6 blind men beating each other up to affirm their own idea and the 6th joining in the fray denying all their versions as logic and his experience told him that such a composite beast did not exist.
The question often posed to the kids is who is right and who is wrong. And, since television has proved irrefutably that we, (the majority of humanity) ARE NOT smarter than a 5th grader, our laws must be comprehensible at a minimal to a 5th grader, don’t you agree? Did you see that TV program?
Is each blind man’s experience false? One that has had the experience of a tail and believes that to be his truth, then what about the man touching the trunk and the tusks? Is not each experience true for each man in his own space? What about the 6th blind man, is he stretching his knowledge and experience to interpret the unknown, perhaps the unknowable through these devices (ironically that is what logic propels me to postulate)? the fact that he too joins in the fray hitting the others over their head and asserting the denial of the existence of such a creature, is he by his denial closer to the truth?
From my perspective(this is where I get into hot soup), the vehemently positive experiences and the denial of the same are two opposite sides of the same coin with each claiming to have superior knowledge or the truth. In my opinion (which is probably why I have been chased to the hills by the hordes – The Legend of the Legendary Outlaw), the spiritual experience is an individual, private one which cannot really be spread over the masses trying to persuade all that one particular experience is the truth and must be collectively affirmed. Thus, as you can see, I choose to call myself Agnostic, the one who just does not know, has not reached, acquired the knowledge that spiritual plane where I can claim to clearly view the truth, but of course something apart from my all possessing grey matter tells me that this cannot be all, I want to know, I want to know, I want to know (Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull)!!!
Do check me out as Cate Blanchett in Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull:
Did she say it was all about Love…?
Good night!
Purnima
On Jun 10, 2010, “Roger Stevenson” wrote:
Dear Purnima,
I did indeed get it, and it came in triple. It was odd that I didn’t get it before. I also check my spam folder regularly and it wasn’t there either. It not arriving in my mailbox explains everything, and here I thought that it was my email that hadn’t reached you.
It was a delight to see you this afternoon. You always look so fresh and lovely, and the outfit you were wearing was totally light and airy and becoming. Thanks also for the marvelous meal. I loved the fish curry and the grilled eggplant and yogurt dish. I’m going to have to try and make it myself.
It was fun meeting your friend. The UN is a huge organization.
I loved your reaction to our project about an online guide to Japan. We hope to begin working on it a bit more in the next few weeks, but the trip to Valencia will get in the way. I just started to download (I’ve become an internet pirate !) a film by Wim Wenders about Tokyo, Tokyo Ga, which was released in 1985, but that apparently is an excellent reference to the city of Tokyo. I’ll let you know how it is. In the meantime, I’ll bounce some other ideas off of you. Your vision of things is always leaps and bounds ahead of anyone else’s.
And Montreux ! ! ! You’re right it’s one of the all-time great festivals, and there has been some wonderful music presented and recorded there. It has gone down a bit in my estimation of pure jazz festivals, however, since it has broadened the range of music it books (My favorite festival is still Jazz a Vienne just south of Lyon. I’ve seen some marvelous concerts there). Keith Jarrett, my all-time favorite jazz pianist, is playing Montreux this year, but the ticket prices are really very steep – upwards of 280 CHF, and I decided the other night that it was just too much to pay for a three-hour concert, especially since I got to see him in Brussels last fall. What else on the program looks appealing to you?
More later. I’ve still got my little ear story to tell you (it’s really nothing terribly grandiose – nothing at all like your chasing the handsome young ski instructor down the slopes of Crans-Montana, but another Murakami oddity to relate).
Sweet dreams,
Roger
6/17/10
Dear Purnima,
It’s been hard to get at a computer the last couple of days. Although there are a lot of them around, they are in high demand.
Sorry my dear. I have absolutely no contact with my supposedly well-endowed friend of my bike racing days, so a steamy match with him is not very likely. I always thought the tongue was the most satisfying of all – Your too sexy for KISS !
Grislidis is a wonderful champion of her profession, and you are totally correct to point out the hypocrisy of society in the disdain it shows for the oldest profession in the world: It’s the males of society who insist on easy access to women, thereby creating the demand, and yet when ever there is a perceived need for a crackdown on prostitution, it is always the girls themselves who are victimized by the law, hardly ever their customers (except in Sweden, of course).
I finished White Tiger yesterday and really liked it. It is amazing how the author is able to set up his narrative so you are cheering for his “hero” to carry through with his despicable act of murder and robbery. The vengeance is just too sweet, and the fact that he gets away with it it also in a perverse sort of way quite satisfying. And, of course, I can very readily see you writing the same kind of book with your wonderful prose. (I loved his little reference to Switzerland when he talked about dictators and big businesses that hide their money in a small, European country full of white people and black money.
I was very curious as to the reaction to the book in India and found a couple of blogs and reviews of the book that seemed to suggest that some quarters in Indian society were not very happy with it. Some of the reviewers, I felt, picked on really stupid things to criticize him for in order to dump on the book, like for instance, saying that his character couldn’t possibly have had he intelligence and insight to be able to understand the workings of the master-servant relationship in India so well, and that his dialogues rang false and were aimed at largely a non-Indian readership. Or that his device of writing to the Chinese prime minister didn’t work very well (I thought it was masterful, myself), or that he tied all the loose ends in the novel together a little too neatly in the end (not at all. He left us with the suggestion that his young nephew was in the process of figuring things out and could very possibly turn out to be his undoing, unless he was satisfied with simply insuring his continued supply of milk and ice cream.
Got to run and go shoe shopping (for me, of course !) More later. Hope you are having a good week.
Hugs,
Roger
6/26/10
Les Liasions Dangereuse: Cecile de Volanges 20 years later in Strasbourg!
Dear Roger,
I am off the following week on a long train ride ending in Strasbourg where I meet a childhood friend, yes, the young Cecile de Volanges (very much a part of the cast of Les Liasions Dangereus and a part she played brilliantly) with the core story starting out, like ours, in Manhattan. There are other members of the cast I would love to introduce to you!
Do check out Les Liasions Dangereuse on youtube:
However, 20 years is a long time, and there has been a name change Cecile is now Begum (having taken the name of the prophets wife) and the prophet himself is a madrassa buddy (my source for the “heh, heh, heh”) from our infamous madrassa (I know Cambridge has a hand in this somewhere).
Hope to hear from you soon.
Good night.
Purnima
7/22/10
Dear Roger,
Its well past midnight but I cant go to bed, I feel I must tell you about my adventures in Strasbourg before I lose them to the day. Strasbourg, the capital of the Alsace region in North East France on the border with Germany was established as a Celtic town in the 3rd century BC. It has since exchanged hands between France and Germany many times through its history. A city, very much like Geneva and New York, though not a capital city but just as important, being the base for large international organizations and in this instance the seat for large European ones. Strasbourg, with it’s historic center, this Grand Island, surrounded by the river Ill, charming buildings, grand structures and fascinating facades has been classified as a world heritage site by UNESCO and is a “must see”! (Do check out the pictures posted below)
I was first introduced to this region by a close friend in California who had embarked on a journey to document her roots through the moving story of the dynamic and determined Poumy, her grand aunt, who secured and saved her family as she worked silently for the French resistance. This first attempt at film making was well received and a glimpse of the the region for curious eyes like mine who wanted to see the film, the scenery and the story through the eyes of an American journeying through time back to her roots. I have pasted a clip from her movie “Poumy” for you below , do check it out:
Poumy (on youtube)
My first stop during the tour of the historic city center was the grand Roman catholic cathedral of Strasbourg (Notre Dame) one of the finest examples of gothic architecture, with its intricate carvings and dramatic spires touching the sky, visible from across great distances tall and imposing (see pic above). Then I learned a very interesting fact, that in 1794, the Enrages who were in control of the area planned to tear down these dramatic spires based on the notion that it hurt the principle of equality! The smart citizens apparently gathered together and covered the spire with a Phrygian cap thereby saving the spire.
The story behind the Phrygian cap, forever the symbol of freedom and liberty has intrigued me for a while encouraging me to put on the Indiana Jones hat and take you back with me on a journey to San Jose California, I promise you an adventure for there is a brilliant Egyptian museum in these remote recesses of the universe. The museum has a theatre and in this theatre they screen many fascinating films. I assure you that with my budding egyptologist all of 5years old, I was dragged southwards to San Jose to the point where i was reading the Rosetta stone in my dreams. It was here in the midst of the mummies and the deep dark crypt that I was introduced to the cult of Mithras and the Mithraeum. Yes, a never ending film which we saw forever. The cult of Mithras, a Roman pagan cult that was popular during the early part of the first millennium across Europe was subsequently subjugated/eradicated. This was a mystery cult worshipped in deep dark caves where the central figure of the carving was shown slaying a bull, there were symbols of a dog, snake, sun and moon gods, raven all possibly astronomical symbols depicting the skies (perhaps the knowledge of which would be very important for farmers and those dependent upon agriculture). The central figure slaying the bull is often depicted wearing this Phrygian cap, perhaps a symbol of their freedom to practice their cult/belief, an expression of their liberty to practice any faith/religion (and as you know liberty is my favorite topic).
Check this out at the Louvre: Mithras Slaying the Bull
This of course brought me to Strasbourg where I was meant to find the grand Mithraeum with its majestic reliefs embedded in the subterranean caverns awaiting my arrival and introduction to the world. This was also of special interest to me since Mitras is a prominent Vedic deity featured in the Rig Veda with its counterpart in the Persian pantheon, and of course Mitran for Mitra is the name of my grand uncle (a part of my French connection @Sorbonne). Unfortunately, even though I got to the dark basement of the museum that promised to house its relics, i could not get to my final destination, which sounds like a return trip to Strasbourg, perhaps you would like to accompany me?
Then of course there was the much awaited meeting with my childhood friend Cecile de Volages, one with whom I have shared my oldest and fondest memories, and whose life has paralleled mine as we have traipsed across the world with bubble baths, babies, bags and 6ft tall baggages. One with whom I treasured sharing my fears and sorrows, stories and journeys, secrets and mail. As I sat across her in the charming 16th century courtyard (see pic above) pouring my heart out, I momentarily slipped out of my shell and watched us both bend over the table so that our whispers might contain and not float over the ledge to eager ears, two birds of Asia having journeyed far from their watering hole, getting together in this remote region far from home, sharing stories, making stories, and translating your stories in our accents. I wish you were these to see how Guttenberg’s incredible invention of the printing press here in Strasbourg was translating your epics in the exotic tongues of the East, Persian and Sanskrit (see pic above)!
The journey back to Geneva was altogether another story/nightmare. The misty memories of childhood evaporated and I was faced with practical mom and my pragmatic childhood buddy, who after being introduced to my adventures in Geneva said, “time for a reality check…wake up and smell the coffee, you are a train wreck”! No, not a sympathetic ear, not a tear, just horror at hearing about the bulging eyes, darting glances, villainous vermin…
Cecile reiterated for the nth time that “It’s just an Illusion” check it out on youtube:
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
Villa Pondicherry – Cyberlaws – Wanted Dead or Alive – Women Equal Pay for Equal Work
02/09/10
Dear Roger,
I sitting down to write on my new desk in my new room. Yes, things have been juggled once again and I am where I started off…Snakes and Ladders I guess, but all i want to play is LUDO (a game for me with a Indo-French accent that i was introduced to decades ago while visiting family in Pondicherry which I can’t wait to introduce to you!).
I will now borrow your wand for a while to which I shall add my kisses…
I agree with you regarding the rain check on my trip to Paris, I can’t wait to visit. Especially now, since my newly acquired hairdo with the spiky ponytail has finally merged me into the Japanese comics I once mentioned and straight into the arms of my Japanese comic counterpart (do you remember that story?). In this surreal slightly altered state of OD’ing on Ovomaltine I find myself imagining What If…I do eventually morph into my avatar and cease to subsist but minimally on this earth. And here, in the realm of avatars, I find my one true love. However, in his case, he is just here for a ride and he lives and breathes in the real world. What If…we meet explore and fall in love. He loves everything he sees, everything he hears and experiences: The long lustrous hair, the sparkling eyes and the tiny waist and athletic frame of the avatar. What If we have a marriage, a virtual marriage, a virtual life and a brilliant and creative companionship… and What If he is still not satisfied. What If… decades hence he decides to embark on a quest/an ordeal of discovery, to find the warm breath behind the being. What If he finally tracks a spot on the earth from where the signal was strong and bursts in on the room to find Java the Huts twin sister! And as you may have guessed its no longer What if.
Unlike the movie Avatar, this story does not have such a happy ending. What Then happens to my 20 years, our 20 years online, all our babies (bundles and bundles of artistic expression/creative cohabitation)? What happens to our virtual home, assets, friends, relationships? What about our virtual marriage, is the time I spent, my 20 years online, devoting each moment to his every quirk, every need, every sms, all just virtual? My commitment and effort were real, my time spent tangible (to the extent that that space became my primary residence), our understanding to marry/co-habit was tangible in the sense that anything is which is recorded and stored by two consenting competent adults. Where would I go for redress, what is the appropriate forum? Who has jurisdiction?What are the rules that apply, And finally but most significantly, which temples are recognized? I would love to hear you!
Talking about temples, I must tell you that even though I did not get back to Murakami on the Shore, I have returned to Richard Dawkins and my unfinished book, The God Delusion. After watching his brilliant performance on youtube clips where he effortlessly decimates the opposition, I decided to revisit his book and read him anew! As I peered at him from behind my facade of agnosticism, I was blinded by the stark reality of my overburdening handicaps dragging me kicking and screaming from my original position to this sickeningly hedged, all appeasing, all appealing agnosticism. My conclusion is that Dawkins IS a higher life form!
The Case for Atheism– See below Dawkins reasons for why there is no god – (don’t miss that impervious smirk):
Despite the diarrhea, I also managed to check out the New Freakonomics ( the first book was brilliant). Unfortunately, despite engaging topics like: drowning in horse manure, how a street prostitute is like a department store Santa and why should suicide bombers buy life insurance, all sounding VERRY Murakami-ish, the book was a bit of a let down. However, it did end with a colorful splash about an experiment with capuchin monkeys where it was demonstrated that monkeys can recognize the concept of money to the extent that they can be induced to purchasing favors,Yes, paying money for SEX! Incredible is the chaos that is created in the life of the “chap” the minute money is introduced! Don’t you agree?
Back to my favorite topic of journeys, I wish to share with you a wonderful evening here in Geneva where the host was not just brilliant but most entertaining, (a serious contender for the next host of Comedy Central), where we discussed the journeys of food and language and how in some parts of India Arabic and Persian have evolved and merged into the common language of the people Urdu/Hindustani. The process of evolution and the roots are well recognized, whereas in the south(India), many Arabic words have been assimilated “wholly”, directly without any recognition of its origin or source (as I discovered with the story of the dish “Ish-too”, the local distortion of the word stew which is then incorporated in to the local language, local cuisine as a local dish called Ish-too which has no connection, bearing or similarity with its English cousin and is a delicate gruel made out potatoes) , like with many things that come from the sea whose source and origin is unknown but become a part of us. As you know, we have in India among the various communities that appear to have held on to some of their ancient origins, the Syrian Christian communities and the Kerala Jews (who trace their origins to an incredibly ancient time before the fall of the first temple), but once again like all exotic things that come from the sea, no one can really place the root, time or the origin of the journeys of these peoples and these gifts of people and language are assimilated as a whole.
And on the subject of language, specifically Urdu, I was surfing my very favorite actor, director, producer Guru Dutt from Indian Cinema of the 1950s and 60’s http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guru_Dutt , the Bangla Babu, or at least the boy with the Bengali name. His movies had an imprint of his fascination with Bengal and Bengali culture, with the themes, dress, and style that reflected how he had embraced and so authentically depicted the culture of Bengal. Bengal is dear to me, as Calcutta is a place with many happy memories, so I spent the weekend replaying many of his popular songs over and over again (Chaudhvin ka Chand which I had sent earlier was one). I realized that even though I knew the songs by heart (and soul), the exact meaning of the words eluded me. I had probably taken them for granted all these many many years. And now, since I had acquired this incredible gift of morphing into a virtual form, reaching out into the film, and embracing Guru Dutt in person, I felt intensely that I must know the meaning of the words as I sing them back to him. So I surfed and surfed and surfed for a good online dictionary that would use the English (roman script) and transcribe for me keeping the gist to that which I understood it to be. Let me tell you Roger, it was not an easy journey, and not one that I have embarked upon for the first time, but I found the dictionary of my choice with Hindi, Urdu, Persian, English, Sanskrit (and if required a French Sanskrit dictionary for kids), at the University of Chicago website! It was perfect and it was bookmarked over and over again. How I kicked myself for the nth time for not having gone to Chicago when I had the opportunity, especially now when all my searches uncannily seem to lead me there! Do you know Chicago?
The computer has announced in its robotic alien voice again: its one o’clock, so this will be my last chapter! But, since we are exchanging music clips, (and I have so enjoyed your last few clips), I feel its time I share this one favorite all American melody with you as I reminisce about my time back in California where I eerily used to hear this blaring from my car radio EVERYTIME I got in to my Black Jeep Grand Cherokee and turned on the ignition: Bon Jovi- Wanted Dead or Alive (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRvCvsRp5ho).
What do you think…Am I wanted?…Dead?? or Alive???
Good night!
Purnima
On Feb 12, 2010, at 4:34 PM, “Roger Stevenson” wrote:
Dear Purnima,
It sounds like musical bedrooms at your place. Does that mean that you are once again sharing the bedroom the massageathon addict ?
And a ponytail to boot. Can’t wait to see it, but am curious about the effects of Ovomaltine on your physiognomy, and as far as finding your one true love in a virtual world where you fall in love and marry, albeit to an avatar that can hide the true features of your virtual lover, I am just a bit dubious, as you seem to be also, about the long-term consequences of such a union.. Who knows whether he/it is really a prince charming or a Jabba the Hut lurking in the outer reaches of cyberspace and playing his deadly game with countless beautiful and willing nubile creatures. And how would you ever know whether you were really right for one another when there was only a virtual osmosis joining your two beings ? How satisfying can it possibly be to “make love” to a virtual entity where there would be no actual and physical joining and mingling ? and your little creations crawling around a virtual nursery could actually remain such throughout time, never aging and, therefore, never leaving the cybernest ? And would Google have evolved and morphed into the be-it-all jurisdictional authority to deal with such matters as separations, child custody, alimony, inheritance rights, etc. Or maybe Steve Jobs will have become the final arbiter of justice with a market place savvy that settles all conflicts with his new i-judge software and hand-held, touch screen, app-driven i-tort (that may actually be a better source of justice than our present, very flawed and political interest driven system or the justice frequently meted out by the religions of the day).
I finished my third tome of Millennium two days ago. After more than 2,000 pages of Lisbeth Salander, I am more than ready to move on to other vistas. I was actually a bit let down by the third installment of the trilogy, and felt that Steig Larsson left too many loose threads dangling. But I read somewhere where he actually had intended to write a series of ten novels in the series before he was felled by a heart attack shortly after delivering his trilogy to the publishers. There is supposedly a fourth novel in the possession of his long-standing, live-in partner, but whether it will ever be published depends on the Swedish courts’ decisions about who actually owns the rights to it and who should be in charge of editing it. That’s a tricky legal dilemma for you. There is no provision in Swedish law for a concubine to inherit anything from her partner if they were not married (That is not the case in French law, but apparently for Sweden, one of the most advanced social countries in Europe, an unmarried partner has no inheritance rights regardless of how much time they lived together). Larsson’s father and brother have become filthy rich because of the international success of the novels, whereas his life-long partner has absolutely nothing. I could tell you about another case closer to home, in fact in Geneva itself, but that’s the subject of another email or chat.
What I started to say, however, was that I have begun to read Kafka on the Shore, but I can understand your fascination with Dawkins and wanting to probe his thinking.
Thanks for the great Bon Jovi clip. I’ve got to try and find one of my favorites from the 70’s. You are definitely wanted, my dear, dead or alive, preferably alive, but the question you should really ask is : Am I wanted, virtual or real ?
Are you free for coffee on Tuesday morning ? Do you have a Migro class then ?
Lots of warm hugs on this chilly Friday,
Roger
P.S. I’ve only been to Chicago once, and that was in the dead of winter to attend the annual Modern Language Association of America meetings, It was dreadfully cold and snowy and I’m glad I survived the treacherous drive down from Madison, Wisconsin.
Roger Stevenson
See below- Incredible is the chaos that is created in the life of the “chap”/capuchin the minute money is introduced!
See experiment in link below where a capuchin (sounds like “chap” and acts like a chap) monkey slams piece of cucumber back into the face of his boss when his colleague is given a grape for the same task. This capuchin should be a poster child for Women- It’s Equal Pay for Equal Work dummy see what the chap/capuchin would do under the same circumstances:
EQUAL PAY FOR EQUAL WORK
Purnima Viswanathan
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
ALL THE SONS OF GENEVA–EMIGRANTS TALE – PIRATES – DONNER PASS
12/07/09
Dear Roger,
There is much excitement all around, and we seem to be in the center of it all. Geneva is celebrating its annual festival L’Escalade, where the Genevois repelled a surprise attack on the night of December 11th, 1602, by the Duke of Savoy, Charles Emmanuel II. who was forever eyeing rich and independent Geneva. The Genevois legend goes that a mother of 14, poured a cauldron of burning soup on Savoyard soldiers which roused the citizens and helped foil the surprise attack. The Genevois returned victorious and remember this momentous event, I think symbolizing their essence, an innate desire for liberty, by drinking hot vegetable soup, a passionate run through the streets of old town by young and old (which passes almost by our home), mulled wine and not so mulled cheering. We joined the crowds and cheered the spirited runners, bought our chocolate cauldron, drank vegetable soup and hope to end the evening with a couple of bottles of wine!
Do see Tara below racing up the mountain in the 33rd Course de L’Escalade in Geneva:
Hugs,
Purnima
—————————
Dear Purnima,
I’m still haunted by the ending of Hard-boiled ….. Such wonderful, evocative prose and sense of nostalgia. I was shocked that he decided to stay in The End of the World, but then again, she had recovered (or better yet, he had recovered for her) her mind. In a way it makes sense, but then again . . .
Now I’ve tackled the beautifully written Trois femmes puissantes by Marie NDiaye. She won this year’s Goncourt Prize for the novel and also set off a storm of contention with her remarks about why she chose to move to Berlin shortly after Sarkoz’s election. She said she hated the coarseness and the climate of fear inherent in the Sarkozy administration. Her remarks prompted a rather ridiculous call on the part of a majority deputy in the National Assembly for recipients of literary prizes to be held to honor some nebulous “duty of reserve” when making statements about France and/or its political regime. I loved her response when she said that she still stood firmly behind her earlier statement and that the suggestion of a “duty of reserve” was nothing more than an excellent example of what she had been referring to.
Glad you enjoyed the Escalade with all its overtones of hot soup (Quasimodo used boiling oil).
A tête à tête Thursday at 12:30 sounds intriguing.
Tendres bisous,
Roger
Dear Roger
I was also shocked when I read about this reaction to Marie NDiaye and the expectation that she is no longer free to express as she has been elevated to this “highest of literary podiums”, what a clever way to restrict speech, enforce censorship!
How about censorship as our topic for Thursday?
A long long letter is brewing…
PURNIMA
Dear Roger,
I do hope the eye operation went off well… All the better to see me with???
As you know, I have taken my time to meet all the glittering ghosts of Geneva, but there are a few I would appreciate being introduced to, and the one currently topping my list is Jean-Jacques Rousseau (and I can’t think of anyone better than you Roger, to make the introduction). I have kept the card to the gallery Espace Rousseau right here in the Old Town, but await the right moment for such a momentous meeting, will you join me?
The current (minaret blowing) events that have taken Geneva by storm, in my mind, propels this son of Geneva right up and center.
Rousseau: The goal of government should be to secure freedom, equality, and justice for all within the state, regardless of the will of the majority.
How I wish to meet him, dashing, handsome, brilliant… he could be the one!
However, I found my adulation coming to a abrupt halt upon reading Rousseau’s response to d’Alembert’s article on Geneva where he very critical about a theatre in Geneva, citing its adverse impact on the morals of the citizens, fervently conveying that there is no place for it in this city. “OHH..”I plead, “but the theatre is the essence of me, don’t let me down!”
Then, I scrolled down through his letter and read his views on women, it left me gasping; in his letter, his response to d’Alembert’s Article on Geneva, he suggests that women produce the only gossip, and the moral decay of men, women and children. He states that though men have their vices, like drinking, they are far less harmful to society than women’s vices. He argues that the presence and authority of women in public spaces corrupts the male youth, turning them effeminate and void of patriotic passion. Oh you MMCP’s (medieval Male Chauvinist Pigs!). Another chap off my list for sure!
And talking about male chauvinist, I have the grand daddy of MCP’s tied around my neck! Thank you for inquiring, but the situation has just gone from bad to worse over the past year that we have been in Geneva. We only communicate via email if at all, and every time I get fuming mad, I write down a list of choice words that I have scanned from the the Oxford English dictionary to describe him. It ‘s incredible fun, a MUST share!
His choice of words for me however, cannot be put down in legible print, shocking, horrifying, mortifying! My only response is to embrace the persona that he has created of me in his mind and with his words, and strut the streets with a swagger, a sexy mini and a cigarette (cough, cough). Which brings me to our conversation of a couple of months ago where you mentioned that Geneva had reburied its favorite prostitute and social worker, Catin Revolutionaire, in the Cimetiere de Roi right next to Calvin, Jean Piaget and Candolle! Did you know Roger, that this revolutionary whore, Grislidis Real was a dedicated social worker and a talented writer who devoted herself to campaigning for the rights and dignity of the sex workers (it’s ironic that a service as much demanded by society and thus in existence across ages and cultures, is the one that is most reviled and degraded).
See Grislidis laid to rest in the Cimeterie du Plainpalais next to Calvin and Candolle (Don’t miss me with Gris):
Grislidis, the name itself comes from Boccaccios loyal and patient Griselda, the victim of an inconsiderate and brutal husband who permits the Devil to test her resolve. In my instance, the Devil has eyes of brilliant blue (and is French of course). Je ne lui resiste pas!
I thought since such shocking words were being leveled at me, why should I not assume the persona of the grandest and the greatest of all the whores to strut the streets of Geneva. So, in my mind, I became Grislidis Real (yes, the other persona being Tocqueville), but then something bizarre and mysterious happened, I found that the persona that I was wearing on my mind “the greatest whore in christendom”, was being reflected in the eyes of the people I passed on the street! This was impossible, I was certainly loosing it, how could anyone READ MY MIND! But, there it was, day after day, especially when I wore a particular coat “The Big Black Rapper Coat , with the …..”). I have never had so much attention from so many men from across the age spectrum. The plain girl whose ponytail was always being pulled, has turned into a SEX BOMB in Geneva, all by using her imagination… wow! But then I sensed that it got lewd and lecherous, people had started eyeballing me, there was even a decrepit old man (at our notorious neighborhood park) that stuck out his tongue! I did not know whether to laugh or cry, so I ran! I found that the city that sported posters all over to an exhibition called “Stigmates”, was really reflected in the eyes of its people. So, I ran and I ran and I ran…
And I found myself back in the cemetery right next to Calvin.
2009, as you know is John Calvin’s quincentennial year, but, this is a special year as not only is it Calvin’s 500th birthday but its (my absolute all time favorite) Charles Darwin’s bicentennial! There has been much talk about the father of modern theory of evolution Vs the father of liberty. The war of the world views. I see no conflict, but surprising parallels: Calvin, this brilliant theologian, this man from Geneva, certainly a revolutionary of his time, challenging the current norms and dogma and proposing a novel idea (Roger, do correct me. have I grasped it right?): predeterminism, that life is pre ordained, we are born with “game plan” and thus there is no sinner and no sin, all we can do is to do our best to make this life the best resting spot we can make it and of course the controversial idea of the pre-selected/the chosen few. Thus with these ideas he hoped to further light the path, to get a step closer to understanding the world we live in which led to the Reformation. Similarly, Charles Darwin, a brilliant evolutionary biologist, who first described biological evolution with natural selection and whose “On the Origin of the Species” transformed the way we see the natural world. His theory that all life is linked by common ancestry threw the norms and ideas that formed the base of society, that the world around us was the result of divine creation, into a tailspin creating a revolutionary, a pirate! Darwin was aiming to free the human mind from these shackles and light up the mind using reason and science, whereas Calvin, on a similar journey wished to free the human mind and soul through the path of reform, religious and structural changes which he believed would bring us closer to god, spirituality and freedom of the soul and spirit. Thus one took the path of science and the other religion to reach the same goal, to free the human mind from the shackles of dogma!
But in this cosy corner of our graveyard, I see a bony hand being raised…Candolle! Yes, let’s not forget Candolle, a brilliant botanist and yet another luminous son of Geneva whose theory of Nature’s War, the warring of species and resulting evolutionary pressures probably lit the spark that culminated in Darwin revolutionary theory of Natural Selection. Of course, many loopholes to Darwin are “religiously” cited: brain development being one of them, which has not changed for millennia… have we reached the end? I always respond with: Perhaps our brains have reached that full potential (in any case, as we discussed, memory and storage are being kept outside), that perfect size where we can not only eliminate ourselves but everything else around us for eternity, so possibly, its time for the heart (metaphorically) to grow instead, to grow in empathy and feeling for our fellow humans which WILL give us humans the needed evolutionary advantage. What do you think Roger?
So much more to say but I have to be up in time for breakfast!
Wow, what a wonderful way to greet the day: I love reading your dazzling gyrations into history where you blend science, religion and sex into a mesmerizing concoction that leaves me weak in the knees.
I think your initial fascination with J.-J. Rousseau is quite understandable, but you were wise to probe his darker side as well. He was truly one of the precursors of literary Romanticism and one of the first to write about the I, the ME, and proclaim loudly to the world the “I am important, my subjectivity can be the object of literature and the way in which I write about ‘me’ is also reflected in the narrative structure of my essays and novels. Something we must be forever grateful for. But on the other hand, he was indeed a MCP and a reckless and neglectful father to his children.
Your treatise on Darwin and Calvin, both moving toward the same goal from differing viewpoints was inspired, but I still must take exception about Calvin. While he may have wanted to free the individual from the accepted dogma of his day, he, nevertheless, created his own version of restrictive rules that defined what was acceptable behavior and imposed penalties for those who failed to view things as he saw them, like being slowly burned at the stake for daring to differ with his vision of the universe ! ! ! Need I say more. I find Darwin ultimately a far greater liberator.
And yes, the eye surgery went very well. It’s really amazing when you think about it, but at least I can see very clearly now with both eyes, indeed, all the better to gaze longingly into your own penetrating, enticing and bewitching eyes.
And what persona will you adopt on Thursday ?
See you then,
12/18/09
Dear Roger,
It’s great to get your mail all the way here in India…a thread, a continuum of my life in a land far far away!
The other fascinating revelation traveling from Europe to Asia has been, the unique impact of culture and faith on language and the way it subtly, so very discretely moulds the user and the way he or she perceives the universe ( I would LOVE your feedback on this). English and the latin tongues with their Christian references, Sanskrit based languages with their Vedic, Hindu and Buddhist references, Urdu with its Islamic references, Persian with both Islamic and Zoroastrian references (this is the most fascinating of all stories which we need to fully explore, as it ties in with “our” Indus Project: the same three boat-full story, fleeing religious persecution to reach the shores of freedom, India).
Coming back to you mail, I would love to learn more about this offshoot of the Swedish Pirates Party that has anchored itself on your shores, what’s the core idea? Regarding the policing and enforcement of cyberspace, as we discussed, the current system of “Earthy Laws” are inapplicable, as there are no acceptable systems for monitoring and enforcement. This space needs its own monitors, legislatures, and enforcers. And as you know, this is the space where Pirates rule, and the only way this space can be organized is if there is a consensus among the pirates, a honor code (no, I didn’t intend to steal dialogue from the Pirates of the Caribbean…but I can’t think of a better reference from pop culture).
And talking about governments and their monitoring, their systems and their policing…spins me round and round, right back to places and people i wish to forget. Roger, I still find the impossible to remove stains of the pomegranate. Granat Fatal, remains with its distinctive hue upon my lips. Donner pass, the road i took to my ski lodge innumerable times over all those winters in California, a place where over a century and a half ago California pioneer emigrants who (like us) journeyed in over the Sierra Nevadas to make it to California, instead found themselves trapped and snowbound in this cold inhospitable place. Their story of survival and rescue of course has taken mythic proportions but my mind often wanders back, back to The Emigrants Tale, to the grizzly piece about the Donner party and their consumption of “the food of the dead”.
I thought it was a turkey sandwich, how was I to know that there was a finger in my Hamburger! Perhaps, the glares, the stares, the shifty glances from under upturned collars, that greeted me as I walked park Bertrand, perhaps the eyeballs that appeared to spring out from hooded cloaks seeming to inquire all the time “was it crunchy”,( to which i responded with an…eeeooow…please get that eye ball out of my face!) was a response to the vivid stain on my lips, on my body. For the longest time, the menu card at restaurants seemed a perpetual nightmare: finger fish, the fingers seemed to jump out and pull my nose, chicken breast (please no more body parts), leg of lamb and the list is endless! And then of course, there is the well known local restaurant just across the Palais de Justice, that I pass everyday on my way downtown, Au Pied-de-Cochon, or in English translation(perhaps not everything should be translated into English), Feet of PIG… I am still trying to reconcile with the palatability of that!
In bed in delhi nursing a cold, time to reconnect with Murakami!
Do keep writing and stay in touch. See you soon.
Geneva – Au Pied De Cocon:
Letter #12
Big Macs – Geneva – Met Maya’s Dream , Tocqueville US Penitentiary System and Minors Kids Apps – Dire Straits
11/21/09
Dear Roger,
I have been yearning to write to you, but what do I write about this very grey, dull, uneventful week that “Flu”. Yes, multiple bouts for the kids and listless, unproductive, house arrest for me!
Unfortunately, this week that meant no more French classes for me. I had started to enjoy jumping up in the morning getting myself ready and organized bright and early, and scampering down through old town past Bourg de Four, where of course I paid my respects to Servetus, past the Palais de Justice, across the charming cobbled streets of Vielle Ville, often late for class and to the ringing of bells of the Cathedrale St. Pierre, down the hill to Rive carrying my little bag from the Met all the way to Ecole Migros.
As I clutched onto my Met bag, I felt I was not only skipping down the charming streets of old Geneva, but was adding part of another fabulous city, another exciting place, another favorite piece to this mix: The Metropolitan Museum of Art and New York! During my years in New York, I lived very close to the Met and find a trip back to NYC incomplete without a visit. On my last visit, I stumbled upon a wonderful sculpture placed at the end of the South Asian sculpture section, a magical Gandhara frieze (1st – 3rd AD) of Queen Maya’s Dream. This frieze depicted one of my favorite stories, the conception of the Buddha to be. In this story Queen Maya, who had been married for 20 years without a child, is often portrayed lying down attended by her maids while she has a vision, a dream. She dreams that she is visited by a white elephant that strikes her right side with his trunk and enters her womb resulting in the divine conception of prince Siddhartha who is to later become the Buddha. it is a beautiful story and a truly magical dream…a dream which I too dreamt as baby Dhruvum came bouncing upon my lap. The only difference was that my story involved an exotic Japanese fantasy (much to tell…)!
The Metropolitan Museum of Art-The Dream of Queen Maya:
My picture of the Gandhara sculpture- Queen Maya’s Dream:
Talking about Dhruvum, this was his birthday week but since everyone was recovering from the flu, it was low key. We decided upon lunch and his much awaited skateboard. Whenever he has quizzed me (which he does repeatedly) about my favorite foods and places we should eat at, I have always responded with the standard: no fast food, no junk food, yucky this and that (a long list of his favorite places). My favorite food list extended to (not his first choice) sushi, barbecued eel, grilled meats, tofu and even foie gras. But this time, he with his usual persistent spirit, dug deeper and finally managed to crank open my deep dark closet… and there it was hidden in the far recesses, an act of complete denial…yes rolling and laughing with all its double patties and triple buns, dripping with mayo and with pickles sticking out of its teeth: a Big Mac! He came out into the daylight and said, ADMIT IT, ADMIT IT, I exist and YOU know me WELL. Now come on and take a big juicy bite. I guess 17 years is a long time and I have collected much of America, even unknown to me, in my closet. So exposed and embarrassed i quietly accompanied my son to Macdonalds on Rive (which looks like no Macdonalds outlet I have seen before, rather like a posh restaurant) and inhaled my Big Mac and fries in complete silence.
In this dull, dull, dull, grey weather, I have mulled over some issues, embraced some personas and counted down to my trip back to India!
Talking about America and personas, since we have covered sex in our last mail, shall we “Talk a While ” about the law? Yes, the person featured in the arts section of the newspaper that captivated me was Tocqueville and his journey to America in 1831. At first I looked at his photo and thought that the high collar and ruffled white shirt would look good on me as well, then I gazed at the mirror and thought that that particular determined look was naturally me. Of course his journey to America, his interest in prison reforms, his description of the system of Houses of refuge which were very effective for dealing with the issue of juvenile delinquents, and his keen insight I just lapped up and could not surf enough of. He and Beaumont had specifically journeyed to study the US penitentiary system, the new system in NY and Philadelphia, and its application to France. In fact, his research of the US penitentiary system apparently served as a model for many of the other evolving European penitentiary systems. This is an area I have thought about a lot, maybe we can chat about it one day over coffee and cake. But what is ironic, and what disturbs me, is despite being so ahead of the curve on a broad spectrum of legal matters and the penitentiary system(not excluding the fact that Tocqueville mentions a vibrant egalitarian democratic society, a first in the world of those times), today the headlines bleat “Imprisoning children: Sentencing children to life without the possibility of Parole”.
Yes, a reality of America today! The very fact that children, who are meant to be sheltered and protected by society and state, are subjected to such barbaric and unconscionable laws not only violates the eight amendment, prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment but also violates some core/universal human right (which all members of a civilized society should aspire to adhere to) by subjecting these vulnerable persons that are not only under the guardianship of their families but society and state but dependent upon them. For me, its alarming to see this issue come up repeatedly (where juveniles are repeatedly tried in adult courts and sentenced to adult jails). Its appalling to find that the judicial system does not appear to draw the pivotal distinction between child and adult, a point that should have been drilled into the cranium of the law makers if not by their law school professors then by the cultural and social conditioning that there are a set of laws for adults and one set of reformative rules for children under the age of 18. This particular article cites the case of a 13 year old boy sentenced to life without parole for a questionable sexual battery case, shocking, just shocking!
A child under 18 is generally under the guardianship of his family, society or the State. And, since often, these juveniles are either neglected, abandoned or abused, the onus of their welfare is even further upon the shoulders of society and state. How then, can this very society and state which should extend itself to protect these children, actually impose such unconscionable sentences upon them. Where is the onus/ liability of society/ state?
In fact, in many states (including California)in the case of domestic animals, even where the owner or one who has custody or control over the animal is not negligent and the dog causes harm or injury to another person, the owner is liable for the injury inflicted, its a case of strict liability. If we (society) are able to craft and impose such strict rules in the case of guardians or owners of domestic animals, do you not think that society or the State must take some of the liability of injury caused by its wards, who are often these vulnerable children and not on the flip side use its authority and power to subject these very dependent vulnerable souls to terms of life. Bottom line, there are rules for children and there are rules for adults and since the children are under our guardianship till they attain adulthood, we have to ensure that the laws that govern them help to further ensure their safety and protection. I have felt very passionately about this subject for a while, What do u think?
Now finally my computer has spoken (in its sonic spaceship voice) that its 3 AM and I must not trouble u any further. So, good night and sweet dreams (of white elephants and Big Macs)!
Purnima
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11/21/09
Dear Purnima,
What a delight to discover yet another wonderfully poetic and stirring treatise from you so early in the morning. I don’t have time to write much right now, as we are leaving in about 30 minutes for our 4 ½ hour jaunt to the Ardeche.
Dreams about white elephants sound enchanting, but I can’t say the same about Big Macs. I loved your evocation of the recesses of your mind and the juicy, dripping with mayo monstrosity lurking there. It’s amazing at times what we must suffer to make our kids happy.
And staying up until 3 am ! But you appear to be all the more eloquent during those twilight moments after the bewitching hour.
« In this dull, dull, dull, grey weather, I have mulled over some issues, embraced some personas and counted down to my trip back to India! »
Could this by chance be part of your TOP SECRET disclosure ?
Can’t wait to see you on Tuesday. I can actually be there shortly after 12 :00, if that would also work for you.
Happy Sunday. Hope you got a bit of sleep.
Roger
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Dear Purnima,
Hope you are ok and that you had a good weekend and found a better place to sleep ! ! !
It’s appears that winter has reared its ugly head already. I’m ready to head for Spain again and you’re probably feeling the same about leaving for India. I hope we can at least have coffee before you leave.
Take care of yourself,
Roger
Do you know this newspaper in India? A rather interesting article about it in Le Monde
11/30/09
Dear Roger,
It’s good to hear from you after a very difficult week. Perhaps its the lack of sun, perhaps its November…BUT in all probability its the same old story that refuses to end! Just trying to keep myself together till I get home.
Thank you for forwarding the article, but gosh, how do you expect me to read this after just two months of Ecole Migros! I know you gave me a fabulous foundation in French to build upon, BUT STILL… this is too much. You are serving a crane a tempting meal on a flat dish, how could u!!
See Panchatantra tale below (with a parallel in the Aesop’s Fables):
And there is more…
Dear Roger,
Interesting site, thank you for the intro. I have pasted below an article that might interest you. Once again, a journey to a place where the core rights that form the basis of our legal system and civilized society which are challenged in times of crisis: Right to Legal Representation (6th amendment Rt. to Counsel). I would love your thoughts on the subject, hope the dessert is not served in too tall a glass!
मुझे आतंकी का वकील कहा गया
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Touché
Dear Purnima,
How cleverly wicked you are! The glass was so deep that I could hardly see the bottom of it, let alone savour the contents. Are you suggesting that we both owe each other a translation?
Although the text is in French, a language that you read very well, the pictures themselves are what is interesting in the attached photomontage.
This visit to India has reminded me of Tocqueville’s epic Journey to America which he undertook with Beaumont in 1831 to study the prison systems in America. This particular excerpt from a letter upon his reaching Montreal on August 23rd, 1831, struck a particular cord within me which I wished to share:
“I am astonished that this country is so unknown is France. Not six months ago I believed, with every one else, that Canada had become completely English. In my mind had always stuck the returns of 1763, which gave the French population as only 60,000 persons of French descent. I tell you that you can’t dispute them their origin. They are as French as you and I. They even resemble us more closely than the Americans of the United States resemble the English. I can’t express to you what pleasure we felt on finding ourselves in the midst of this population. We felt as if we were home, and everywhere we were received like compatriots, children of old France, as they say here. To my mind the epithet is badly chosen. Old France is in Canada; the new is with us. …”
Roger, I get a similar sense, that there is something unique, something universal about expatriate communities, they somehow cling and hold onto the customs and traditions of their people at the time of embarking upon their journey and pass on this piece of cultural knowledge to their children, somehow frozen in time, just so that there be some cultural connection, some continuity. This is a particularly prevalent phenomenon of the vast Indian (south asian) diaspora that has found itself everywhere from the coasts of Africa, across the US and to the remotest islands in the last couple of hundred years. And, this group, this diaspora has fervently held onto its food, dress, culture and customs regardless of the generations or thousands of miles separating the group from its ancestral lands, customs and habitat. Thus, similar to Tocqueville, if I were to visit any of these communities, and there are many even within the US, I would have a similar elated reaction to find my own people so far away from home, but realizing at the same time that they are a people whose ancestors came from India, and even though I am from the “Old country”, I would have to mirror Tocqueville and say, Old India is in America, the new is with us!
And all this I realized from myself, and my this trip back home, to India. I find I myself am stuck in time, clinging and grasping onto everything Indian. Trying to inhale the culture (and tons of dust particles), the food, the sounds and smells and transfer all this excitement to the kids…(if you heard their reaction, in their Yankee accents, at my every gasp of reminiscence, this would be a comedy series). But back to Tocqueville, what a truly astute observation, which applies with equal relevance today!
So, in order to fully immerse myself back into my home, my culture, i decided to spend every moment i had to spare (and I have had many as I have been sick sick sick), watching old Indian movies and some new ones. Since we were on the subject of the pomegranate last, I decided that the most appropriate movie would be the one about the legendary Anarkali (Anar is Persian for pomegranate and Kali is flower, pomegranate-flower). The tragic love story of Anarkali, a court dancer, with prince Salim, son of the great Mughal ruler Akbar which is beautifully picturized in the old epic film Mughal-e-Azam. The Mughals as you know were were a formidable tribe from central Asia which brought Bengal to Baluchistan and Kashmir to Kaveri under one administration: Babar, who was descended from both Tamerlane and Ghenghiz Khan invaded India(by invitation from the Lodi court), and established the Mughal empire in India. Through the Mughals there was an intermingling of Persian, Central Asian and Indian culture resulting in a vibrant expression of art, literature, architecture, customs, traditions, dress, food and language that was uniquely Mughal, uniquely Indian. This film made almost 60 years ago. This time and this much beloved love story is of a court dancer who falls in love with the crown prince who desires to make her his queen, she is buried alive for such a transgression. Anarkali is played by Madhubala, the epitome of Indian beauty, the one image every woman from my world desires to emulate as i did when i was growing up and especially saw myself as her in this particular song (Jab Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya – youtube), do check it out. Anarkali was from Lahore, the ancestral home of my maternal family. Yes, they settled for many millennia in the rich river fed plains of the Punjab not far from the shadows of the Shimshal WhiteHorn many universes away from its alpine namesake Weisshorn in whose shadows we find ourselves today (a part of the Ice Mommy Tale).
Since we are on the story of the Mughals, I must introduce you to Birbal, one of emperor Akbars nine gems (or Navaratnas in Sanskrit). He was renowned for his wisdom and wit and this collection of stories reflecting his escapades where he has to balance the truth and justice with managing the ego of the emperor form a corpus of the much beloved Indian children’s stories. My favorite one is of the “Khichidi”, a gruel of rice and lentils. Here, through this tale, Birbal conveys his message to the emperor of the emperors error and injustice not in words but in a small theatrical production (as words might mean his loosing his head) and succeeds in not only conveying his point but also is able to secure a reward for the wronged party (the best advocate). This is something our 9 and 90year olds would enjoy.
Akbar and Birbal -The Tale of the Kichdi
Back to the Anar, or pomegranate, a fascinating fruit, (a fascination heightened by my personal connection/consumption, as mentioned in my last mail which led me to this journey), which I found is represented in various cultures of the world. However, this fruits origins lie in Persia and the Himalayas from where it journeyed to Egypt and held an important position in the homes and the lives of the Pharaohs depicted in wall murals of the burial chambers, sculpture and artifacts as it symbolized life after death, apparently king Tut took it into the after life with him. Greek culture from the ancient times to the modern is replete with its representations. The previously mentioned myth of Persephone and Hades found in red and black pottery, wall murals, mosaics sculpture and art in every form has some representation of the pomegranate. The Zoroastrians, Pre-arabicized Persians (the ones that reached the shores of India many hundreds of years before the Mughals), regard the pomegranate as a symbol of fertility and eternal life. The pomegranate is found widely represented in India and especially in Mughal art in all its forms, miniature paintings, sculpture, inlays and carvings and of course in jewelry, textiles and adornments which are worn and used in India today. And, Roger, since the story of this fruit is so intertwined with my culture, I took it with me to California and covered my Thanksgiving table with this fruit that signifies abundance and prosperity in my culture so that I might lend a piece of myself and my origins, my roots to our table.
Of course, as we know it was not to be…Anarkali, the beautiful red pomegranate blossom was converted to Anar-Kali, the fierce and formidable form of devi as mentioned earlier, wearing a garland of skulls, the devourer of demons! Thus in fantasy, I find I am unable to retain my petite feminine form, the masculine fits best whether it be Ekalavya’s sacrifice of his thumb for sage Drona so that his student Arjuna be forever the best marksmen archer, or Tocqueville with his keen eye intellect and curiosity Journeying to America. All I know is that the great sages of the Vedic pantheon stand above me (shaken from their meditations from the rumor of the pomegranate – High Treason – one that compels reality to merge into myth) chanting verses from our ancient and most sacred text the Rig Veda and I suspect disguised in a long white beard Oppenheimer stands among them…
Hope to hear from you soon.
Good night!
Dear Purnima,
Ah, dear old de Tocqueville. He was amazingly perceptive in his analysis of American democracy and how America differed from Europe. And his analyses remain really quite relevant today. For one, he pointed out that Americans were singularly interested in amassing vast fortunes through hard work and individualism. It would certainly appear that, at least for a certain element of the ruling elite in the United States, getting rich by any means whatever is the primary directive in the game of global Monopoly.
But all of that is quite apart from your own particular observation about expat communities and their retention of cultural norms and traditions from the “homeland”. That was certainly the case for the first and part of the second generation of my Scandinavian ancestors who migrated to the States. They retained, as a means of holding on to that which they had left behind, a lot of the culinary and dress codes. But in many expat groups, the younger generations often find such collective demonstrations of who they really are quaint and even embarrassing because they single themselves out as being different from those they have chosen to live among. My grandparents didn’t ever teach my mother to speak Danish because they wanted her to blend in with the rest of the American children. And that is true of many immigrant groups. I wonder if those ethnic groups with very strong ties to their countries of origins and who have managed to impose stringent patterns of behaviour based on some kind of religious or mythological credos are not able to bond more closely the upcoming generations to the old cultural values. Is that what is happening to you right now in India, or is it a reaction to having spent the past year in Switzerland trying to adapt to life among the Protestant fence builders who would much prefer that even the rabble from Annemasse – just across the border – remain away ? We certainly don’t want anything as radical in our little paradise of a country as mosques and minarets.
I’m sorry you have been so sick. I hope that you soon feel better. The only positive thing about being sick is that you have time to read, watch old movies and think ! I loved your references, once again, to pomegranates and the fascinating, gyrating swirls of mythological patterns you are able to weave through your emails. Are you sure you have never red Tom Robbins ? (I really must get you a copy of “Even Cowgirls get the Blues”). I must admit to my near total ignorance of Indian cinema. I did check out Madhubala on youtube, and you are right. She is a stunning beauty). You’ll have to throw some more titles at me.
The cold snap and snow that hit Europe last week (minus 10 in Geneva on Saturday) have given way to much warmer temps and rain. It is a bit more comfortable now, but I must admit that I really liked the snow and the crispness of the cold. It really felt like winter and Christmas, but now it will be a green Christmas.
Tomorrow is decorate the house and Christmas tree day and begin to make some of the many dishes that will make up our annual Christmas feast. It’s truly a multi-cultural event with a melange of French, Danish and American food and customs. I guess you are right. Even I, a fourth generation Dane, still love to have the traditional Danish rice pudding dessert on Christmas Eve and put real candles and other Danish ornaments on the Christmas tree.
I hope you get well soon and have a wonderful Christmas. How widespread is Christmas celebrated in India ? There aren’t that many Christians.
More very soon. I’ve got some more Murakami sexual delights to share with you.
Love,
Roger
Jan 6, 2010, 1:31 PM
to Roger
Dear Roger,
On this one day of respite in a month-long head spinning hectic swirl of activity, I find myself sitting down with a paper and pen trying to recap the adventures and experiences of the last three weeks. But before i can proceed any further and put pen to paper, I must fully respond to your last email and add to all that is so often left unsaid about expatriate communities and their experiences…as I am undergoing these experiences currently and in REAL LIFE.
I find, that the struggle of expatriate communities does somewhere boil down to the issue of identity and how the world perceives you, The one thing I have noticed across the globe is the unique impact of cinema in the moulding of this identity, and I wonder if we actually in someway mould ourselves to the images that cinema projects of us. This i have discovered is a special phenomenon in the Indian expatriate communities, where the first generation tries to introduce themselves, their background and culture to the young ones growing up in a world very different to the one they left behind, which is when they discover that Indian cinema is the one platform of universal appeal drawing bridges between the (old world boring) first generation and the (assimilated Americanized) next.
I grew up in an environment where there was very little television (unless you wanted to know the morphology of bugs that were infesting the wheat crop) and that too in black and white. We watched Indian films on Sundays to generally find peculiar characters we could mime and mimic. However, the world of cinema (in fact the entire audio visual world ) has jumped aboard Starship Enterprise (the sole highlight of our televised youth) and entered into another dimension! Have you seen Avatar???
The impact of cinema is so all pervasive, I find, whenever i mention that I am Indian, I have taxi drivers in Las Vegas of Ethiopian descent breaking out in a jig shouting Mother India, Mother India (one of the oldie goldies of Indian cinema) and entertaining me through my trip by singing songs from Raj Kapoors movies. An immediate connection develops, a sense of knowing and belonging a camaraderie. New York taxi drivers (coming from south, south-east, central Asia ) of course, have historically excused taxi fares upon finding Madhubala (you have to have some of the look, some of the tragedy, some of the charm) in the back seat. Then of course there is the delightful Eritrean at my favorite store in Geneva who knows me well as I try out yet another coat that I am unable to afford and she graciously indulges me as she hums the tune from Haathi Mere Saathi. Yes, the direct translation of Haathi Meera Saathi is Elephant my Companion, an superhit of the seventies starring Rajesh Khanna, the superstar of the seventies and my mothers heart throb as Rock Hudson was my grand mothers heart throb (she is still in denial about his death). Elephant, My Companion is NOT a movie about your spouse as it might appear to your ears, but a charming film that captures the essence of a time when I was growing up in India.
As a person of Indian origin, wherever i travel, all the way from Las Vegas to Geneva across northern Africa and south east Asia to the Fiji islands, Indian cinema seems to be painting my people, my world (a world I left behind)and creating connectivity. My personal connection somehow did peter off at Haathi mera Saathi, as I left India many eons ago. But, today I feel, that I must stay in touch I must put my children in touch, reconnect, ironically with the very medium I grew up ridiculing. A medium that forms the most direct connection with persons in the most remote corners of the globe and for nomads like us, that moved from continent to continent, this form a core of our identity.
Roger, surprisingly, while I was in California, I found this identity recognized by extra terrestrials…yes, from those across the borders, and received a barrage of telepathy telling me that in the Americas, yes, in the Americas there existed a replica of me, a unique expatriate community that reflected both my northern and southern heritage, both Punjab and Pondicherry…Toronto was calling Tocqueville!
Perhaps one day I will visit…
But today, is a day to mull and so you might hear from me again before sundown.
Hugs,
Purnima
Nov 22, 2009, 7:44 AM
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Letter #13
Goa and the Rickshaw driver, Madhubala in Manhattan, The Crane and The Magical Lake
12/24/09
Dear Roger,
Greetings from Glorious Goa! Sun, sand, surf and gooood smoke, a constant 30 degrees…it could not get better!
I absolutely have to bring u to my universe, this little Indo-Portugese haven on the west coast of India, even if it is for a brief visit.The food fresh out of the ocean, is spicy and just divine.The Goa prawn curry has your name written all over it! I find myself surrounded by palm trees swaying in the breeze, chilled out folks (many remnants of the hippy happy 60ties and 70ties), a landscape dotted with charming old whitewashed Indo-Portugese homes, quaint churches with their distinctive Indo-Portugese art and architecture beaming me back in a flash to a corner of my living room in Geneva, a part of us, a part of India, with our own sculpture of St. Francis from these very shores that adores and adorns our home. Roger, you would just fall in love…the language, the food, the architecture, coloring every niche of these surroundings with the imprint of Vasco Da Gama’s famous adventure in search of India (while our buddy Columbus decided to take the “other” route, his famous shortcut to the Beach)…and a vivid reminder of not just having Arrived but so intrinsically having contributed to the Story of India…a saga that continues!
I was thrilled to read that you enjoyed following my trail as I journeyed back to old Indian cinema and my reference to the Indian movie Mughal-e-Azam. I was even more excited to find that you loved Madhubala, and the youtube clip of the song Jab Pyar Kiya Toh Darna Kya. If you permit me, I would love to continue on this journey with you and perhaps through this introduce myself to your universe, a universe that just does not “Understand us” (Oh, how I love Jay-Z…he too speaks for me!).
If you remember, I shared a special moment, a glimpse of the all elusive “romance high” during my last trip to Manhattan. It was a stormy night, I was caught in a downpour clutching onto my precious Armani purchases on 5th avenue, when I saw a charming smile, a welcoming face that invited me to jump into the rickshaw with him. Yes, it was a rickshaw, and i was being driven down 5th avenue during a rainy stormy night by the most charming college student with twinkling bright blue eyes, a sexy foreign accent and a charming smile! I am not quite sure what it was that made me jump into that flimsy rickshaw and allow him to cycle me through maddening traffic down mid manhattan, but that is what we are all searching for isn’t it…that something special that cannot be explained? It was confirmed at every red light when he turned back to peer at me through the plastic sheet that separated us and continue telling me about himself and his life in manhattan. The smile the twinkle were irresistible! Fourteen blocks later, he deposited me outside my apartment, held out a large warm generous hand and helped me out of the rickshaw. I did not want to let go, and neither did he…but life is poignant and ironic and we said goodbye. He turned around as I did to look at me for the one last time, thinking of what it could have been…
You have to see me as Madhubala in Barsaat Ki Raat(the stormy/rainy night)! do check the youtube clip: Zindagi bhar nahin bhoolegi woh barsaat ki raat ek Anjan Hasina se Mulakat ki raat (I will never forget that one stormy night, meeting a charming stranger on that rainy stormy night – Barsaat ki Raat).
Of course, me being me, I could very easily have played the male poet part in the same movie!
will mail soon!
Hugs,
Purnima
12/28/09
Dear Purnima,
What a delight to awake to such a tantalizing evocation of a tropical paradise complements of Vasco Da Gamma. Those visions of palm trees swaying in a tropical breeze and quaint houses and churches sound like pure and unadulterated escapism for those of us who are surrounded by snow covered peaks, stormy, windy, sub-zero weather with the threat of snow on every weather forecast and tales of avalanche tragedies flooding the airwaves. I will dream all day long of the possibility of a flying carpet that could whisk me to the other side of the planet to partake of that enticing Goa prawn curry dish.
I just realized the danger of painting a too negative portrait of the climatic conditions in Geneva: you may not ever want to return !
I’ll definitely check out the other youtube clip.
You did write earlier about your rickshaw adventure through the streets of Manhattan, but not in quite such vivid detail. Do you understand fully the allure of your exotic beauty, of those deep and bewitching brown eyes, of the intelligence and wit that excite and attract rather than repel. It is no wonder that young rickshaw drivers and tapas masters fall under your spell.
I’m reading Murakami’s “South of the Border, West of the Sun” right now. It is a delightful and evocative first-person narrative of a young man who meets up again with his childhood friend and soul-mate after many years of flailing away in Japanese society looking for something that will bring him true happiness. It’s a more straight-forward narrative and far different from “Hard-Boiled Wonderland …” At one point in his life he is dating a young woman for whom he has a certain degree of affection, but not that something special, that je ne sais quoi that jumps out and grabs you when you least expect it (he likens it to listening to jazz. You go to clubs and listen to all kinds of music, some of which is rather mundane and unexciting, but you keep going back and spending countless hours listening because there is always the chance that you will be fortunate enough to enjoy one of those very special moments that sweep you of your feet – like a Keith Jarrett solo concert in Brussels). At one point in his relationship with the young woman – they haven’t even slept together – he meets her cousin. She is not a raving beauty, but she has that certain something about her that makes him aware that he just has to sleep with her, and he senses that the attraction is mutual. They soon embark on a purely sexual relationship of mad, passionate love-making. They scarcely exchange two words, but as soon as they meet on each of their assignations, they immediately tear each others clothes off and fall to the bed where they spend hours on end in fulfilling each others pent-up desires. They don’t love each other, but they have this overwhelming physical, almost mystical, attraction to each other. It reminded me of a delicious film I saw several years ago (I’ve forgotten the title), but it was about a man and a woman who met each Weds. afternoon in a London suburb where they made love. They knew absolutely nothing about each other and spoke very little, and the male character’s world is turned upside down when she fails to show up one Weds. afternoon.
Enjoy the beach and the warm, sunny weather. I’m terribly envious !
Tender hugs,
Roger
1/5/10
Dear Roger,
I never did manage to read Kafka on the Shore; there were far too many distractions on the Beach. Apart from the sun, sand and sea and Goan curry, there was the incredible Sunburn Festival, an annual three day music festival (a Rave on the beach) where we danced for hours non stop sandwiched by the “raving” crowds; a beautiful eternally flowing bar that spilled onto the beach right into our glasses; many, many indulgent massages with a view of the blue and an ideal idyllic New Years eve on the edge of the shore, with friends from what feels like a life in the past, around a little light, with music, a guitar and champagne. Excuses, excuses, excuses, I know But what wonderful excuses, just a book of my own!
Back to your story of Wednesdays and meeting a friend and soulmate, do I notice a hint of nostalgia, a connection from the past, a story of your own? I would love to get a first person account of that. I suspect there are many many books lurking, waiting to be discovered.
I am glad you enjoyed Madhubala in Manhattan. What other place in the world would you get the misty monsoons of Pondicherry mixing so beautifully with the Blues of the Urals… adding to the magic of 5th avenue. As we spoke, and he shared his story of a journey from a little village in the Urals to mad Manhattan (in that very foreign, very seductive accent), I felt that the little rickshaw had grown wings and flown high up into the sky somehow transporting me to a place in the Urals where he belonged. We seemed to have laughed, joked and toured the world returning 20 blocks downtown back in Manhattan. What a fabulous adventure, a story I will not forget. See below an artwork that captures the moment- Over the Town (Vitebsk) by Marc Chagall:
But, talking about books, I have as always, picked up a bunch of books for the kids on Indian mythology, history, and ghost stories (to be read on a snowy night around the fireplace in Geneva) told by by an Englishman (born and raised) in India, who best connects the pieces of my India, my past, the familiar names, the familiar places (Mussoorie, Simla and the hills), of chikoo (an incredible Indian fruit) orchards and Indian experiences, ironically, through whom I hope to introduce and connect these places and experiences to my children. In the midst of all this, I found lying in a stack the much searched for, Tintin in the Congo…a story begging to be told!
Two more days and I will finally be packing and on my way back, but I have the incredible pilgrimage to share with you before then.
Will email soon.
Warm regards,
Purnima
Hi Roger,
Did you ever watch Avatar, the new age love story? I went with a bunch of friends but they just did not seem to connect. It looks like my generation or perhaps my group of friends, in their 30ties and 40ties have missed the boat!
I went to see the movie with absolutely no clue of what I was about to encounter, and even after seeing the movie it took me a day or two to fully assimilate it. It started as what seemed a hotch-potch of Jurassic park adventure and Sci-fi with the usual alien looking being suspended in amniotic fluid… I jumped to the usual conclusions and just switched off. It was somewhere midway through the film that I realized that we were witnessing a revolution in cinema, not just with the fantastic effects and technology but a storyline betting on a complete change in perception of the cinema viewer, or another type of cinema goer. This was not a sci-fi film, and certainly no jurassic park, but a warm touching love story. A much desired and much repeated theme in a new context. Here the hurdle between the lovers was not one of race, ethnicity or even species, but as I saw it, it was the unique and topical conflict of today, a conflict of realms and realities. The two existed in different realities, and in order for their love to be realized one had to give up his reality, this world and merge completely into hers. How often is this issue faced by the generation of today who spend so much of their time in the virtual world, who essentially are abandoning life in the world that you and I know to merge and live in another. What would be their dream but to design a perfect world, a perfect life and a perfect partner and subsist there for a while, for now or perhaps find a corridor as the hero did and subsist there for ever.
Do watch.
Hope to see you soon!
Dear Purnima,
When I was a teenager, I was fascinated by a series of novels written by Edgar Rice Burroughs, the creator of Tarzan. He wrote several books that dealt with a secret and hidden world in the interior of the earth. If I remember correctly, they were called Tarzan in Pellucidar and Return to Pelucidar. I was really intrigued by the idea of a new and different realm that existed within the confines of the globe. He also did a whole series about space travel – John Carter on Mars – where the protagonist was able to transport himself to the planet Mars by the power of his thoughts and will. It was a fascinating series. I wonder if Avatar wasn’t a little bit inspired by the Pellucidar series ?
It was also my parents 44th anniversary today and I unknowingly spent the day going through old photos especially those of their wedding. They were a beautiful couple, I can’t imagine what my mother has had to go through all these years without him around. He died at 48.
The photos also reminded me of him and his passion for birds and bird calls which I was forced to memorize and repeat(part of his general love for nature), and in particular his fascination with the Siberian Crane that used to visit India, and a sanctuary (Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary and Sultanpur) near home every winter. There was always the anxious anticipation, the scanning of news reports on the migration of the crane and the flurry of excitement when the first crane after its unbelievable long migratory flight from the icy tracks of Siberia came to winter in lush green India and touched down on Indian soil. I always compared this to the love my father had for my mother whom he jokingly called a Siberian,( and I continue to do so as you will realize when you experience a winter in her subzero bedroom). The black and white photos of my mother at the time of her marriage and especially one poised near the lake would lead anyone to believe that my fathers dream and desire took human form and came to live among us, had babies and now is slowly dying.
I really do wish to share these memories and have attached a photo of the crane. Do you recognize her?
The Crane (mom) gazes longingly at The Magical Lake
The Eyes of The Siberian Crane (mom)
See you soon.
Purnima
Letter #14
Spiritual Journeys, Adventures in Switzerland, Vamana, Jatayu, Tirupati, Servetus
1/16/10
Dear Roger,
We last left off in Goa, the Indo-Portugese paradise with swaying palm tree, blue beaches and white washed churches. At that time, despite Murakami lying besides me, I opted for Dawkins whom I relished but could not complete as (and for a change) many real life adventures lay awaiting. So, leaving Dawkin’s (The God Delusion) incomplete by my bedside, I left Goa for my much awaited spiritual quest.
I travelled from Delhi to the state Of Andhra Pradesh on the south east coast of India. This journey to the south, to my paternal heritage, which was accompanied by the vivid and familiar sounds of my grandmother’s slender long fingers playing the Veena to the music of M.S. Subbulaxmi in the background, to the much revered Hindu Temple devoted to lord Vishnu the preserver (part of the Vedic trinity), a much revered temple and pilgrimage site called Tirupati.
See below the sculptures that adorn the journey up the Seven Hills to the temple of Tirupati:
See below what looks uncannily like the sculpture the smiling Cheshire Cat…for where Alice goes Chess follows:
As I may have mentioned to you earlier, my journey from Dawkins and The God Delusion to the spiritual journey was seamless and each piece was enjoyed in its own space. As you may have heard me say before, for me, there has never been a conflict between science and spirituality as I have seen the very religious, the agnostic and the budding atheist (moi) existing harmoniously, side by side in my own household. A place where physics and mathematics, history and literature was discussed interspersed with melodic Sanskrit poetry and verses from the Vedas (often recited from sheer memory), recreating in our own little living room, 5000 miles away, some of the brilliance of Balliol.
And so, searching for my 101 answers, I embarked upon this journey down south via air and on foot, all alone (me and my ponytail) up the seven hills to the sacred site of this ancient temple. This external journey, this arduous climb, reflected the spiritual journey/quest within. I was hoping that concentration, silence solitude and an immersion in the symbols (and spectacular sculptures) of my culture would bring me a step closer to resolving the turmoil within. As I passed each landmark, each vibrant expression of my culture, history, mythology, I searched the symbolisms and the stories to better understand and interpret my predicament. I passed the larger than life, 30 foot figure of Hanuman (the monkey god) or “pawan putra”, the god of the wind and prayed that he shelter and protect me as he sends favorable winds in my direction for the journey beyond. See sculpture of Hanuman below:
The sculptures, and relics of ancient art seemed to come to life cheering me on my way. I passed the exquisite sculpture of Vamana, the fabled diminutive (dwarf) brahmin, and had to pause and stare at the unbelievable handiwork of the sculptor, so perfect was his work that the world blurred and the story unfolded…King MahaBali, the ruler of the grand and beautiful land of Kerala, the just and honest king, the epitome of virtue, much loved by his subjects was not content with being the ruler of the earth and the netherworld and desired to conquer the heavens. The petrified gods fled to Vishnu (the preserver and the patron deity of Tirupati) and begged for help (imagine gods begging for help?). Vishnu realized that despite King MahaBali’s great virtues, the king had been overtaken by the greatest vice of all, the ego, and returns to earth in the form, the Avatar, (yes, the origin of our cyber realities can be traced bak many thousand years to Vedic mythology) of a diminutive brahmin. In Indian mythology we have the gods and the demons playing out their theatrics similar to Greek mythology, but we have a third element, the wily brahmin, who comes in the most simple and humble form and whenever he appears, he inevitably wins the day. For it is he who wields the pen and it is he who writes the story…(heh, heh, heh).
Back to the story: King Mahabali had invited all the scholars or “pundits” of the land for a great ceremonial sacrifice or “havan”, upon the completion of which, as was customary, each scholar received a generous gift. However, when it was Vamana’s turn, the king found that he had an empty treasury and was unable to offer a gift. Vamana, the diminutive “pundit” feeling very much slighted asked for three paces of land, one he could cover in three strides. The king, despite being advised against it, and looking at the diminutive form of the brahmin (the diminutive form is representative of the relinquished ego, which of course in our culture portends immeasurable power) laughingly agreed. Vamana then grew gigantic, blocking the sun and the skies, in one stride he took the netherworld, in the second the earth, and asked the king where he should put his foot for the third. The king recognizing his folly and being the good and virtuous king he was, kept his word, and offered his head for Vamana to rest his foot. King MahaBali was pushed down into the netherworld, but Vishnu recognizing his virtuous qualities made him immortal offering to let him rejoin his people on earth once a year post harvest (which is celebrated in Kerala as the Onam festival). This diminutive form, this relinquishment of the ego, was the piece I embraced and charged ahead with renewed vigor and enthusiasm ready to take on the world.
However, my vigor and enthusiasm was short-lived as the next (mis) adventure loomed. As I embarked upon the climb through the forests up the seven hills in the late afternoon, my taxi driver who dropped me at the base, looked at me ominously nodding his head (I find I do the head nodding quite a bit myself, veddy veddy gud) and said that it would take at least 5 hours to get up and that it would be dark soon. I said veddy veddy gud and thanked him. I was a quarter of the way looking around at the beauty of the forest, the lovely deer and disregarding the looming posters warning of hyenas and other wild life when I found a woman pacing my step. A decoy. She asked me where I was from, upon hearing that I was from far away, she proceeded to ask me if I was traveling alone to which I smiled and replied “YES”. I think I need an official name change to D-O-N-K-E-Y. She laughed and rolled her head back, that was when I saw the fangs. She was none other than Surpanakha, the demoness that harassed Rama during his exile in the forest and had her nose cut off, the sister of the demi-god king Ravana, the story that instigated the grand epic Ramayana! She conveyed my situation to others along the path and I found myself being harassed by (her demon brothers) as I walked up. It was getting dark, the forest seemed to be closing in and my nani, maternal grandmother, appeared in my vision. My nani, a no nonsense, steely and determined woman, with a face creased with lines of wisdom, was a woman who saw the fires of Partition (of India) first hand, as she had to flee home land and loved ones, secure infants and family, and rebuild all from a handful of saving (as they left Lahore for India). She in my mind embodies common sense and that seems to be the one quality I missed every time I had the option of selecting my choice of gems/attributes (bookworm adventures)I desired for this lifetime. Commonsense seems to come in the “Kullar” or rustic earthen cup which this Indiana Jones never picks. My holy grail always appears to be in the cup that promises eternal youth and beauty, the diamond encrusted cup, with the promise of everlasting love. But this time the “Kullar” was flung at me by my grandmother and I folded my hand prayed fervently and ran as fast as I could up the mountain. They couldn’t possibly harass a pious pilgrim with a ponytail, could they??? I also envisioned lord Buddha (who is an avatar of Vishnu whose doorstep I was visiting) resisting the stones and calls as he went from village to village with a begging bowl. The music from the temple atop the mountain floated down and suddenly I found the sky overcast and Jatayu, (the nephew of Garuda, a mythical bird representing speed, strength and prowess found in both Hindu and Buddhist mythology and in the art, architecture of numerous cultures across south east Asia) with his wings spread at my feet. Jatayu is remembered for his noble and selfless act of devotion to Rama and Sita in the Ramayana as he attacks Ravana the demon king as he is abducting Sita and sacrifices his life in the bargain.
In my instance, Jatayu whisked me off my feet and flew me through the forests, the seven hills and deposited me at the last gate leaving me the last 50 steps to climb. Everyone was shocked to see me up the mountain in 2 hours instead of the five looking as crisp, clean and new as when I left; the driver rolled his eyes in disbelief and asked me if I had flown up, little did he know…
The final adventure of course was the next day when we visited another even more ancient temple (completely unplanned for) called Kalahasti.
A temple a little over two thousand years old, mentioned in Sangam literature and even supposed to have been visited by Sankaracharya. Kalahasti is a Shaivite temple (dedicated to Shiva, the destroyer, and a part of the Vedic trinity) and renowned for the famous Shiva lingam (sacred phallic symbol) also dedicated to Hanuman the son of the wind god or Monkey God; his presence being perceived in the lamps of the inner chambers which seem to flicker without the presence of any wind. The living temple, the richness of its art and sculpture, the sense of being one with my culture was more than I could have asked for in any one trip.
The temple is also renowned for the deity that represents the consort of lord Shiva (Parvati), and as I proceeded into the dark inner chambers, I saw the very pale outline of what appeared to be an ancient priest, almost one with the temple. The priest shone the lamp into my face smiled knowingly and declared that I had Rahu Rog, I was being chased by Rahu. Yes, the same Rahu of our last few correspondences, the demon that tyrannizes the heavens and periodically swallows the moon (ironically, Purnima means full moon in Sanskrit!). The priest then performed a little prayer on my behalf and chanted some verses but looked at me gravely but sympathetically as I left the inner chambers. I then found myself embraced in the inner chambers of the main deity, the Shiva Lingam, and while the young priest performed a prayer for the worshippers, the high priest in the distance, completed his rituals in front of the main deity. It was when the high priest turned around at stared at me standing right in front from the inner recesses of the chamber, that I thought I saw a sea of emotions and a flicker of recognition (yes you may contribute it to the incense or my legendary imagination), it was as though he was looking at a child from his ship, a sparkling child, one that was forever hanging from the look-out tower, raising yet another false alarm that India was here! I was after all a child from his community, and I saw him slowly retreat into the shadows as his head bent down.
The vision of the high priest receding into the darkness with the bent head stayed with me all the way back to Delhi and it was much later that I recognized where I had seen it before…The Cigogne, The story of the Crane!
It follows…Do you wish to hear?
Goodnight.
Purnima
The external journey was truly reflective of the journey within, with the culmination in the inner chamber in the presence of the deity, the deity within.
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Dear Roger,
This is the last and final story, I promise!
You have to hold my hand as I jump back and forth between Geneva 2009-10 and Geneva 1553: The trial of Servetus. The Spaniard whom I mentioned in my earlier emails was tried by the Genevan Council (under questionable issues of jurisdiction as it cannot be inferred that the crimes he was accused of were committed in the territory of Geneva and denied legal representation despite several requests), convicted of heresy and burned at the stake here in Champel.
Darkness seems to have fallen earlier than usual, the day seems abruptly curtailed. As I peer out with bewildered fascination from behind my sofa onto the main road in Champel I hear crowds stomping through the street carrying burning lamps above their heads, holding pitch forks and axes. Then I look again and see bundles of greenwood neatly tucked under their arms as they get ready for the burning at the stake of the blasphemous Servetus. However, the alarm has been sounded and Servetus is missing, so the crowds are scouring the streets searching for him, searching for me!
That is when one of the little kids sees a ponytail peeking out of the grand window of my living room and a familiar eye. He is heralded as a hero and I am clasped in chains and brought before the city council for my final verdict. This is when Farel comes onto the scene and says, “Purnima, all we are looking for is an admission”, “just say it”. In the original version, Farel requests Servetus to recant so that a less severe punishment might be imposed, but Servetus sticks to his ideals but begs for a more humane end and not that of the burning at the stake. But here, 500 years later, and to Purnima who so embraces the revolutionary essence of Servetus, Farel poses a different, yet similar question, and asks for a confession instead of a recantation. Farel says, “Purnima, all you need to do is just admit, for once just admit, that YOU ARE AN ALIEN”. “No, absolutely not”, I respond, and hold onto my position. Thus Farel sees no option for me but the burning at the stake and that too with GREEN WOOD…a slow painful death.
As preparations are underway, I am overcome with grief and struggle to find my voice. Someone says, “she is trying to speak, say something”, and Farel once again turns around to me as I gather my tear chocked voice and ask for one last final wish. “So, you want a last wish”, he says, “sure, what is it, a phone call, a cigarette, a txt”? “No, no” I gasp, all I want is my …”what”, he says? “My, my, my…my lipstick”, I respond with my last breath. Yes, that’s all I asked for, that’s all I would have asked for as I envisioned my body floating up to the heavenly abode…how could I have met Him without any lipstick!?!
The following day of course I ran into Globus and ensured that I did not run out of Dior(D)rama for the next 500 years!
A final goodnight.
Purnima
Letter #15
Hafiz and Rosnard
1/28/10
Dear Purnima,
Just when all but the highest piles of snow on either side of our driveway had melted, everything is white again this morning. I must admit that it is incredibly beautiful, but it always makes driving interesting.
Saw a wonderful film on Serge Gainsbourg last weekend, Serge Gainsbourg: une vie héroique. Although I’m not much into pop music, I do remember very well several of his big hits, and seeing the film + a great documentary on TV (France 3), Serge Gainsbourg et les femmes, I have a much more profound respect for his artistic sense and his enormous talent. There were, of course, numerous contradictions in his life, but he had a real knack for writing just the right song for the right up-and-coming starlet at the right time. One of the things I have always appreciated about him was his sense of provocation and daring, often very subtly, to poke fun at the social norms of his time. His great hit, and the one that really made him very rich, was a song he wrote and recorded (twice) in the late 1960’s – once with Brigitte Bardot (she made him promise not to release it) and then shortly after with his new girlfriend Jane Birkin (which was released). Je t’aime, moi non plus was, without being crass, extremely suggestive, and it was promptly banned in many countries and put on the Vatican’s index. Every time I hear it I get quite nostalgic in thinking back to my very first torrid love affair with an English woman who loved the song. Another of his really risqué songs was one he wrote for a young singer who was totally innocent and overly-protected by a dotting father/manager. It was called La Sucette (Lollipop) She was so naive that she didn’t realize that the song was really a thinly veiled reference to oral sex. The eventual realization on her part really threw her for a loop. And I remember how much I loved his reggae version of La Marseillaise, a song that enraged the conservative right in France.
On Jan 22, 2010, at 9:15 AM, “Roger Stevenson” wrote:
Dear Purnima,
It was delightful to see you again on Tuesday. It had been far toooooooo long ! You were as radiantly beautiful as ever, and seemed really upbeat. All those massages and chants on the beaches of Goa were definitely good for you.
I’m a bit puzzled trying to interpret the two lines of Hafez you sent.
Another attempt at getting unlost in translation:
“That beautiful Shirazi Turk, took control and my heart stole,
I’ll give Samarkand & Bukhara, for her Hindu beauty mole.
O wine-bearer bring me wine, such wine not found in Heavens
By running brooks, in flowery fields, spend your days and stroll.
Alas, these sweet gypsy clowns, these agitators of our town
Took the patience of my heart, like looting Turks take their toll.
Such unfinished love as ours, the Beloved has no need,
For the Perfect Beauty, frills and adornments play no role…”
Interesting that in the version you sent it was “his” dark mole, and in the version above it is “her” beauty mole.
Connaist-tu la poésie de Ronsard ?
Roger
Dear Roger
The translators (often persons from your universe) superimpose their world upon ours and so you and I read the translations posted, the photos published and words printed! I have often wondered why photos of men from my universe appear with a particularly startled expression with curly black hair protruding from every orifice ( i later realized Its an art form to set off a fire cracker before the photographer says “Say Cheeze”).
As I understand it, the verse goes:
If only my beloved would take my heart in hand;
For that beautiful one with the dark mole,
I would relinquish the wealth of Samarkand and Bukhara in whole!
Here Hinduyash does not mean the Hindu spot but represents the dark beauty spot on the face of the youth (Hindu represents the people of Hindustan with their darker skin). And of course, it the Shirzai Turk was a “him” and not “her” as the “angrez” translated. My translation of the verse fits me, and my story perfectly!
Will tell u one day…
The Birds of Asia: Here is a pic of a charismatic northern bird, The Siberian Crane of my story with the dark mole. See pasted below my maternal grandpa Shourie from The Punjab:
Dear Roger,
I loved both the youtube clips and especially his reggae version of La Marseillaise. Very cool, very sexy. Its amazing to see how he managed to challenge norms, provoke, and poke fun as you said and do it in such a sexy sophisticated manner. I can see absolutely nothing crass or vulgar that can be attributed to either one of the clips, unfortunately unlike many of our modern day rappers (whom I have bouncing on my iphone) who often cross that line!
I have a clip to share as well, a dream from my youth, where my beloved is so smitten that he is questioning whether I am the full moon or the brilliance of the sun… whatever I am, I am beyond compare. Such is the love i was seeking and I find myself in Shrek II painted in the unmistakable color :GREEEEEEEEEN. Alien Green!!
Do see youtube Mohammad Rafi : Chaudvin ka chand
Pls help me to find the one who fits into that achkan (coat).
See you soon!
Dear Roger,
I have been feeling the same way, anxious about not ever hearing from you or speaking to you again! In fact, I took the hallucination to another level, and thought that What If you were just a figment of my imagination something I conjured up, a best friend with whom I can chat, be clever, be foolish and drink a lot of coffee. And, then i received your last email, and heaved a sigh of relief…you see I’ve grown accustomed to your face, accustomed to your smile, accustomed to your ways…in this very short while.
I have also joined a gym close by to battle these cold grey winter days…And then of course there is “the lovely bird with azure wings, and song that said a thousand things, and seemed to say them all for me”: A Love Story.
I am off to Paris on the 9th for two days, veryyyyy excited about it. I also hope to practice some French, and finally but most crucially hope to find the markers for “The Holy Grail”!
You do know that I have been on a lifelong pursuit of understanding the idea, exploring the concept of privacy, which, as we have discussed in the past, is getting more alarmingly relevant in this technologically accelerated universe of ours. And, in my opinion, should form the core, the fulcrum, the basis upon which any legal system that is to be relevant in this world is to be built. The French, somehow so intrinsically live, breathe, and represent this idea that it appears to be enmeshed in them and their culture. Which makes my journey to their heart soooo attractive. I am convinced somewhere within its alleyways lies the Holy Grail!
Hope to see you very soon in your charming ponytail and desigual coat. Give my love to Barcelona!
Hugs,
Purnima
Dear Purnima,
What a terrible hallucination. Reduced to a figment of your imagination ! And how could you ever think that I would never write or see you again ?, and a nice allusion to George Bernard Shaw and Lerner and Loewe ! Not bad. I, too, was relieved.
It’s lovely to wake up each morning to a clear, blue sky and temperatures that are somewhat clement. I checked the weather in Geneva last night, and it still looks pretty cold and wintry. At least you have filled your life with both some old and new activities. Glad the level at Migros is more to your liking, and I’m envious about your upcoming Paris adventure, holy grail and all. It’s really a magical and fairytale-like city for lovers. But as far as our discussions of privacy in our technologically driven society, I’m not so sure that you will find your long-sought-after Holy Grail in Paris. Unfortunately, I think France is fast becoming a security conscious, fear ridden place where CCTV cameras are sprouting like mushrooms in the urban decor, and where the possibility of eavesdropping in on our phone, email and even personal conversations is increasingly likely. One of the truly intriguing aspects of the Lisbeth Salander character in Millennium is her ability as a computer hacker to intrude into information systems and manipulate them. The is also a citizen of “The Hackers Republic”. She and her fellow hackers can crack nearly any computer system they want (at least in this fictional world). It’s a fascinating and yet murky world, but I can’t help but wonder how much of this fantasizing isn’t really very close to the reality where Big Brother will be able to pry into the private lives of anyone, at any time.
Off the the central Mercado for some fresh fruit and vegetables and great cheeses, followed by a tapas of two for lunch. Wish you could join us.
PURNIMA VISWANATHAN
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
I saw a fabulous movie this weekend which immediately lifted my spirits, Good Morning England a “must see”! Its about a band of rogue DJ’s broadcasting their music which was scandalous and unacceptable to the establishment of the day from a pirate ship stationed in the middle of the North Sea. I absolutely loved the movie, loved the story and loved the music!. A wonderful journey that captured the fever and excitement of the 60’s, the ideas, the music and aptly put together on this 40th anniversary of Woodstock (which I have been waiting to hear more about from someone who I am sure was in the midst of all the action, but instead I ended up browsing through a coffee table book on Woodstock’s 40th at Payot this weekend).
Somehow pirates and pirate ships have always excited me, as you remember from my fervent support of the Swedish pirates and our chat about cyberspace and piracy. And then of course there is my very own pirate story, adapted from Pirates of the Caribbean. I was captain Jack Sparrow and when it was possible and exciting enough, Elizabeth Swan. The problem occurred of course when they kissed…who was I? But her spirited response immediately put me into her shoes. Our black jeep Cherokee was the black pearl of course, and the crew included two half toothed brats seat belted in the back as we tore down the pirate lanes on 280 and 101! It was only when you got near Palo Alto that we all had to duck/ submerge as the police cars emerged and appeared to chase this motley crew (a California housewife, two brats and later a dog!) down the highway.
Not to be outdone or forgotten in my current story, the pirate theme continues…last week i found myself in a car without my handbag rushing to get the kids in time for tennis just across the border in France, I drove without an ID, without papers, with out cash or a license across the border praying to be spared for this very last time. As I passed the mustard fields surrounded by spectacular peaks on the Route de Thonon (my soul certainly feels good everytime I drink that water having seen its origins), I was convinced that the froggies were jumping up and down in a frenzy (I was told by the frog prince himself that The Frog always watches), saying, “shall we nab her, shall we nab her not!” I guess Not!
Then of course back home in Geneva, i have the radio blaring at 6am with Gaddafi’s indignant message for the nth time after the supposed affront by the Swiss authorities on his son, “this is a mafia country, they are all mafia!” Well guess who jumps up all excited, moi of course, and the creative juices start to flow again…
A mafia country, a pirate ship…could I really be on a large hidden pirate ship! Could this be the Pearl? Incredible, I might be home! Suddenly, everyone around me starts looking the part, the postman is certainly One-eyed Jack, and then there is Blue Eyed Bob behind the meat counter at CO-OP who so deftly uses his knife as his golden earrings glisten and swing, the bankers with their eye patches and attorneys with tall tales all neatly tucked into their neatly tailored European suits and of course the guard at the border post, a female that winks every time I pass (in this bizarre upside down universe as many girls seem to wink at me as boys do!), could my world be more exciting!
Good night.
Purnima
On Sep 30, 2009, at 5:07 PM, Roger STEVENSON wrote:
Dear Purnima,
Back in Bucharest after two days of no internet, castle hoping, fending off pickpockets and marveling at the ubiquitous poverty.
I loved your last email about possibly being in a pirate haven – truly wonderful. I’m not quite sure what to think of la Suisse after the Polanski arrest.
I have seen previews of the film about Radio Caroline and really like the actor who plays the lead. I was in Denmark when it was broadcasting and used to listen to it. The Danish authorities were going bananas over it too and tried unsuccessfully to silence it. At the time, it was the only radio station that played good music. I must go see it.
And can’t wait to see your new hair color. I also have a wonderful passage to share about moving between different states of realty. I read it today on the train on the way back to Bucharest. It’s from Murakami’s After Dark.
Lots to share. Talk to you soon and see you on the third.
Bisous,
Roger
10/7/09
Now Your Day: a note filled with Magritte, Green Apples, and Yet another American in Paris!
Dear Roger,
Thinking of you on this special day and wishing you the very best for this day and the year through.
So, you are off once again to see an exhibit in Brussels of “our” favorite artist, I am turning apple green with envy. How can you see Magritte without me, you have to take me along! Imagine me seated swinging my legs on the tip of your spectacles. I must hear all about it.
Talking about Magritte and his green apples, I just returned to my french lessons after a break of a couple of days (bunking class to be with my brother), and guess what, I was completely “out of it”, could not follow a sentence without struggling. As usual inspired by Magritte and his passion for floating bowler hats and green apples, I was imagining my head as an enlarged green apple seated on the chair staring blankly in class(ironically green suits me best- another long tale with a capital S for surreal) with a giant pip stuck in the middle of my head occupying most of my brain and blocking me from thinking and and speaking! Whatever I said sounded ridiculous…help!! I now plan to grab people on the road here in Veille Ville and just say something to start a conversation in french, what do u think? need some ideas.
See below Magritte’s Green Apple:
Letter #7
10/08/09
Dear Purnima,
I feel like I’m still floating in a sea of neglected chores and catch up after being gone for four days, and that after wading through the throngs of tourists in Barcelona on Sunday afternoon. We did catch a wonderful exhibit at the Barcelona Cultural Centre, “Le Siècle de Jazz” that traced the evolution of America’s one true and original art form and its influence on literature and art. It was a veritable flood of images, sounds, album covers, sheet music, books, paintings, more sounds, all of which evoked a cascade of memories from different times in my life and the countless hours I have spent listening and admiring, first on those little 45 rpm records, then on 78 rpm vinyl disks, then on cassette tapes and finally on CD’s and MP3 recordings.
On Sep 30, 2009, at 5:07 PM, Roger STEVENSON wrote:
Dear Purnima,
Back in Bucharest after two days of no internet, castle hoping, fending off pickpockets and marveling at the ubiquitous poverty.
I loved your last email about possibly being in a pirate haven – truly wonderful. I’m not quite sure what to think of la Suisse after the Polanski arrest.
I have seen previews of the film about Radio Caroline and really like the actor who plays the lead. I was in Denmark when it was broadcasting and used to listen to it. The Danish authorities were going bananas over it too and tried unsuccessfully to silence it. At the time, it was the only radio station that played good music. I must go see it.
And can’t wait to see your new hair color. I also have a wonderful passage to share about moving between different states of realty. I read it today on the train on the way back to Bucharest. It’s from Murakami’s After Dark.
Lots to share. Talk to you soon and see you on the third.
Bisous,
Roger
Dear Purnima,
We got home late last night after a return flight via Frankfort – an incredibly big airport, and it seemed like we had to walk for miles and miles to get to the right departure gate, but we were used to that after all the walking we did in Romania.
I have lots of ambivalent emotions about Romania. It certainly has a rich history and a colorful culture. Many of the old churches and medieval monuments are really marvelous, and then there are the grandiose remnants of the Ceausescu regime (He wanted to turn Bucharest into another Paris: there is a little Arc de Triomphe, an Avenue Charles de Gaulle, etc., etc.). The parliament building he built is huge and imposing, as are his several palaces, none of which we visited, as I don’t get off on former tyrannical fear mongers who literally starved the population so he could pay off his debts through foreign exports. However, we did go see one of the remnants of the monarchical past – the Castle of Peles in Sinaia. It was the summer residence of the king Carlos and is in magnificent shape today. It is richly decorated with exquisite wood panelling on both walls and ceilings, which is very impressive. However, there is just a little too much of a mixture of architectural and decorative styles to suit my tastes. It seemed horribly cluttered with all kinds of statues, paintings, ornaments, swords and pistols and armour. The guide was very proud to announce the fact that the castle had running water and a central heating system and even a central vacuum cleaning system, but I couldn’t help thinking how much it all cost and at what point the population of the country had the same kind of creature comforts in their homes.
On the other hand, the country seems like it is falling apart. The infrastructures are terribly dilapidated, and the older housing has not been very well maintained, and there seems to be litter everywhere – quite a contrast compared to Switzerland. And while the Romanian women are a mixed lot – some of the younger women are quite exquisitely beautiful and the older women seem to have let themselves go completely –, I didn’t see one pair of enticing; deep brown eyes that could possibly turn my head.
And I’ll wait until I see you in person to tell you about our experiences with bribing, or at least being offered the possibility of paying a small bribe to avoid a steeper fine for not having the right ticket, a bus ticket controlleur and being victims of a really talented pickpocket in a crowded bus in Brasov !
PIRATES MANIFESTO
Dear Roger,
After reading you, I can’t wait to jump into bed with Kafka; Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore lies by my bedside visibly, patiently.
As for The Pirates’ Manifesto, I need help… guidance… direction. At this point the doors appear shut and I don’t have the access codes yet. Perhaps, I need to read your highly recommended “Millennium” and fully embrace the persona of the Swedish Girl “Hacker”, Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, broke the codes and got her information! Did u say u had an English version or was it Danish?
As you know, it frustrates me endlessly to find that access to information is often restricted, denied, to the very people who might need it the most: the unpaid, unaligned, unfettered. I just cannot support subscribing to every journal and offering my contact to every site before gaining access. I wish to surf seamlessly, quietly and stealthily. But, as you mentioned in your mail, the world around us wishes to track and keep tabs, make tables and profiles, all of which I vehemently reject and work covertly (at least in my mind) to expose, sabotage these very schemes of control!
Then of course, I stumble upon Diderot! With whom I find, I share the inherent conviction that knowledge should not be confined, restricted to any group, subset, academies, class. Like this enigmatic Frenchman, I am totally and completely for the free perpetuation of knowledge, yes, even in this programmed world of today… am I being naive? This militant passion drove me all the way, through many wormholes, to the doorsteps of Diderot and d’Alembert, and their incredible project of compiling the knowledge, thoughts and ideas of the world of their times, the summary of the Enlightenment: the Encyclopedie! I discovered that this compilation of knowledge went on to have a pivotal impact on the society of their times, through the expansion of knowledge and the development of the critical modes of thought, lighting the spark that culminated in the French revolution.
The Enlightenment of course was about expanding the realm of knowledge to all people which struck a blow to all those that were out to control, contain and stifle reason and free thought. Knowledge was no longer in the hands of a select few: the Academies, the Clergy and the State, the average man (and what is even more important, the average woman) had access to the ideas of the age. No longer could the cosy relationship where the Clergy ( complemented and substituted in our day and age by the gargantuan educational institutions with their power, influence and billions) supports the divine right of kings (or presidents), and the other (the State) bestows an abundance of grants, tax free income and subsidiaries for such adulation and support! Yes, Roger, now you know which side of the argument I am on. Thus through the Encyclopedie and the free dissemination of information, Diderot aimed to erase the dogmatism of government, religion and illiteracy that pervaded. An idea more relevant than ever in the world of today, in this controlled and monitored world of today, the cyberworld of today. Carving out a mission for the modern day pirates!
This of course brings us back to the pivotal question: what language should this (The Pirates Manifesto) be written in! In the time of Diderot, Paris was the intellectual capital of the world, thus many of the ideas written in this language had the ability to spread. His Encyclopedia encompassing all the novel and radical ideas of the times, easily disseminated, perpetuated. What do you think would be the universal language of tomorrow where knowledge could flow effortlessly, seamlessly, a platform for inspiration and consensus?
Surfing through the colossus, I came upon a wonderful paragraph taken from the very controversial article written by d’Alembert for the Encyclopedia on Geneva. I find this 16th century piece amusing and as relevant today, would love to hear what you think:
This is very – strange that a city with just 24,000 souls, and whose territory does not fragmented thirty villages, do not cease to be a sovereign state, and one of the most successful of Europe: rich in its liberty and its business, she often sees around her on fire and never feel it, the events which agitate Europe are a spectacle for her, she enjoys without take part: attached to the French by alliances and by his trade, his trade by Englishmen and by religion, she pronounces impartial justice of the wars that these two powerful nations are to each other, although ‘ it is also too wise to take no part in these wars, and judge all the sovereigns of Europe, without flattery, without injury, and without fear.
Letter #8
10/16/09
Dear Roger,
Yet another day under house arrest as the flu season has hit with a bang…”Thing 1″ is sniffling under the covers and I find myself, once again, home alone with the Cat in the Hat!
Upon revisiting your letters, I have found that many fascinating questions lie suspended and spaces unexplored, like SEX! So, let’s talk about it…
I was intrigued by your statement that “…all u need for sex is mind” (I would have added an exclamation point or two). Is it really all in our heads ? Are there not different kinds of sex, and what role does love itself play in it all ? (Interesting to learn that we share something else in common – our favorite subject)
The statement “all you need for sex is mind”, or as it was told to me, “it’s all in the mind”, words I cannot honestly claim and must correctly attribute to one of my fabulous female friends who owes humanity an encyclopedia on the subject. Yes, our very own modern day Vatsyayana, the Indian philosopher that lived during Gupta period, 4 century AD, and is known for authoring the Kama Sutra, the bible on eroticism.
Vatsyayana, returned in the most exotic female form to whisper these words in my ears as she saw me determined to embark upon this incredible journey of self exploration, anticipating the great CRASH ahead. Of course there are many other FFF fixated on SIZE…and swear that that is what its all about; how little do they know, how far they have to go…!
On the subject of eroticism, do you know that the erotic sculptures carved on the facades of the magnificent temples in Khajuraho, in central India almost a thousand years ago commissioned by the Chandella Rajput kings, depicting all forms of passion and intimacy, were reputed to have been sculpted by and possibly for the education of the “Bramacharis”. Brahmacharis are young men during the initial stage of life as specified according to Vedic tradition, who live in a hermitage and absorb themselves in education leading a celibate life. This is the stage before they re-enter into the world of the “Householder” where they marry and procreate. From what i was told, the very fact that these young boys were so deprived of female relationships, the sculptures they sculpted and the forms it took were voluptuous and exaggerated, reflecting in the female form the epitome of desire. Their hands carved the fantasies they could only visualize and had not yet experienced (similarly, have we not seen many authors of what was considered at that time seductive and erotic works in literature who themselves led a very staid and puritan life). The Brahmacharis were certainly exposed to these sculptures as a way to introduce them back into the world so they may fulfill the very important social role of householder. In fact, I just read something that cannot be put into better words about these sculptures of Khajuraho which I would like to share with you:
If the temples of Khajuraho can be said to have a theme, it is woman. A celebration of woman and her myriad moods and facets. Writing letters… applying kohl to her eyes… dancing with joyous abandon… playing with her child. Woman – innocent, coquettish, smiling – infinitely seductive, infinitely beautiful.
Warrants a visit for sure, shall we?
Back to Murakami, Miro, the Surrealists and the realm lurking behind everyday reality; you could not have got it more Dot On…it’s surreal, it’s for me! Similarly, in the Tale of Genji, art permits assuming a persona, which in “real life” can never be you; a wormhole to transcend the physical form or personality that shackle. So Murasaki Shikibu, the author of the Tale of Genji, a medieval Japanese noblewoman constrained by her gender, status and time was able to transcend it all and assume the form and passions of Genji, a character she created, and live him for a while in another world another existence: literatures version of “Second Life”. Yes, all this while retaining her own skin, her own form. For me, my expression is the escape I seek, as I realize I am entrapped not by anything else (the world, society, family), but myself and my sense of duty. And, the only escape is a journey into this surreal world, where I have “written in” The Whirlpool, permitting a return to my world. This way, I too can live, I live many lives, without relinquishing any…any piece of myself!
On the surrealists, I encountered references to your friend Andre Breton, all over Barcelona (if I have I told you how much I love that city, I could not have told you enough!). I need an introduction…please. The Miro museum was fascinating as usual, my second visit. But this time it was like rediscovering a whole new world. It seems like every visit unfolds something else, something new. This visit, I stumbled upon “The lion”, essentially a single black squiggly line over a brown paper canvas portraying a lion encaged in a circus. The only difference was that there were scratch marks on the canvas which added the multi dimensional multi sensory aspect to this incredible piece of art. With the scratches, you actually heard the lion attempting to burst out of the canvas. I think with this Miro took art to another level…engaging not just the visual but stimulating all the senses at once. Surreal for sure!
I also found a lot of Miro’s works remained blanked out, incomprehensible, where the title has no relevance to the art itself…much too much for my mind to encompass. Yes, unreachable, waiting for another time, an accumulation of experiences, before the doors unfold and the art unravels.
The Matador and the Tapas Bar: Barcelona, with its bustling life, wide boulevards and Art, Food, Art for Food can be quite a heady experience! The best meal yet was at a famous Tapas Bar in the Born district. The restaurant was a bar table with everyone seated side by side and the cute cooks opposite us whipping up one fabulous tapas after another. We also had the next seating, our line of spectators standing directly behind us drooling over the dishes, both the cooked and live ones! Yes, the cooks were gorgeous Spaniards! The one serving us was like a matador with a narrow waist tied in red cloth and a charming smile. His brisk movements from one end of the table to the other, from one plateful to the next, juggling multiple demands of the hordes lined with their hungry heads towards him and the deftness with which he charmed and fed everyones appetite was a spectacle worth the wait! On our end, he was completely oblivious of the ogre seated at the other end, and proceeded to show me how to eat the tapas with my hands without removing his eyes from my face. I was hot, I was red, I was embarrassed by the flattering attention. He then offered me the first clam open with its juices and watched me eat it, he proceeded to do the same with the mussel dish…I had turned crimson by this point. So, I looked up and said politely “Thank you, that was delicious”. He held my gaze for a full minute before responding “YES”. Absolutely MIND BLOWING!!! Talking about mind, I have not been so turned ON for a long long long time. That man had certainly mastered the art of making love in the kitchen!
One Catalan for me please!
So, I’m still hobbling but Megeve is not too far!
Hope to see you soon!
See attached Barcelona Adventures:
Dear Purnima,
What a tantalizing treatise on sex, visual seduction, Miro, Barcelona and Genji. It arrived just in time to rescue me from the boredom of illness – Yes, it seems the travel bug has mutated to a malicious head cold bug. It hit me Saturday morning and I thought I could shake it off quickly, but it feels a bit worse each day. At least I have some time to read. Now that I’ve finished my Danish translation of volume II of the Millennium trilogy with a truly original and unique female character and a plot so complicated that you don’t really fully understand what is going on until the final pages, I can move on to the next Murakami on my list, Kafka on the Shore (I’ll try and find a copy for you on my next trip to Geneva).
Wow, your matador/Tapas chef sounds like a master at seduction with his mussel shell demonstrations and enchanting eyes. Too bad you were so shackled by the ogre and at the end of the bar. It is almost criminal to get someone so hot and bothered and then leave them dangling and blushing. And you didn’t even have your Tale of Genji with you for bedside reading. How did you manage to get through the night ?
Your sensual pleasure from eating Tapas reminds me of the several films where food and sex are intertwined, some more successfully than others. Did you ever see Peter Greenway’s The Cook,The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover ? It stars one of my favorite British actresses who can be as sultry as anyone on a given day, Helen Mirren, who can leave you panting. And then there is the famous eating scene in the film Tom Jones where each bite of a pear or chicken leg is as suggestive as a tender caress. Speaking of films about sex, did you ever see the French film adaptation of D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover ? It won the French Cesar award for best film two or three years ago, and was such a delightful rendition of a very lonely woman’s journey of self discovery and exploration of her own sexuality, all, of course, overshadowed by the moors and customs of a puritanical Great Britain where class differences were, and are somewhat still, very important. The role of the neglected wife is played with such delicate innocence and yet delicious sensuality by a young French actress named Marianne Hands. It’s one of the most refreshing, open and genuine evocations of female sexuality that I have seen on screen.
More later, but I have to go play cook tonight – I’m doing a salmon soufflé – for our week-long house guest from southern France.
Bon courage with your Florence Nightingale duties and try and keep your mind from wandering too often south to those warm climes, hearts and sexy Catalan Tapas chefs.
Love,
Roger
Dear Purnima,
Yes, in spite of the solitary green apple, Brussels was a real treat. I had no idea you were a Tintin fan. There truly must be an abundance of French blood cursing through your veins – inherited no doubt from your Francophile aunt. Tintin is one of the favorites of French readers of nearly all ages, and he, of course, was omnipresent in Brussels. We went into a shop in downtown Brussels that was entirely devoted to the books, many in various translations, as well as all the other derivative products, and the place was really packed. We didn’t see a Tintin museum, but I’m sure there is one there just waiting to be thoroughly explored.
I found your description of your aunt’s encounters with the French extremely nostalgic. I think you are correct in saying that the French « represent an exceptional group of very cultured and sophisticated people with whom you could not ever associate racist behavior (vulgar) and profiling (too American). In fact, it is just for these reasons that they appear to take a stance that is completely and in every way contrasting with and contrary to that of the US. » In many ways that is true, but I fear that such attitudes are slowly changing, at least in the upper echelons of French society and the governing elite. In the past, France was indeed a country that was curious about and fascinated by all sorts of exotic places and peoples. Black American musicians and performers were always more readily accepted and revered here than they were in the States. Josephine Baker is probably the prime example, but there were numerous Black musicians who found a welcome home in Paris and the freedom to perform and express themselves. Many still call France home, such as Dee Dee Bridgewater and Archie Shepp, and where would Henry Miller have been able to write his wonderfully scandalous novels that form the backbone of his literary production (Quite Days in Clichy, for example), and that were banned for many years in the USA ?
However, that is not to say that there hasn’t been and isn’t today a certain French brand of racism, which, I’m convinced, has its roots in French colonialism. The Northern African immigrant workers who were brought to France in the 1950’s and 60’s to fuel the economic recovery following the war have never been fully accepted into French society. They have, instead, been shunted into housing projects on the outskirts of French cities that are today ghettos of despair – a stark reminder that the French national rallying call of « Fraternité, Liberté et Egalité » is a hollow echo in a society that is so hierarchically structured. And since Sarkozy and his pals have seized power, it seems to get worse every year. Brice Hortefeux’s not very subtle joke about trouble when there are a lot of them, I’m afraid, mirrors the official attitude of the ruling class in France today. And, I should add that it has been just recently that France has begun to come to grips with the realities of the Algerian war and the outrageous atrocities committed there by French troops.
I agree that there are lots of good things coming out of the Scandinavian countries, especially Sweden and Denmark. I read a poll last week that found that the Danes were the most satisfied with their lives among the inhabitants of any other European country (I think France was 12th on the list). And there are so many wonderful things Swedish – especially the marvelous films of Ingmar Bergmann. I’ve been thinking that a trip to Stockholm is in order. It’s not that far away and even in the cold of winter it would be a treat to visit.
What is a sqiggle ? Whatever it is, I am always ready.
Have a good weekend. Can I take you to lunch on Tuesday ?
Bises,
Letter #10
Dear Roger,
She used to call his name M- – -…M- – -…m- – -…
Dear Roger,
As the 21st of March approaches, I look back on the 17 years…
I wish to share with you a poem by Rabindranath Tagore (Lipika) translated by Aurobindo Ghosh titled Seventeen Years. I have attempted to read this to an indifferent Mirko over the last few dismal years, telling him through Tagore that our time together is coming to an end, and that one day he will look back at our seventeen years which he so mindlessly threw away and think: “She used to call his name”.
And perhaps one day while leaning on his walking stick and gazing at the setting sun his mind will wander back to these years and query: “But those days and nights are no longer strung together by the binding thread of that name – they lie scattered.” …”Who shall call us together and surround us with her presence?”
And I will be gone, we never make it past our 17th year of that I am sure!
Seventeen Years – by Rabindranath Tagore
I had known her for seventeen years.
So many comings and goings, so many meetings, so many tetes-a-tetes!
Surrounding those years, so many dreams, so many conjectures, so many hints.
And then, sometimes, when half asleep, the light of the morning star; sometimes the scent of the Chameli flower in the dusk of a rainy day; sometimes the tired strains of the Nahabat in the last hours of the spring night!
All this had passed round his mind in the course of those seventeen years!
And, mingling with it all, she used to call his name.
The person that used to respond to this name was not merely a creation of God – he was created out of the seventeen years of her knowing him.
Sometimes in love, sometimes in neglect,
sometimes in work, sometimes in leisure,
sometimes in the midst of all, sometimes in privacy –
thus was he built in the heart of one person.
After that, seventeen more years had gone by.
But those days and nights are no longer strung together by the binding thread of that name – they lie scattered. Therefore the days ask me daily:
“Who shall call us together and surround us with her presence?”
I can give no answer – I pause and ponder.
But they, flying away with the wind, say:
“We go searching.”
“Whom?”
They know not whom.
So they wander hither and thither.
Like aimless clouds they sail across the sea of darkness and I can no longer see them.
—————————————————————
3/15/10
Dear Roger,
I could not let this mail go and drift into the “unanswered”. There were so many juicy openings for discussion and debate, even if I am unable to cover them all, I must struggle with some. You should see me now, bent with furrowed brow with my black rimmed glasses dangling from the tip of a rather long nose, with a sprightly ponytail bouncing in excitement at having been saved, as i pound away one finger at a time…
You had mentioned in your email that you finally managed to finish the Millennium trilogy and were left dissatisfied as the author died without completing his proposed series of 10.
“There is no provision in Swedish law for a concubine to inherit anything from her partner if they were not married”.
That sounds very surprising for a progressive country like Sweden where I assume such relationships are the norm before or instead of marriage (and btw a male partner can also be a concubine!). In its most simplistic: this immensely popular work where the author has suddenly died at the peak of the fervor generated by the book which (from what you tell me) seems to have taken on a cult status. In my opinion, the ownership lies in all who embrace the story, the public. Therefore, the one who attempts to assume the authors place, edit, modify or expand the work has to not just attempt to stay true to the original, the essence but have the readers ultimate clearance. The substantial property rights of course in this instance go according to what is outlined in the law. However, the law has to accommodate, perhaps use this case to evolve, reflecting the ideas in popular culture, commitment and contribution of a partner. I, of course, would only hand over my pen to the image in the mirror!
“Or maybe Steve Jobs will have become the final arbiter of justice with a market place savvy that settles all conflicts with his new i-judge software and hand-held, touch screen, app-driven i-tort (that may actually be a better source of justice than our present, very flawed and political interest driven system or the justice frequently meted out by the religions of the day).”
Dear, dear Roger, you cannot underplay the human element to me! I cannot possibly conceive how a software program could make a judgement incorporating the essential elements of “timeframe” and “cultural context”, which would vary based on the issue at hand from decades to days, as we have seen in the rapidly evolving field of cyberlaw and technology where before the issue can be brought to court and final judgement be passed, it is redundant and replaced by a competing issue. Its at times and instances like these where there is need for the human, the subjective element, which can incorporate timeframe, cultural context, and the fall back on the core issues of common law before reaching a decision.
There is a reason why the judges are selected: they are known, respected and we recognize them for more than the mechanical application of their knowledge and their ability to identify issues. They are selected because we have read their decisions, recognize their positions and defer to their judgements EVEN when it goes against us, for we are programmed with the inherent belief that when we join society and submit ourselves to the law, we are a part of the whole. And, if the judgement passed is one against us, it must be passed for the greater benefit of society, and since we are a part of it, we vicariously benefit! Otherwise, I can’t imagine why we would agree to anything that binds us, making us vulnerable to decisions by men in wigs and men in frocks, can you?
You are definitely wanted, my dear, dead or alive, preferably alive, but the question you should really ask is : Am I wanted, virtual or real ?
Purnima Traversing The Blue Ridge Mountains – Virginia
Do I wish to subsist in this virtual medium or in the real world? The ultimate question is: Where would I be more real? What is the medium of today, one that would engage a broad spectrum of ages, education, background and ethnicity? The exciting aspect of the fast evolving virtual sphere is that, the medium is not merely one of language as we are historically used to (with that familiar feel of paper between the fingers), but an all engaging 3D multi-media medium encapsulating sight, sound, text, (and soon even tactile sensations) which are enmeshed and indistinguishable from each other. The only parallel I can think of from my “old world” is the realm of comics… A sizzling Japanese comic that captivates the pulse of the youth in a world language! Yes, I think I would like to live forever (like Minnie still sprightly at 80), the heroine of a Japanese comic. You would too, if you ever got a chance to meet the hero of my comic book… Boom, Boom, Pow!!
It’s well past midnight, and since I have not turned into a pumpkin, and since there is no chance of dancing with the prince, not even a little froggie, I guess i will just continue…
Apart from my favorite comics, I guess theatre has played the historic role (Roger, I need your input/feedback here…urgently) of reaching out and disseminating novel and radical thoughts, ideas and developments in the Arts, Sciences, Government. This historic role of theatre to disseminate new ideas and educate the public through a forum that was entertaining and perhaps comics permitted many radical thoughts to be so presented and disseminated which would have otherwise been strictly censored during its time. The impact of the theatre over time with its ability to permeate society in a similar multi-media format, would probably be akin to the realm that is today partially covered by the virtual world, don’t you agree?
Returning to our old favorite subject of interdisciplinary studies, I believe that incorporating elements of theatre in most traditional subjects still forms the most effective form of education and dissemination of information where the onlooker/participant is entertained as he is being educated. And talking about interdisciplinary studies, the oldest and dearest example from my childhood was Alice in Wonderland, Mathematics and Literature, with my father attempting to explain the mathematics behind the madness.
In fact, Lewis Carroll, a pen name for Charles Dodgson, a professor of mathematics at Oxford University, wrote Alice in Wonderland to satirize the then radical new ideas in the world of mathematics, where mathematics was getting more abstract with imaginary numbers, abstract symbolic algebra, non Euclidean geometry. He brilliantly used this fantastical piece of literature to present what he thought was the absurdities in the new mathematics. This was his forum, his stage to present his dissent, his point of view through a memorable and much beloved piece of literature in the form of a children’s book.
In order to satirize these new age ideas, he found fiction as the best forum to present his opinion, his dissent. Alice moved from a rational world through a rabbit hole to a land where even numbers behave irrationally, erratically. Thus this irrationality, reflecting the new age mathematics, was created by Dodgson as a construct of Alice’s mind which exists only in Wonderland as it did not need to conform to any laws of the real world. Dodgson has Alice continuously changing in size from 9 feet to 3 inches, but when Alice calls this world absurd, the caterpillar (“the worm” in her story) who lives in this irrational world pipes up and says that “it isn’t”! Here of course, I am tempted to draw the parallel with “the worm” in my story, who returns with the same response! As Dodgson through the madness that exists in Wonderland tries to highlight the dangers of the new symbolic algebra, I chant to keep my balance, my ratios constant Ignoring putty like contortions, sometimes oval, sometimes elliptical, moving from one form to another… finally looming overhead across magical glittering lake Geneva, in the smile of the Cheshire Cat that seems to know it all!
As I come near to the end of my time here in Geneva, so does my Geneva Diary which has been my friend and companion, and thanks to you, with whom I have dug up many a ghost, walked the cobbled streets of the old town and discovered the alleyways of this charming city. Like Alice in Wonderland, this has been written in a young voice, for the old and the young (I plan to reread it at 70!). And again like Alice, and my other favorite character Tintin, my stories and many (mis)adventures have aspired a light surrealistic touch with many looming body parts. Of course, I have woven in my area of experience, the law, and pivotal topical legal issues like privacy with a lot of bizarre storytelling.
In the story of Servetus, with his tombstone poignantly placed outside the university hospital, I have attempted to pose a reminder of Medicine and Ethics: Do not use Green Wood! If the case is terminal, the decision final, then let the end be painless, swift. In keeping with my mantra, this tale would cover the spectrum, the subjects of History, Theology, Medical Ethics, Law, Government and perhaps literature with a suggestion of substance abuse !
See below images of Geneva:
PURNIMA VISWANATHAN
Disclaimer : P
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
You so aptly characterized that period in the US. It was the time in my life where I was a graduate student, learning to see the world through different sets of eyes, loosing that sense of innocence I had about existence and understanding that all the Kool Aid, Hotdogs, Baseball, Fast Cars, Jeans, Ketchup, Marilyn Monroe, Bubble-gum, were just the flashy, surface, easily recognizable and oft-imitated facade of America. I also discovered little by little that there was a dark underside to this nation I had been taught to believe had some kind of manifest destiny. My trip down that road to a more acute awareness took many turns and detours. I still remember how devastated I was when John F. Kennedy was shot. It was such an unthinkable act and it left a rather large hole in my bubble of hope and optimism. But then the assassinations continued : ironically, I was living in France in 1968 and was traveling when both Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were felled by the assassin’s bullet. I was in Spain when I heard on my transistor radio (my constant companion then as now) that Martin Luther King had been shot and in Greece when Kennedy, who had been my hope for some sanity in the presidential election campaign, was shot in California. I have vivid memories of walking around Athens that day with my transistor to my ear listening for reports about his condition, and more than one Greek person realized why I was so glued to the radio and asked me about him. I also remember going to the American Embassy that night to sign a book of remembrance and express my grief about yet another senseless, dream-shattering act. And then there was Richard Nixon !
The next major crossroad was my eventual disillusion with a nation waging what I came to understand as an immoral and unjustified war in Southeast Asia. I was a graduate student at the University of Washington in Seattle when the campus protests against the war spread throughout the country, and I heard many a fiery speech denouncing America’s involvement and I willingly joined in many campus marches and demonstrations. The shootings by the National Guard at Kent State are firmly etched in my mind.
And once settled in a small university town in Southern Oregon, I saw more of Americana in action, from the Hippy movement to the Rajnishi’s to Haight Ashbury in San Francisco to the Berkeley Free Speech demonstrations – I used to listen to a talk station from San Francisco all the time, KGO, which I could pick up very easily at night in Southern Oregon, and I do indeed recall the discussions about Harvey Milk when he was killed.
No time to go into any more detail, but the lesson I learned from all of this was that for many people in America a gun and violent acts were almost always the preferred solution to anything they disagreed with. That and the superficial, crass materialism, the self-centered disinterest in the rest of the world so prevalent in the States have played a primary role in my choice to live in France. I’m sad that I wasn’t in California when you came looking for me, but you caught up with me in Geneva.
Don’t get me wrong, there are still a myriad of wonderful, unforgettable, inimitable and treasured aspects of America that are all part and parcel of who I am and how I conceive my birthplace : tough individualism, generosity, my Danish grandmother, skiing in the Rocky Mountains, the great films Hollywood gave us, Redwood forests on the Pacific Coast, Sunrise over Crater Lake, Tom Robbins, John Irvine, Harper Lee, Toni Morrison, a cold glass of milk with chocolat chip cookies, and, of course, Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, Keith Jarrett, Mose Alison, Nina Simone, Thelonius Monk, John Coletrane, Cal Tjader . . . . .
Sweet dreams,
Roger
6/24/09
Letter #2
Dear Roger,
Just yesterday we visited the Perseus and Medusa exhibit at the Musee D’ethnographie. I was keen to show them this exhibit on African ritual masks as I thought it might stir the Picasso in my budding artists. The masks were hung around a dark room with strategically placed lights so that their shadows marked the wall behind them etching out fantastic designs and expressions. All very spooky, all very real. You could feel the drum beats of Africa. It was here that Dhruvum pointed out to me that the shadows were nothing like the original masks and sometimes eerily contrary(I am forever amazed at the world the kids see). The mask he pointed to appeared to have an oafish smile, however its shadow was the exact opposite…it had a sinister look, a fierce and fearsome frown.It appeared Alive and animated with one eye cut out larger than the other. The shadows appeared to be the real beings wearing these benign and sometimes comic masks as a front.I decided to continue in this very vein and keep up the interest of my tired and hot party, and managed to make it to the end of the exhibit. It was here that I suddenly saw an object almost physically jump off the shelf onto my lap. I called out theatrically for the kids to witness the spirits at play (knowing that it was probably the vibrations from their thundering feet) and Tara informed me that it was labelled the Chiefs Staff. The closer I looked, It seemed to dance even more and I clearly saw it eyeball me. (It DID and so did the red gnome/fire hydrant on Florissant. btw I have identified the red gnome as an object from the Art and History Museum, 1st century BC, Alexandria, Guardian of the Valley. must show you). And then however much we jumped, to make it move, it stopped bouncing. I ran out as the joke was on me…so much for animation, I seemed to have spooked myself more than the kids. Have you visited Africa?
Since we happen to be in Geneva during this historic 500th year of Calvin, and Calvin is so tied to this city. I was keen to take the kids for the Calvin exhibits around town and thus introduce them and myself to Calvin. Well, Parc des Bastions which was supposed to host of of the more elaborate exhibits was shuttered, so I sat down on my computer trying once again to fully comprehend Calvin and translate it in my own words and into a language/idea that I understand and I can translate. If you remember, I was trying to do the same thing when we first met, and I looked to you to help me figure it out. But, at that point you were very SERIOUS about your French lessons, and were not entertaining many distractions. Well, how about now, would you have the time to guide?
See below Cimeterie du Plainpalais – Calvin – Candolle et Moi:
I have to tell you more about the Chief’s Staff (from the Medusa and Perseus exhibit). As I had mentioned earlier, It was jumping about when I first saw it and shouting at me to wake up and sniff the cocoa beans. It was doing a furious dance as it demanded to know why I was attired in these strange clothes, and where I left the chiefs gear. Where were my tribal markings and the retinue of slaves and wives to fan and feed me! And who were these pesky dwarves that I have allowed to take control of me. Why are they such close proximity and how was I permitting them to tug at my clothes. Enough, enough, enough he shouted as he spun around and demanded I return to the World and my responsibilities.
Do you believe that Servetus, a refugee from Spain, hunted by the inquisition in France and executed in Geneva, can still today burn here in Geneva?
The shadow of the Black Swan that fluttered above my head whispered into my ear, “Purnima, what are you doing here in Geneva?”. I looked up to see the kindest face furrowed with concern, it was MICHEL SERVETUS. What was I doing in Geneva, living here in Champel, (not too far from Spain) and two weeks short of my 42nd year!
He said that that he was on his way to Italy, and seduced by the lake and Calvin with whom he had many fiery exchanges, he came to rest here for a night. Servetus, this Spanish physician, philosopher, theologian, humanist was arrested, imprisoned, declared a heretic by the city council and burned at the stake in his 42nd year.
We walked together across Bourg-de-Four Square, him in chains and me in air, up rue de Saint-Antoine out towards Champel. My home, and the place he was tied with his book and burned. This burning of Servetus by the canton of Geneva symbolized the sacrifice of the freedom of conscience and due process of laws.
It was here that he, Servetus’s spirit, turned towards me and said that the judgement against me has been long delivered, it just waits execution. I must not hold out, I must not test my strength but beg for the sword, just beg for the sword!
I’m back. It was a short but strenuous trip to the land of the Vikings and my Dutch steed was even a bit late ferrying me back to the shores of Helvetica. I dutifully kept a watchful eye for any unicorns in the various forests I travelled through and over, but the local bards all informed me that except for their symbolic representation as the principal motif on the Danish throne they were last seen as they began their migration to warmer climes in the mountains of Transylvania in eastern Romania and Moldavia. The forlorn mermaid in question was left dangling on the horn of indecision unable to make that fateful and often fatal choice, and even the counsel of Thor and Freyja could not budge her one way or the other. My suggestion to her was that she resume her lilting pose on her partially submerged stone at the entrance to Copenhagen’s harbor where she can at least observe, if not fully partake in, both worlds. As I slowly retreated into the alluring depths of post-modern Copenhagen, I could see her staring wistfully out over the horizon.
I always have real pangs of nostalgia when I leave the fairytale-like country of Denmark, and that was especially the case last night as we took off into the sunset and headed south.
Hope you had a good week. What are you up to at the beginning of next week? I’ve lots to relate and so do you. Hope we can get together then. I’m leaving again on Thursday, but headed south this time.
Sweet dreams,
Roger
Letter #4
Sep 11, 2009, 3:41 AM
to Roger,
Dear Roger,
The shadow of the Black Swan seems to be flapping above me, even though the book is long read. Somehow, I am stirred to write especially today, Jeune Genevois, September 10th, 2009, a day of fasting, a public holiday here in Geneva, where the citizens of Geneva held an annual fast in camaraderie with the protestants being persecuted all over France. And, weren’t the persecutors heartless, the inquisition drenched in the blood of whole villages…I read and read. After all, was Geneva not the hub of freedom and reformation, where intellectuals fled for protection of their faith and the freedom to express their ideas?
Heretic:
One who holds controversial opinions and dissents from the officially accepted dogma…
Anyone who does not conform to an established doctrine, attitude or principle.
A person with an opinion of his own who normally expresses it.
I then embarked upon a journey of meeting these Historical Heretics, the swans that had been tied and burned. I met Akenaten, the heretical pharaoh who challenged the prevailing order and established a new world oder with the worship of the sun at the singular deity; Joan of Arc, challenging convention, literally a woman in mans pants; Galileo, an astronomer, physicist, mathematician, who went against the geocentric Ptolemaic idea that had prevailed for over a millennia to propose a heliocentric world, emphasizing a separation of faith and science; Spinoza, one of the greatest philosophers and the greatest heretic of Judaism in his time, who emphasized on the guidance of reason; Giordano Bruno, a mathematician, philosopher and astronomer (who said that he went to Geneva so that he may live in liberty and security), proposed a heliocentric and infinite universe and the possibility of many parallel worlds(he has to be my favorite!), And then our very own Servetus, a physician, theologian, astronomer, humanist who questioned everything, challenged norms, who fleeing from his imprisonment in Vienna on his way to northern Italy, just stopped for the night in Geneva…
Denounced as heretics, assassinated, imprisoned, excommunicated, BURNED AT THE STAKE with their books tied to their ankles!
I come back to the Black Swan and the varied realities. The Black Swan represents that inconceivable, unfathomable, and unanticipate-able occurrence, an unknowable formula, a model that throws all others off, which if you accept the reality of, it would bring your carefully constructed world down, crashing! There is the underlying fear that the very existence of the Black Swan somehow denies your existence.The fact that you see the sun rising in the shape of a smiley banana, the sky raining kangaroos and the Porsche you worship turning into a frog with puckered lips looking at you for a ride (there is always a frog in my story!), makes you wonder whether you and everything you believe to be real exist at all. Or possibly if this exists , perhaps you don’t! How could you occupy the same space with this irrationality. So, violently and vehemently, you deny its existence at the same time reaffirming yours. You then use all the tools, laws and logic of your universe to erase the swan. Even the temples of learning and the high priests of wisdom succumb and burn the swan, the heretic, with the fires of vengeance into the ashes of silence.
Imagine 1500 years of “knowing” that the earth lies at the centre of the universe and we are all that life is about and everything revolves around us supported by fact, fiction, mythology, faith…and then you have jolly Galileo turning it all upside down. I guess you would have done what has been done to the Black Swans throughout history, denied their existence, to the extent of denying them their existence. Would you?
The story does not end…
Purnima
…
Dear Roger,
Do you believe that Servetus, a refugee from Spain, hunted by the inquisition in France and executed in Geneva, can still today burn here in Geneva?
The shadow of the Black Swan that fluttered above my head whispered into my ear, “Purnima, what are you doing here in Geneva?”. I looked up to see the kindest face furrowed with concern. What was I doing in Geneva, living here in Champel, from California (not too far from Spain) and two weeks short of my 42nd year!
He said that that he was on his way to Italy, and seduced by the lake and Calvin with whom he had many fiery exchanges, he came to rest here for a night. This Spanish physician, philosopher, theologian, humanist was arrested, imprisoned, declared a heretic by the city council and burned at the stake in his 42nd year.
We walked together across Bourg-de-Four Square, him in chains and me in air, up rue de saint-antoine out towards Champel. My home, and the place he was tied with his books and burned. It was here that he turned towards me and said that the judgement against me has been long delivered, it just waits execution. I must not hold out, I must not test my strength but beg for the sword, just beg for the sword!
So with this dramatic end, I must say goodnight and hope tomorrow is a sunny day.
goodnight
Purnima
Letter #5
Indiana Jones, Inspector Clouseau, Nadir Shah, Tavernier- The Eternal Quest for the Kohinoor
8/13/09
Dear Roger,
It’s bubbling up and bursting out to rival the jet d’eau, tell me how u like it?
I wish to persuade you that my life has not always been a dead end, and I am not a complete bore!
A sad, ironic, ridiculous tale of love and adventure:
The last time I spoke to my beloved froggie (btw, kermit now resides in NYC), he said I reminded him of Inspector Clouseau running around Paris in my trench coat.This took a lot of swallowing, and I begged in my mind that he would say it really was sexxxy Olga that he was referring to, But NO. Imagine having a crush on a guy who (fondly?) compares you to a fumbling, bumbling, bushy eyebrowed detective who is always in hot pursuit of the Pink Panther. I found myself looking in the mirror numerous times and still not able to quite grasp his image (despite giving up waxing, there was no bushy mustache and eyebrows to match).
But, as time passes I find in his description lies an uncanny prophecy, in some sense i find I have become inspector Clouseau. And The Pink Panther Strikes Again! I find myself continuously running being chased by a number of assassins from all over the world, who keep eyeballing me as they jog around the track in Park Betrand, waiting for their opportunity to strike. Of course, fortunately for me,I am Chief Inspector Clouseau, so they extinguish each other and I am left alone in my pursuit of the Pink Panther, the Kohinoor diamond. See Inspector Clouseau and The diamond below:
Well, since froggie so lovingly called me inspector Clouseau, and we both accepted this upside down world. I asked him in turn why the gods had sent Menaka in this form to distract me. See below the tale of Menaka the nymph of irresistible charm and exquisite beauty sent by the gods (of the Hindu Pantheon) to distract the great sage Vishwamitra from his meditations (I embody the great sage Vishwamitra as I descend from this great King turned sage from my grandmother’s side- Kowshiki). In our mythology, whenever an old brahmin/learned pundit goes into deep meditation stirring up the cosmos acquiring immense power and energy and thus the weapons of the gods, the gods get alarmed by this disruption of the balance of the universe(the balance has to be inclined in their favor of course), and send forth such distractions in the form of demons and nymphs to get the sages to put an end to their meditations. And BOY was I distracted! See below the Tale of Menaka and Vishwamitra incorporated in the art, literature and spirit of the Indian Subcontinent:
And once Vishwamitra is awakened the story naturally proceeds to give birth to Shakuntala the melodious and magnificent love story written in Sanskrit by Indian epic poet Kalidasa in the 4th century AD. See below my canvas for the modern day Shakuntala as I borrow the paint brush from the hands of India’s celebrated artist Raja Ravi Verma who through his art vividly evokes and immortalizes the magical images of ancient India literature:
See below Raja Ravi Verma’s iconic works of art depicting Menaka and Vishwamitra and Shakuntala:
See below my modern day rendition of the iconic image of Shakuntala holding out her hand with the ring of recognition, an image like the above by Raja Ravi Verma surrounded by magical backwaters and swaying palms of Kerala:
Since then I have fully embraced this role and added a couple of others to the mix (Indiana Jones, Tintin in Tibet, why is it that the boys always get the fun adventurous roles!), and continued my hunt for the Kohinoor. This magnificent stone has a complex and bloody history as it has changed hands, seen coups and invasions, imprisonments and assassinations by those that have beheld it (not only by those that have possessed it). My tryst with the Kohinoor occurred many a moon ago as The Jeweler to The Maharajas (and the narrator of my tale) ominously whispered into my ear on my wedding day that I should realize I was being bestowed The Kohinoor. See below NYT article on the book The Koh-i-Noor by William Dalrymple which depicts the tragic consequences of ones who entranced by its aura are driven in a frenzy to possess it:
It’s first mention was supposedly in the Baburnama, the memoirs of the great Mughal ruler Babur. However, it had yet to acquire its name Kohinoor (mountain of light) and so was mentioned as a large magnificent diamond in the Mughal treasury. There was another diamond called the Great Mogul, the largest known diamond, which was supposed to be 900 carats in the rough, the size of a hens egg in half, which was also a part of the Mughal treasury. The last detailed account of which was given by Jean Baptiste Tavernier in his six voyages, where he was invited to view the precious gems of the Mughal treasury during his visit to Aurangzeb’s court in 1665. We have since never heard of the Great Mogul diamond.
There have been various speculations regarding this magnificent stone: the primary one being that it was taken by Nadir Shah during his invasion of India in 1738 along with the Kohinoor (which he named) and the famous peacock throne. The second speculation is that the Great Mogul was probably cut down to make the Kohinoor diamond and others, as we don’t have any concrete information about the Kohinoor’s origins and no information about the Great Moguls endings. Finally, some have speculated that it journeyed all the way to Russia, and sits in the Kremlin as the Orloff diamond (I certainly have my next destination mapped out for me, mustache and eyebrows in tow!).
So here I am in Geneva, in hot pursuit of Tavernier who ended up purchasing the Barony of Aubonne (just outside Geneva in the canton of Vaud!). This incredible traveller (sixty thousand leagues overland), not only travelled far and wide in search of the treasures of the world. He was the greatest authority on gems in that time and wrote details of the glorious gems, gold, pearls, indigo, pepper that was to be found in the exotic shores of India. He was one of the people responsible for spinning the story of India in vivid hues that propelled the journeys to India in pursuit of these very treasures. His description of diamonds the size of Hens eggs, enormous pearls that hang from peacock tails, richly colored silks heavy with gold thread and of course his famous description of the peacock throne as:
A 4ft by 6ft (takht)bed with gold feet, distinguished by a peacock, whose outspread tail was made of blue sapphires and other colored gems, and whose body was of enameled gold studded with precious stones, and with a large ruby in front, whence hung a pear-shaped pearl, about 50 carats in weight, or 200 grains. On either side of the peacock, and at about the same height, there stood two bouquets, the flowers of which were of enameled gold and precious stones.
A 4ft by 6ft (takht)bed with gold feet, distinguished by a peacock, whose outspread tail was made of blue sapphires and other colored gems, and whose body was of enameled gold studded with precious stones, and with a large ruby in front, whence hung a pear-shaped pearl, about 50 carats in weight, or 200 grains. On either side of the peacock, and at about the same height, there stood two bouquets, the flowers of which were of enameled gold and precious stones.
Tavernier goes on to say that, “on the side of the throne facing the Court, there is an open-set jewel, whence hangs a diamond from 80 to 90 carats in weight, and surrounded by rubies and emeralds, and when the king is seated he has this jewel right in front of him.”
With descriptions such as the above, do you not think that the Spanish (and the other European wealthy states with colonial aspirations) would fund Columbus’s proposed voyage to India as he promises to return with cargo laden with diamonds the size of hen’s eggs and immeasurable gold. Now Zinn’s A Peoples History of the United States seems a step closer to reality, as I can envision how the natives must have been beaten and bled to extract their pound of gold. Where were the silks, the indigo, the pepper, how could they return empty handed home! All I can say is that we (in India) certainly “Started the fire…” and you landed America.
Back to Indiana Jones, Clouseau, The Pink Panther! It’s been told that the Kohinoor which found its way from Maharaja Ranjit Singh (A long journey from Nadir Shah, but all in the same neck of the woods), to queen Victoria and now it rests (no sits, how can the pink panther ever rest) in the tower of London embedded in a crown. So, I went to visit the Tower of London to see for myself…AND it was nooooot there! No buddy, it was not the pink panther. I know i will know it when I see it (after all I am the chief inspector!). So here I am in Geneva, in hot pursuit of Tavernier and his whereabouts. I thought I saw him, I thought I found him, our eyes met…but these bushy eyebrows got in the way and he was gone.
Roger, as you know, I have spent the summer in Geneva endlessly walking the dog (with the 22 assassins in hot pursuit), and entertaining the kids by taking them to the Geneva summer festival and museums. I was exhausted and we were all museum-ed out, when Tara, my 9 year old suggested that we visit the Museum of Natural History. “OK, well here I go again, another long day”, I though. So we trooped to the museum and wandered around, re-looking at the turtle with two heads for the nth time and trying to transcribe (fabricate/use creative license for) all the French headings. It was in this tired, bored and delirious state, wanting to break out of the “mommy” mould and make some mischief when we stumbled upon a long dark room filled with rocks and minerals. There it lay, proudly perched on its pedestal: the Pink Panther and the great Mogul, the gems of India! They were two, not one diamond as everyone had long speculated. There they lay bathed in soft unassuming light cradled in the “regular” display cabinet. So this is where Tavernier had brought them and placed them, posing as replicas only to be discovered by the sharp scrutinizing eye of the chief inspector Clouseau himself. What better surroundings, may they Rest In Peace!
See below the kids all time fav – Musee D’Histoire Naturelle de Suisse:
All persons, places, events are fictitious; all imputed relationships purely aspirational. There were no men harmed during the penning of the Feminist Manifesto
Whodunnit: Blogger/Writer/CyberSmurf 
