It was the weather perhaps....yes it had to be the weather, everyone had warned me, it makes you feel depressed and gloomy all the time- light drizzle, cold breeze and slanted sun-rays are not cheerful for someone from the tropics. London was gloomy and it was depressing and it was very costly. My small room at Thistle City Barbican cost 100 pounds a day (breakfast included) and I never dreamt of riding a taxi in London. I always walked to office.
My office was near to St. Paul's cathedral, in fact just opposite to it, from where I could see the enormous dome, which had withstood the Nazi bombings during the Blitz. And a short walk from there would take you to the Thames, on the banks of which you see small eateries, filled up with young people, mostly couples, nibbling at sandwiches, drinking coffee, kissing and chatting. Tate Modern Museum stood imposingly on the opposite bank (though at the first glance I thought it was a locomotive factory), attracting few visitors, old art lovers and some young connoisseurs of modern art forms. I ignored my friend's request to go inside, already having had an experience of staring at art displays in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. I would have loved to see Monalisa but I knew it was in Paris, safely tucked away in some corner of the Louvre.
London was not what I had thought it would be. The capital of an empire, which ruled from east to west, had to be somewhat different. I had a definite picture in mind- of cheerful Londoners, of a large city with imposing monuments, an exquisitely beautiful Buckingham Palace (I never cared to look at the palace on the Internet), of modern roads and amenities and a race that surpassed even the most suave of Americans. All I could see here though were worried people, less cheerful, much more gloomy, expressionless faces, you could feel they were scared about their future -this is what London, of all places had to offer to me. Roads, so narrow that buses could barely fit in, small Tesco stores at odd road side corners, Starbucks coffee shops that insisted on closing down at five in the evening, people of all nationalities rubbing shoulders, yet maintaining their distance- not getting close for the fear of some kind of unknown infection –after all this wasn't the London of my dreams.
I had gone wrong somewhere, my expectations were unfounded -London was definitely older than New York or for that matter San Francisco or New Jersey -so it must look older than those cities- and it did. But I had somehow ignored all this and imagined London to be the city of super markets, amusement parks, Disney Lands and a lot more. What I saw were granite plates on buildings which read 'Here stood such and such building which got destroyed in Great London Fire of 1666'- so much for the preservation of history. Such was the gloominess among the old red bricks walls, narrow roads, a perennially overcast sky and those irritating road instructions of 'Look Right' and 'Look Left' in white paint at every road crossing, one could not help but feel sorry for oneself in the midst of it all.
"Are there beggars in London?" I asked one of my colleagues at the workplace during tea-break. "Yes, there are lots of them, at the tube stations, in central London", he replied quite unamused. I, for sure, certainly felt like one, not having enough money to make merry in this over-priced city- I went to free museums, avoiding the ones that required tickets, I always took the tube for long distances and preferred walking over using my Oyster card for bus rides for short distances, ate tuna sandwiches from Tesco (which were the cheapest one could get) and bought Tesco-bottled drinking water at 60-pence for 2-liters. Watching the Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace (which was one hell of a disappointment -it looked like a dull five-storied departmental store made of paling golden bath stones, devoid of any exterior designs -the Grand Central Station in New York seemed to me more deserving of a palace than what stood in front of me) and the famed London Bridge were of course free of charge.
English people are not a friendly lot, though they are very courteous, they would not let you feel they despise you -may be they don't in fact- but their polished and refined behaviour and mannerisms would easily put you to shame. You need to be particular about handling the spoon, fork and knife, about holding the glass, touching it with other's glasses and saying 'cheers' with exactly the same amount of enthusiasm and cheerfulness with which they do it. That makes you acceptable at the dining table!
...and finally a thing or two about Harrods, the famed Harrods department shop in Knightsbridge which has reserved its place in popular folklore across the world. It’s a lovely place, I must say, with all the variety of stuff they have got, brands I never knew of, or brands I had just heard of and never seen- you got everything there. But everything came for a price and a good one at that. Its good to see all of it- they have some exquisite theme stores inside -like the one which has only fossils (of tree trunks, schools of fishes which are 30 million years old, of dead organisms preserved in lava rocks), polished and certified. Desperate to buy something from Harrods, I headed to my favourite corner, the Book Shop from where I bought a title 'In Europe' by Geert Mak for twelve pounds (well within my limited budget). I am yet to read the book.
Something caught my attention on the way out of the Harrods.....a beautifully crafted bronze statue of Princess Diana dancing along with her boyfriend Dodi-Al Fayed. I must admit ...it was something that truly cheered me up...At Last!!!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Hanif Kureishi's 'The Buddha of Suburbia' -My Book Review
I just finished reading 'The Buddha of Suburbia' by Hanif Kureishi. This book won him the Whitbread Book Award, now known as the Costa Book Awards, after Costa Coffee, a subsidiary of Whitbread took over the sponsorship in 2005. Though I avoid reading fiction (Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Dan Brown are my only weaknesses), this book was an exception I relished, and if rumours are to be believed, 'The Buddha....' is in fact a semi-autobiographical account, one that made Hanif's father so angry that he didn't speak to him for a year.
Whatever the truth, the book is superb in its characterisation and narration, in its callous attitude towards relationships (at the same time being critical about them), in its strange orientations of characters and above all in its accurate description of the 'English' life of Indians who neither fit in entirely nor move out of London- just stick out like odd branches from suburban ghettos.
And it is in one of the suburbs of South London where the story begins with Karim as the protagonist who speaks out at length about his family and the several eccentricities he sees around him. Written in a first person narrative, the book is an interesting read right from the first paragraph where Karim seems confused with his dual identity of an Indian and an Englishman, though he somehow settles for the latter. Hanif does a brilliant job of describing in particular Karim's father (which apparently is his own father, if the book really is semi-autobiographical), an Indian trying hard to hold his ground in the suburbs of London, not quite successful at anything (he hates his job), who suddenly becomes the Buddha of Suburbia, when he starts delivering lectures to people from suburbs on life, pain, suffering and yoga. Suddenly having found a purpose and a lady (who hosted the lecture-meetings in her house), Karim's dad was more cheerful than ever. The lady, Eva, obviously more generous than just hosting his meetings, soon became his father's only real obsession, and his mother's worst fear.
This book, which Hanif published in 1990 (at the age of 36) reflects to a large extent his maturity at handling dramatic situations, and his ability to dramatise situations, partly due to his skills as a screenplay writer (he wrote 'My Beautiful Laundrette' in 1985). However, ‘The Buddha…’ was his first novel, which is why it won the Whitbread award in the 'best first novel' category. Words flow quite freely for Hanif, who started his career as a pornographic writer in the '70s, but very soon moved on to write about serious issues such as racism, immigrant problems, nationalism and sexuality.
I would say 'The Buddha..' was the true beginning of his literary ventures into the plethora of issues he is so passionate about, with the book stressing the vanity of Indians trying to establish an identity, trying to erase Bombay from their minds, be-littling India, cajoling themselves to love London and everything else about it, but not quite finding the ground to secure themselves. And then there are a lot of these unique and interesting characters, both Indian and English, with their strong beliefs and adamant behaviour, with egos and vanities, with aims and eccentricities, with erratic sexual preferences and strange stories -Hanif gives it all and a lot more. But the icing on the cake is none other than the character of Karim's father, which has been very carefully developed throughout the story, his various moods, his changing outlook, his ascent to become the God -Hanif blows you apart with his funny descriptions of his father's activities by referring to him as 'God'.
Then there is this strange guy called Anwar, his father's friend who becomes eccentric with age, and his daughter Jamila, whom he forces to marry a Muslim from Bombay by the name Changez, whose only condition for coming to London and marrying Jamila was to be provided with the full volumes of Sherlock Holmes series by Conan Doyle. It is these eccentricities of characters interspersed with some serious thoughts on racism, identity conflicts, distinction between the urban and suburban and the punk culture of the '70s and '80s that define the course of the story with Karim moving on and experiencing all of them, through a period of apparent aimlessness, but finally landing up in the theatre business as an actor.
Hanif writes beautifully, the book flowing smoothly like a song, keeping the reader quiet engrossed with its intermittently witty remarks like '...there could be nothing more suburban than suburbanites repudiating themselves'. I suggest this book is worth giving a read; it encompasses and even surpasses an era in the British lifestyle!
Whatever the truth, the book is superb in its characterisation and narration, in its callous attitude towards relationships (at the same time being critical about them), in its strange orientations of characters and above all in its accurate description of the 'English' life of Indians who neither fit in entirely nor move out of London- just stick out like odd branches from suburban ghettos.
And it is in one of the suburbs of South London where the story begins with Karim as the protagonist who speaks out at length about his family and the several eccentricities he sees around him. Written in a first person narrative, the book is an interesting read right from the first paragraph where Karim seems confused with his dual identity of an Indian and an Englishman, though he somehow settles for the latter. Hanif does a brilliant job of describing in particular Karim's father (which apparently is his own father, if the book really is semi-autobiographical), an Indian trying hard to hold his ground in the suburbs of London, not quite successful at anything (he hates his job), who suddenly becomes the Buddha of Suburbia, when he starts delivering lectures to people from suburbs on life, pain, suffering and yoga. Suddenly having found a purpose and a lady (who hosted the lecture-meetings in her house), Karim's dad was more cheerful than ever. The lady, Eva, obviously more generous than just hosting his meetings, soon became his father's only real obsession, and his mother's worst fear.
This book, which Hanif published in 1990 (at the age of 36) reflects to a large extent his maturity at handling dramatic situations, and his ability to dramatise situations, partly due to his skills as a screenplay writer (he wrote 'My Beautiful Laundrette' in 1985). However, ‘The Buddha…’ was his first novel, which is why it won the Whitbread award in the 'best first novel' category. Words flow quite freely for Hanif, who started his career as a pornographic writer in the '70s, but very soon moved on to write about serious issues such as racism, immigrant problems, nationalism and sexuality.
I would say 'The Buddha..' was the true beginning of his literary ventures into the plethora of issues he is so passionate about, with the book stressing the vanity of Indians trying to establish an identity, trying to erase Bombay from their minds, be-littling India, cajoling themselves to love London and everything else about it, but not quite finding the ground to secure themselves. And then there are a lot of these unique and interesting characters, both Indian and English, with their strong beliefs and adamant behaviour, with egos and vanities, with aims and eccentricities, with erratic sexual preferences and strange stories -Hanif gives it all and a lot more. But the icing on the cake is none other than the character of Karim's father, which has been very carefully developed throughout the story, his various moods, his changing outlook, his ascent to become the God -Hanif blows you apart with his funny descriptions of his father's activities by referring to him as 'God'.
Then there is this strange guy called Anwar, his father's friend who becomes eccentric with age, and his daughter Jamila, whom he forces to marry a Muslim from Bombay by the name Changez, whose only condition for coming to London and marrying Jamila was to be provided with the full volumes of Sherlock Holmes series by Conan Doyle. It is these eccentricities of characters interspersed with some serious thoughts on racism, identity conflicts, distinction between the urban and suburban and the punk culture of the '70s and '80s that define the course of the story with Karim moving on and experiencing all of them, through a period of apparent aimlessness, but finally landing up in the theatre business as an actor.
Hanif writes beautifully, the book flowing smoothly like a song, keeping the reader quiet engrossed with its intermittently witty remarks like '...there could be nothing more suburban than suburbanites repudiating themselves'. I suggest this book is worth giving a read; it encompasses and even surpasses an era in the British lifestyle!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Kasab's Indian Anniversary
Kasab is about to complete a year in Mumbai. Exactly this day, a year ago, he landed on the shores of Mumbai sailing on the Kuber and changed everything in this city we love so much. We have seen it all, romanticised the action, discussed it over and over again and now after a year are coming back at it again. No, we don't need a sequel, though the directors in our neighbouring country might be contemplating one. However, this whole idea of shedding tears, remembering the lost ones, re-counting tales of bravery, and touring the places Kasab once strolled around in this city is a farce which we along with the whole world would love to see and share. Let's admit it - we lack the 'Iron Will' which we require to prevent more Kasabs visiting our country. A tough stance, a symbolic step, some kind of a show of force, is the right step forward.
But did we have any of those after the events last year? How silly we seem, that even when CCTV recordings show Kasab killing freely at his will, we stage an everlasting trial for the supposedly 'ideologically-drugged', 'actually-innocent' and immature teenager from Pakistan who did a late-evening show on 26/11 to celebrate his coming-of-age, and what better a place than the show-biz city of Mumbai. After all we give every man worth his salt, a chance to perform, nationality no bar. So what a performance it was folks! We remained glued to our television sets for nearly 60 hours, without moving an inch, munching on biscuits, sandwiches and anything close-by, not willing to miss the action. Gosh! even Michael Jackson would have found it difficult holding on to his audience for so long.
Israel, oft-quoted for her exemplary justice for any injustices done to its citizens, must be laughing at this farce in India, where everything becomes filmy so soon- Kasab asking if any Indian girl would tie him a Rakhi- Kasab crying for swift justice and death, which drew parallels to Salman's similar pleading before a judge in Rajasthan over the chinkara-killing case (which had dragged so long and apparently made the actor very frustrated)- Kasab telling how he did all this just for money, in order to support his poor family with no earning member (this is true bollywood style drama -teenagers forced to join terrorist groups to earn a square meal). Some people have even started thinking Kasab as a helpless teenager, sole bread-winner of his family, being wrongly framed in this whole issue - somehow who wrongly landed up in India and went to Girgaum Chowpatty for some fresh air and vada-pav- how on earth could he be blamed for 26/11?
And now almost on the anniversary, we find ourselves suddenly uncomfortable, thinking what's gone wrong with us, what is everyone doing? Why haven't we punished the guilty? Why are we still sending dossiers to Pakistan? What is Pakistan going to do with them? Are we fool enough to believe Pakistan needs those dossiers to book the guilty? How can we get so irritatingly stupid? And what's this Kasab thing.....not yet over? Lawyers in India are showing off their skill defending the 'un-defendable'. Abbas Kazmi says defending Kasab has been a life-time experience, and I say why not? Keep defending him and make a great career out of it.
Things seem almost as placid as they were before 26/11, the same home minister who had described 26/11 as a passing event in the great city's timeline is back with a vengeance, fighting off old cats in the police department, who have suddenly started alleging one another for lack of commitment during the troubled November days. Coast guard has not yet decided on the right kind of boats to guard the coast and there is more and more confusion over who Headley was and what was he up to.
We Indians have poor memories, but not Israelis. Adolf Eichmann, who erred in the times of Nazi regime, was bought to trial 15 years after the WWII ended. The Jews never forgot, but they must be a different breed. We are a peace-loving country with a big heart to forgive and forget. How else could we possibly explain the aftermath of Parliament attack- just a quick show of force on the border (which was equally strongly manned on the Pak side) and then back to normal. Many would struggle to remember when it happened, and Afzal Guru, of course would hardly evoke any emotions whatsoever while some notable social activists would even swear by his innocence.
So why are we always in a deep slumber, which no act of terror or aggression would break? Why are we the resilient (read complacent and thick-skinned) Indians, convinced that status-quo is the best? What will ever jolt us and when? 2012, perhaps? Who knows!
Coming back to Kasab, when someone suggested he should be hanged in full view of public, many did not take those words kindly. Perhaps their blood never boiled, perhaps it never would. But I support the man who asked the Government to hang Kasab in public.
Hang him in full view of the public, from the Gateway of India, facing the sea - at least this, if not our coast guards, may prove to be a deterrent to the future sea intruders. Hang him for the sake of a symbolic gesture, if not anything else!
But did we have any of those after the events last year? How silly we seem, that even when CCTV recordings show Kasab killing freely at his will, we stage an everlasting trial for the supposedly 'ideologically-drugged', 'actually-innocent' and immature teenager from Pakistan who did a late-evening show on 26/11 to celebrate his coming-of-age, and what better a place than the show-biz city of Mumbai. After all we give every man worth his salt, a chance to perform, nationality no bar. So what a performance it was folks! We remained glued to our television sets for nearly 60 hours, without moving an inch, munching on biscuits, sandwiches and anything close-by, not willing to miss the action. Gosh! even Michael Jackson would have found it difficult holding on to his audience for so long.
Israel, oft-quoted for her exemplary justice for any injustices done to its citizens, must be laughing at this farce in India, where everything becomes filmy so soon- Kasab asking if any Indian girl would tie him a Rakhi- Kasab crying for swift justice and death, which drew parallels to Salman's similar pleading before a judge in Rajasthan over the chinkara-killing case (which had dragged so long and apparently made the actor very frustrated)- Kasab telling how he did all this just for money, in order to support his poor family with no earning member (this is true bollywood style drama -teenagers forced to join terrorist groups to earn a square meal). Some people have even started thinking Kasab as a helpless teenager, sole bread-winner of his family, being wrongly framed in this whole issue - somehow who wrongly landed up in India and went to Girgaum Chowpatty for some fresh air and vada-pav- how on earth could he be blamed for 26/11?
And now almost on the anniversary, we find ourselves suddenly uncomfortable, thinking what's gone wrong with us, what is everyone doing? Why haven't we punished the guilty? Why are we still sending dossiers to Pakistan? What is Pakistan going to do with them? Are we fool enough to believe Pakistan needs those dossiers to book the guilty? How can we get so irritatingly stupid? And what's this Kasab thing.....not yet over? Lawyers in India are showing off their skill defending the 'un-defendable'. Abbas Kazmi says defending Kasab has been a life-time experience, and I say why not? Keep defending him and make a great career out of it.
Things seem almost as placid as they were before 26/11, the same home minister who had described 26/11 as a passing event in the great city's timeline is back with a vengeance, fighting off old cats in the police department, who have suddenly started alleging one another for lack of commitment during the troubled November days. Coast guard has not yet decided on the right kind of boats to guard the coast and there is more and more confusion over who Headley was and what was he up to.
We Indians have poor memories, but not Israelis. Adolf Eichmann, who erred in the times of Nazi regime, was bought to trial 15 years after the WWII ended. The Jews never forgot, but they must be a different breed. We are a peace-loving country with a big heart to forgive and forget. How else could we possibly explain the aftermath of Parliament attack- just a quick show of force on the border (which was equally strongly manned on the Pak side) and then back to normal. Many would struggle to remember when it happened, and Afzal Guru, of course would hardly evoke any emotions whatsoever while some notable social activists would even swear by his innocence.
So why are we always in a deep slumber, which no act of terror or aggression would break? Why are we the resilient (read complacent and thick-skinned) Indians, convinced that status-quo is the best? What will ever jolt us and when? 2012, perhaps? Who knows!
Coming back to Kasab, when someone suggested he should be hanged in full view of public, many did not take those words kindly. Perhaps their blood never boiled, perhaps it never would. But I support the man who asked the Government to hang Kasab in public.
Hang him in full view of the public, from the Gateway of India, facing the sea - at least this, if not our coast guards, may prove to be a deterrent to the future sea intruders. Hang him for the sake of a symbolic gesture, if not anything else!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)