The Geometry of Loneliness

Confessions of a lonely traveler, who started off for his dreamland 

“Love, hear thou / How desolate the heart is, ever calling” —James Joyce

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The traveler is primarily a dreamer. His dreams showed him that there was a destiny awaiting him that required his presence to achieve its fulfillment.

He trusted the dream and its call. That enabled him to revolt against his parochial family, his own homesickness, and lethargy. The dream supplied the impetus to move on.

The journey had begun.

The road was a picture of hope and the sun shining eternally above was a priceless gem. The traveler walked on.

The wind was a torrent of life. He sucked on it each time the gush of the invisible felt on his face. The traveler walked on.

All his memories were signposts reminding him where to return home. The heart of the traveler, though, felt the pull of a two tongued bate. He was missing something, someone.

Love—his heart was pulling at his beloved.

The traveler had left her in his quest for the Destiny. But he also knew that it is for this Destiny he was sent to live on this planet.

The traveler remembered the taste of togetherness and as a result, shadows of regret crossed his path.

The traveler could not walk on. The same heart that had given him the dream, now felt heaviness and sorrow for what the traveler had left behind.

Leaving someone behind—is it the same as loss? He thought. No, he said to himself. The traveler could not walk on; because his heart was struggling to give him proof that no one was lost. The heart did it through invoking all his memories.

Suddenly, the traveler realized, all his memories about his beloved existed and she was right here, inside his mind. But then, a silvery gleam slithered down his cheek—his tears.

The traveler looked around for a shoulder to cry. But there was none. He was alone. Each drop of tear was a confession. But the traveler did not know what the tear drops confessed. There was nothing to feel regretful about, there were no sins committed.

The traveler knew elaborate teaching from great masters, saying just take the next step, for beyond the next turn you might find your Destiny smiling at you.

But his tears did not stop and the loneliness demanded confessions too.

Now the traveler knew what to confess, but feared he would lose his dream forever. Still, the heart was adamant. And he said the words out loud. He knew that the road in front of him that was a picture of hope was paved on the expectations of those he left behind.

He knew that the sun that seemed a priceless gem was shining at the cost of someone else’s tears.

He knew the wind that filled his lungs with life, kept its trails on the prayers of the guardian spirits what awaited him at the place he called home.

So he confessed it all. He confessed he was feeling lonely, sad, torn, and lost and moreover afraid of losing his dream. He confessed... 

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[“The confessions of a lonely traveler” is my new series of i-poems. The series is titled, “The Geometry of Loneliness”.

Dear reader, please wait for the next post that will appear here tomorrow. It is difficult for me to post it today itself, as I am running short of time. I have a journey to make. Yes, you got it correct. The traveler, who started off for his dreamland is I. The traveler, who started off for his dreamland is you too.]

Chinua Achebe (1930-2013)
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I would like to dedicate this post to ‘the father of African literature’, Chinua Achebe, who died at the age of 82 when things are falling apart in a world which he paved with words and imagination, a fellow traveler.     

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Private by James Patterson—a Book Review

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Everydetective story relies upon either a mind that concocts something disastrous, unacceptable to the social, moral and ethical codes or a person simply missing. The detective’s job would be to chalk out this enemy and bring out the complete picture of their antagonism through the investigation. That is where detectives come in. They often carry away the credit of the game and not the villains.

Private is the first in James Patterson’s new series of novels featuring ‘world’s most exclusive detective agency’, taken up and rebuilt by Jack Morgan. Patterson co-authored this book with Maxine Paetro, who worked with him in 1^st To Die, the first book in another series titled, “women’s murder club”, a very disappointing book in terms of its plot.

Maxine Paetro
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What makes Private special among other ‘detective novels’, is that it has no such poignant antagonists. The story rallies through the personal dilemmas and agonies of the characters, which presents them tangible. The main characters do not appear stock characters in usual detective stories, which is an advantage of this book. His characters are not as ‘real’ as Holmes, but they do appear human and vulnerable, sometimes, a lot.  

Jack Morgan and his ‘Private Investigations’ do not rely on deduction method, like Sherlock Holmes, the classic investigator. Instead they use analytical method, with the help of state of the art scientific equipments and brilliant analysts. Jack Morgan is not alone in Private agency to solve crimes, but he has assistants too, like Justine Smith, Rick Del Rio, and Emilio Cruz.

Private Investigations takes up three complicated issues in the book—match fixing in American football, a series of murder of young girls, and the murder of Jack’s best friend’s wife.

Jack’s character is a millionaire play-boy type, with a narcissistic trait. But these shades in his character are blurred due to the overwhelming impact of the devastating near-death experience during the combat in Afghanistan. The novel begins with this particular event and makes its readers expect some heavy mortar smell and all, but disappointingly so. The memories of this event, even though he survived it, haunt Jack throughout.

Many women enter Jack’s life and many leave. This, doesn’t however, leave a deeper impact upon him when compared with the mortal combat episode. From each of the women Jack receives respect and friendship, adding charms to his otherwise lonely life, thereby projecting his own remarkable qualities back to himself. Isn’t this one of the secret narcissistic instincts that makes him follow the path of admiring feminine company?

He shows the tendency to leave the company of any woman he is close with thinking marriage would be disastrous, like his parents’. Here, one might think Jack’s compass turns only to himself, prioritizing himself at various angles and dimensions. Still, not entirely true. When Jack hears about the news of suicidal attempt from Colleen, his latest girlfriend, he rushes to the hospital. Colleen took the decision to end her life when she realizes Jack has negative feelings about marriage. Jack is seen broken and ashamed of his own lack of direction in this scene.

James Patterson
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Jack also appears to be apprehensive of the need to help his twin brother Tom Morgan, a gambler, by paying off his debt and admitting him to a de-addiction centre.   

Justine Smith’s character is another links the story of Jack with the serial killer of school girls. She investigates the case. Justine’s has many similarities with Jack. Both Justine and Jack seems to occupy the major portion of their lives with their familial worries and wounds inflicted upon their minds from the past. What makes Justine different is her emotionally charged attitude towards the school-girl killer. Both Jack and Justine come together whenever they need each other and this is not just due to the fact that they both work for Private, but also because they were betrothed to each other as engaged partners in the past, before Jack met Colleen and Justine met Bobby Petino, a prominent attorney. After this, for jack and Justine, relationship became impossible. This part of the story is told by the characters and narrated through their memories.

It is also important to note Jack’s attitude towards his father, the founder of Private original. The senior Morgan appears at the start of the novel, “serving life for extortion and murder” in California State Prison at Corcoran.  Jack, with all his self-centred righteousness and “hero business”, has no good feelings towards his old father. For senior Morgan, Jack is his own reflection. However, in jacks’ mind, the old man is just a “narcissistic SOB”.

Scarlett Johansson
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Then, Morgan senior hands ‘Private’ over to Jack. This book is the starting point of the all the Private series. The next book after Private is Private London, which is already released. The agency has branches all over the world and so it is quite possible to set the story anywhere. A recently announced Private India is another in the series.
     

Private has all the necessary James Patterson ingredients in it—short chapters, mundane language, allusions to pop culture, TV shows, personalities, songs, etc. In Private, it is mostly Hollywoodwith special appearance such as Harrison Ford and Scarlett Johansson.   

Maxine Paetro’s presence is visible mostly in a vague byline under the label of James Patterson. This is the common destiny seen with many co-authors in the James Patterson books. Still, like every good brand, the Patterson brand delivers all its basic promises.

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Tom Morgan rebels against Jack, but he is not ‘elevated’ to the status of a serious antagonist such as Prof. James Moriarty. And the other baddies are not much capable either. This is why, perhaps,Private, is only good for the bus stops and airport sojourns. Since, it is always those antagonists that play their wicked roles torturously perfect to make the heroes’ struggles worth fighting for. 

This book review is sponsored by Mysmartprice.com

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Losing the Way

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The world has become so narrow that one group of people now have to keep a day for themselves, in order not risk a whole lifetime. Happy Women's Day!

A faint glow I see,

In the path in front of me.

I find the glow attractive,

Pleased by it, I move closer,

Use it to see farther, further.

I take a turn in the path,

Find everything there drab and used.

The rupture of hope from reality,

Leaves me stunned to feel

A strange poignancy,

In the depth my heart conceals,

Inside its walls within my bodily barriers.

The pain tells me it’s time,

To realize what I saw was just the glow,

Or what the glow wanted me to see.

The unique language to decipher,

The signs of the path I took,

Were imprinted in the walls of my heart,

Hidden behind the bars of my ribs,

I followed the glow to be what I am,

Leaving what I hoped, dreamed, coveted to be,

Alone, unattended, uncared for, unloved,

Just to die and rot in the desolation of ignorance.

I pray, let me be.

I search for the pain, to show me the way,

Where I could find the world of renewal,

Birth and rejuvenation. I close my eyes,

To see in darkness,

To see what is left of me,

In the glowing distraction

Of routines and role plays.

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Strike-Day Chicken

When times are slow and harrowing, humour is the best way to stage a relief drama. This is a satire, so it says what you understand from it, but perhaps in a way that is not the way you should understand it.

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For most of us in India, February 20^th and 21^st were like Sundays.

Not in the way they appear on the calendar leaf with red ink and all, but the way they are taken by the silent, sleepy, lazy minds of ours. We sat in our chairs and sipped hot warm tea and watched TV all day long. There was nothing else to be done. We had an additional set of holidays.

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What I am referring to here, is the trade union strike for forty eight hours, nationwide. It started on Feb 20^thmidnight. They had announced it weeks before, so it was easy, in a way. There was no need to worry about shortages in rice or soap or coconut oil. Feb 20^thwas a Wednesday and most of us came back home after work on Tuesday evening with a pack of chicken or beef or pork, that was, according to the availability.

As our place is getting increasingly narrow-minded in terms of religion and cast, chicken turned out to be the best-buy meat in town for any occasion. So if you did not want trouble buying pork or beef, you could resort to chicken. Another trouble in getting cattle meat or pig is that they are available only in special places. In order to reach there you have to take two or three buses in line. So in order to avoid such troubles of added bus ride after the day’s tiring work, and also to avoid spending more money on bus fairs, most of us came down to chicken on Tuesday evening.

We stood in front of the so-called “chicken-stalls” or butcher shops that can be found anywhere and everywhere, to buy freshly slaughtered fowls in curry-cut-pieces. Those who knew how to cook the legendary Malabar biriyani bought chickens in ‘biriyani-cut’. The line went a long way on to the main road and people stood close to rushing traffic and dust ignoring the dangers, dreaming about the steaming bowls of fowl curry flavoured with cinnamon leaves. You could survive a hundred Hartals with that flavour. Oh, my!

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Those among us, who were into drinking alcohol and know only one version of celebration, that is, screwing their heads off with drinking, kept their queues longer and steadier in front of Beverages Corporation. Only in the main city and government allotted places one can find the centres of Beverages Corporation. But that did not matter; some of us were ready to stand for hours in the line. The dream of two days with no work was more than enough to endure any long-hour line.

Those going to colleges and schools took the opportunity to play cricket or football in the deserted roads on the strike-days. There would not be any vehicles running or institutions working. Or took to video game CDs and DVDs and celebrated the days by watching movies and fighting virtual battles.  

“There is no question of right or wrong in freedom,” says J. Krishnamurthy. The freedom that our fragile and naked ancestors gained for us, even without firing a bullet would let us live with this guarantee. No one would ask what is right or what is wrong.

February has only twenty working days. Cut two days from twenty, if becomes eighteen. This was a sad part, because two days’ less pay could be considerably harmful at a time when the price tags run the length of size ten Bata shoes. But it was ok for some of us, because this two-day strike was a humble attempt to bring the government to notice how much the workers in this nation are suffering because of less payment and price hikes.

Most of us believed that “service providers” or entrepreneurs cannot be counted as ‘workers’. For most of us, it was easy and better to think the managements as the bad guys. But who is a ‘worker’ then? If someone works as a porter, isn’t he providing and managing his agility and strength for the customer? Isn’t he the manager of his skills to lift heavy weights? A teacher; isn’t he or she selling his teaching skills to the consumers—here consumers are both students and the institution.

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Then, who was it the strike for? Most of us think about this paradigm shift and are aware of it. But we cannot undermine the chicken being cooked and the movies in the Telly. And some of us are realistic enough that they are afraid to say things out loud. Some of us prefer just ‘thinking’. Thoughts are secret enough, aren't they? And thoughts are better, because we can think and simultaneously watch our cricket matches.  

Sometimes, truth is like preparing chicken curry. One must avoid some unwanted parts from the chicken in order to make the curry better. To make it sound better and entertaining some instances do not appear in this article. They are concerned with those people who had their marriages planned on these two days, those who needed emergency operations, those with heart palpitations, those visiting their relatives from distant places, etc. The list is long and is obviously tiring. Unfortunately, it has less political-entertainment value to it. So those issues should not be mentioned anywhere.

By the way, most of us would admit, the chicken was tasty and full value for money. 

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James Patterson's "Private" will be reviewed here, soon.

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Imagination often becomes my factotum in daily affairs. It helps me wake up at the start of every lousy day and pushes me forward, showing me impressive things, giving me the baksheesh of hopes and so on. I am not against this elusive partner. I, sort of, like it. That is the reason why I suspend my questions about what would happen in the future, if the ‘what if’ of imagination leads my way.

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To tell you the truth, imagination never betrayed me, although some times, the grand pictures it shows about the time to come and the time present fail to materialize completely. But that is OK. Materials are of this world. Imagination is of another.

Jan 14^th, 2013 morning, I woke up thinking about what if I create an idea for a sequel to James Patterson’s new series of novels, Private. I wanted to keep that thread of imagination hidden away in my coffer, so that no one could copy it or take advantage of it. Patterson had already written five volumes of Private, placing the story in different capital cities around the world. The latest two carried the names of their locations in the title itself—Private London and Private Berlin. I got curious about the series only when Private Berlin was released and the news was mailed to me from James Patterson’s website.

So why shouldn’t the next book be Private New Delhi?! Or, may be, Private Delhi? The thought excited me and drove the sleep out of my arm hairs. That was amazing—all of them stood up!

I created a well sketched plan. I must create a plot, an outline and characters.

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The next step was writing a query to the master of thrillers himself, asking if he can collaborate with me, writing Private Delhi.

‘Private’ is the world’s most exclusive detective agency. The plot I wrote down evolved around the Private office in Delhi. One of their team members goes missing and so on. I cannot describe it all here, because after all, I can use this plot for some other story I write in the future. Also, even if I do not use this plot any more, I just do not want a copycat to copy all my ideas and publish them before I do.

Jan 22, Tuesday; I was in the local bus to my college in the morning, where I work as a lecturer. There, from bus stand, I bought my usual English daily. It has a books’ page. That is the main reason I buy this paper. The news went something like this; “Private India; James Patterson to collaborate with Aswin Sanghi”!! My heart felt heavy.

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It was surprising in a shocking way. What was that?! I mean, not Patterson collaborating with Sanghi. But I mean all of it! The very idea of collaborating with an Indian author and the next book being set in India! The working title of the book is set to be Private India. This news was first announced on 21^st, on the Random House website. It was not known to anyone out in the world, on or before Jan 14^th, 2013 morning.

The leap my imagination took was rather a journey into an already initiated plan. Of course, both the writers must have planned the book earlier itself if they were able to announce it by 21^st Jan. Now I know my imagination had taken me into that realm. My plot is wasted. But still I cherish those moments when the idea came to me of writing Private series, just for the thrill of it.

It looks very much like a planned co-incidence that I received Private, by Patterson and Maxine Paetro, for book review. The writer, I wished so much to collaborate with, is about to be reviewed, by the same mind that conjured up the image in front of me on that early January morning. Is it co-incidence or synchronicity; the whole universe collaborating through invisible links?

Coming soon is the book review PRIVATE: THE WORLD’S MOST EXCLUSIVE DETECTIVE AGENCY by James Patterson and Maxine Paetro.

This book review is sponsored by: http://www.mysmartprice.com/books/

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Official Page Inauguration

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Art.

What is it?

May be, just may be, if you answer this question, you will forever cast out art! That is, if art is the spontaneous and requiring the interference of the Divine, the indefinable then by defining it, you are ruining it.

Or perhaps, the answer to the question above is art itself. If art exists for its own sake, then the answer to what art is, carries everything it needs to survive.

Let’s go down to the bottom of this question now and find out what the basic element in both these hypotheses is. 

Undoubtedly, it is the spectator.

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Art is created for eyes, ears, minds, souls and beings. Without them, art is meaningless and has no right to exist. To some part, this is close enough to exhibitionism, isn’t it? Well, we better do not judge. I said that because most of us believe in the power of judgment to either simplify everything for them, or just to control the vastness of senselessness around them. These types of people cannot survive without passing a judgment over someone, something or another idea.

I remember John Grisham’s comment on book critics. He says they are people with an unpublished manuscript in their drawer.

Often the criticism becomes judgmental, which mostly owes to this unpublished manuscript hiding within their drawers. The less judgmental a critical essay is the better. But that is, of course, impossible. You read a good book, and you desperately want to say that it is good. How can you not? It is totally worth the experience. You simply say it and by proclaiming the book to be good, you are judgmental, surely in a positive way.

It is impossible for an artist to live without judgments or criticisms, fierce or mild. He must survive this, like a phoenix burning in the fire of its own creation. And he should come back, too. Since, that is the only way he can venerate his art.

Art is a way in itself. It writes the name of the artist in eternal letters, however small his endeavours are.

Here is a small endeavour to reach out to many of you, through Facebook; in order to reach spectators.

An official Facebook page for The Indian Commentator is launched here. 

Courtesy: Screen shot; Anu Lal

Go to: http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Indian-Commentator/573224022706603?fref=ts

   

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Literature Festivals—The Indian Version

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The epilogue to Jaipur Literature Fest was a police notice to the organizers. The police had asked them to stay in the city until the investigation on the sociologist Ashis Nandi’s statement is completed. Ashis Nandy, a prominent figure in the Indian socio-political and cultural scene had made a statement regarding corruption during one of the speeches he made in the festival. His whiplash was not just targeted at corruption alone, but caste. And not just any caste, but those who are traditionally classified as the “lower castes”.

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Ashis Nandi said; “most of the corrupt come from the OBC, the Scheduled castes and now increasingly STs, and as long as it was the case, the Indian Republic would survive.” The question of truth in this statement is meaningless to search for. As one can see, he had made a blind generalization on the relationship between corruption and people from lower caste. People from these communities enjoy reservation in government jobs and academics. But corruption is not the doing of lower-caste people alone. People from those castes and communities who belong to the elite quota also attach the same evil to the system, when they are chosen for jobs on the basis of baksheesh or political influence. In other words, corruption is mainly an issue that has its causes hidden in the ground level building of the system.   

Lit Fests are not exactly meant for preaching a higher order of consciousness or even art. They are meant to propagate self-righteousness and political propagandas. Or that is the idea any one can get from watching and hearing what is happening out there. A select few who can read and write, can afford to buy books and can pay for the transportation to the location of the festival and manage to get a free pass, or even get to participate in these festivals. And Ashis Nandy played his part to add masala to the world of high-artfulness.

Ashis Nandy
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But this year’s Jaipur Lit Fest was not just about a caste monger. It was also about absences. The Hindu right wing deftly managed to keep the Pakistani writer’s at bay from the Fest. Needless to say, Pakistan hosts a bunch of very promising literary talents, including Kamila Shamsie, the Orange Prize runner up for her novel Burnt Shadows. The Hindu right wing’s demand not to include writers from Pakistan to the fest was in resonance with the surging patriotic spirits in the post-LoC breach period by Pakistan’s cooli-army.

Due to some reasons I could not attend this year’s J L F. With Indian Literature festivals getting more and more violent and shifting in centre towards mean and pitiable political stunts, it seems my lack of presence was in itself was a reward. But as an enthusiast of this art form of words on pages, I would sure be looking for some action in real. I have written down reminders for the upcoming major Literature Festivals in India. One is the Bangalore Literature Festival, which was conducted during early December, in 2012. The hope is that this year too, probably from December 7^thto 9^th we can expect this Festival. Another forthcoming literature festival is the Goa arts and Literary Festival. It is a five day festival, which started from December 13^th, the previous year. So this year too we can expect it around that same time. These two are special because of the places they are planned in.

Kamila Shamsie
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Of course, it is not just about books or meeting their writers, but the traveling to places and meeting people and seeing cultures. Goa and Bangaloreseem to be welcoming places for someone who loves mild weather and tourist spots. In no way would these two places be less significant compared to Jaipur Fest.

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