A Mausterpiece

I have a confession to make. For the last few months, I have been suffering. Suffering from a complete lack of interest in things around me. The scheme and pattern of life seems monotonous, with nary a break in between, to relieve this bored soul. The monotony of daily humdrum grates inside, but there is little to no interest in pursuing a solution for the same.

This extends from (remaining) relationships, interest in the happenings around me (Whoop dee doo! Women have reservation in a parliament that was founded on a bedrock of equality in the first place), movies, music and yes, even books.

A dear friend of mine had mailed me and had asked me what book I was reading at the moment. His question had me stumped, as I was unable to give a definite answer one way or the other. On one hand, I have not been reading the traditional bound books regularly of late. There have a been a couple of wrestling related biographies, two Pynchon novels I am still trying to figure out, and a whole stack of classics that I bought at a good price at the book fair, and which have been gathering dust ( and religiously cleaned) since. But it's not the same sort of reading that I had been erstwhile pursuing in school or college even.

However, there is a caveat. There has been one form of fiction which I have been doggedly pursuing for the last 7 years. That form of fiction usually associated with the younger ones of society. Our first introduction to the world of infinite colours, shapes and lessons in morality, achievement and the maze of relationships that await us in adulthood.

Comics.

Sure, I follow the mainstream comic arcs like anyone else. I too await with bated breath for the resolution of the Blackest night and welcome the Return of Bruce Wayne. But outside of Marvel and DC, and to some extent Vertigo, I have been spreading my reading list and picking some true gems. Two graphic novels in particular, have made me pause and think and consequently elevate the appreciation I have for comic books.

One of these was the brilliant Aesterios Polyp, which I will write about someday, and the other one is the subject of this blog post.

Maus by Art Spiegelman.

Ever since I read The Watchmen by Alan Moore, I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, comic books could at time push and stretch into the realm of literature. Very few books have generated that kind of a response from me. I felt the same way reading Maus, aware that I held in my hand a piece of work so remarkable and so unlike anything i'd read before, that it was sure to provoke long sessions of introspection in the days ahead.

I have read, heard and watched quite a few material dealing with The Holocaust in my time. I have been horrified and saddened by those stories. But the personal connection just wasn't there. It was like reading about the World wars, looking at the maps, pausing at the fading photos in our history books, before moving onto the cold war period.

But this book! It's not just the metaphorical transformation of Jews into mice, Aryans into Cats, Poles into pigs, Americans into dogs that grabs you. No, what is remarkable is to read about the story within the story that unfolds. Art's battles with his past, his guilt whenever he sees his father, coming to terms with the baggage of his father's survival, the ending of the first part, where his father stands outside the gates of Auschwitz for the first time. Remarkable scenes the sent a shiver down the spine.

It is a relentless merciless tale that pounds you with details of human suffering and indignity. The tragedy in the tale is not just the horrors Art's father survives, but, as another survivor puts it to Art, “It was not the best who died, nor the best who survived. It was random”. No, there are no fairy tale endings here either. We find out that Art's mom, who battles both a frail health, depression as well as oppression, still fails to find an anchor of happiness and succumbs to fatalism. Art's father survives the worst of the war, only to wage another war against loneliness, trying in vain to reconnect with a son who is more interested in his tales of past suffering, but shies away from helping Art out with his present suffering.

Two things that linger on for me. After his father talks about the gas chambers, Art comes out onto the porch with his wife, where they discuss their inability to comprehend the full extent of what his father had endured. A couple of bugs sting them and Art sprays the bugs with pesticide with a nonchalance that the Nazis had in the concentration camps. The other of course is the beautiful way he shows the Mice donning a pig's mask (assuming a polish identity) at various times, to survive in various situations. If there has been a truer depiction of the various garbs we adorn in our lives, I would love to read it.

Maus is work of brutal, honest art. There are images in there that will haunt me forever. It's as much a celebration of survival as it is an exploration of our innate darkness. It is also depressing to realise that a race which has been subject to persecution of the worst kind, today indulges in the same atrocities that were once lent upon them.

Sometimes, literature like this can make elements of nihilism seem very compelling and hard to argue against. Stuff like this can both increase your hope in humanity and decrease your optimism about the future at the same.

After reading Maus, I can no longer feel feel a twinge of embarrassment at revealing what I have been upto. My friend, I read comics. Proudly. And I am not a kid.

Thoughts through a free fall

Well, whaddaya know, I finally managed to watch a movie in that hallowed realm of budgetary reality, last minute arrival and fear of returning from the theatre empty handed, without a ticket. Yup, I finally became what I had long imagined myself one day to be, a front bencher.

The movie chosen for the honour was Avatar. Not much of a story as such, but what a rich canvas! 3D is the way of the future for sure. But since coming into touch with my limited critiquing abilities, I have ceased reviewing movies and games. What I will talk about instead, is the one image that I carried back with me, all the way to home. That magical moment when we dive into Pandora, from the gates of heaven. A heart stopping, breath taking moment that left me numb and smiling wistfully like a dumb pup.

Why do flying and diving hold such fascination for most of us? Is it an inner expression of freedom that rings true throughout the passage of time? A defiance against the oppressive bond of gravity that makes us drag our feet through the earth? And the activity of diving, when you return to your abode, picking up speed, wind whistling around you, wind buffeting and holding you up, the ground swelling and sprinting to embrace you. And in the last second, you hold up, and pull thumb your nose at the eager earth below as you take your time in making contact again.

We build the tallest buildings in the world, straining our necks to see the top and imagining what the view must be like from up there. And when you get there, the first thing you do is look down at the ground you just left. Why?

It's the same thing with flying. On the ground you can't wait to be airborne and during take off, a weird thrill courses through your head, as you wait with bated breath for that magic moment, when the wheels break free of the runway and the wings shudder. A couple of drops and rise that churn your stomach. All this while, your eyes are not focused on the unfamiliar neighbourhood you're passing through, but instead gazing back at the land below, taking in its shapes and contours, even though you've spent all your life on it.

Is our life then spent in jealousy of the birds and insects, free to go wherever they want, unencumbered by visas and passports, not fazed by the huge tracts of lands between destinations? All the shifting of bases nothing more than a throwback to our migration instincts? Is it why each time, a plane passes overhead, we all crane our necks up to take in its passage, even though it remains a sight as familiar as the bus or train arriving at their destinations? Is that why poets soar on flights of fancy to reach new heights and crash to all time new lows?

Cripes, where's the rip cord on this thing? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH

The Trap

Beads of Sweat rolling down my head.
Breath comes catching, careful i tread.
In a frustrated punch,palm meets palm,
as I tiptoe around the calm eye of a storm.

One by one, did i watch them fall.
Surrender their freedom, as chains are worn.
I cringe as i gnash my teeth,
their looks of contentment, let me down.

A farewell to a happier time.
Smiles and cheers didn't feel like a crime.
When we rode the winds without a care,
worries didn't drag us, death did we stare.

Now my fellow riders are bogged down,
bearing a cross made of worries, a world of doubting frowns,
Lines of sorrow, do mark a once cheerful face,
Mighty steeds, tragic, as they slow down.

A beacon that calls to those who would heed.
as i stand firm, in the bulwark of single hood,

Hark unto me, escape the noose that hangs,
to yank you into a life of servitude.

Heed my clarion call, turn a deaf ear to marital vows.
Women and men, learn to overthrow the yoke.
Live life as we were meant to live,
Not reduced to rehashed sitcom jokes.

Those trapped do yearn to be,
free as nature, like you and me.
Stay happy, stay single, stay strong.
A life full of grief, despair, arguments, inadequacy,
is surely a way of life that is wrong.

A life without commitment or "Quality time".
Guilt free to pursue what I think should be mine.
Sample the various flavors, drink in all the hues of the sun.
Why stop an epic tale, with an end at Chapter One?

Grounded Roots

You know how things go in the twenties. Your thoughts oscillate like a teenager, your mind clamors for stability like a middle aged man and your sighs betray a want for a break from the hectic pace of life, in the stages where one should enter Vanaprastha and Sanyasa.

Tumultuous, torrid, confusing, soul shattering thoughts that makes one relive the imagined glories of the past in the morning, contemplate the exciting mysteries of tomorrow in the afternoon, before being dragged kicking and screaming, to live through the weary, burdensome chores of today, in the evening.

Well, one particular morning, when pangs of nostalgia proved exceptionally enchanting, i pulled out my school album. Besides the initial shock (S#$T, i used to look like that!! Wow, i had so much Hair!!) one thing that particularly struck me was, almost everyone in the album had moved outside Chennai. I'll be the first to admit I'm rotten at keeping in touch with folks. There's just a couple of people from school I keep in occasional touch with. But i do know that a lot of the people smirking, giggling, whispering, with a shine in their eyes, unaware of the disappointments, joys and turbulent phase of life ahead of them. As i looked at them, i wondered, how many of them will look at their school photos and wonder, Chennai is where i became the person i am today?

And as is usual, my thoughts then extended to a generation before us. A lot of them from small corners of India. In a Tam Bram family like mine, places you come across frequently in the journey into what has gone past include Kumbakkonam, Sriperumbudur, Virudhangar, Thanjavur, Karaikudi, and so on. A lot of those folks used to tell me, that Madras (love that name) used to be the promised land for them. A place with the promise of ever flowing rivers of milk and Coffee. A place where people got rich, and linked to the grand engine called South India.

A lot of them have grandchildren growing up in America. And in the span of two generations, a chasm has emerged. A gulf dividing cultures, sensibilities, viewpoints and beliefs. I have sadly, never made a trip to the towns where my grandparents grew up. Yet, i can imagine that my urban upbringing will bring about a disconnect if I ever do manage to make a trip.

There are stories there that i will never know about, sadly. About the frustrations at the moment when it dawns on you, that the well which forms the limits of your world, the arduous fights that mark your climb outside, being awestruck at the expanse of the world which awaits outside, yet which doesn't greet you. And the knowledge that once you cross the line, you can never truly come back. And the consequences of that moment.

The struggles of adjustment in a foreign land, coming to terms with the demands of frugality. Learning to cope up with the battles of being a lone wolf, away from the cocooned existence in the pack. Watching your children grow up as total strangers to your way of life. The proud moment when they spread their wings, and the sadness which marks their journey away from home, to lands beyond the extent to which eyes can see.

And finally, the loneliness. In the twilight of your life, in a land which you made your home. Cutoff from the past, yearning for it.

Stories that repeat themselves, over and over. Stories I would have loved to hear, Stories that will sadly, remain unknown to me.

Why do such thoughts occur to me? I really don't know. Will they continue to come to me? Absolutely. Will I make something of them? Working on it.

That's all i wrote.