neither 'charles' nor 'da vinci'

THE MAHAL'S STORY

2010-05-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

It was a may day – hot and sultry- and I was just out of routine. Theory and history have taken a toll on my sense of real and practical – ‘ities’. I was home and it had just rained the previous day. Thunder showers are a reprieve, some say but it has to rain heavily in order to entirely realize the respite. It rained. The night was dark, power-less as well as mosquito-less. However, the next morning was hot and sultry, un-respite-fully.

We went to a betrothal - My Uncle’s. He was a chemist in the Arab emirates. He was a guy who went the hard way up. The Mahal wore a festive look. There were songs in the air. The spicy chicken masala’s sailed past our noses. Noices, cries, whispers and confusion. Everything happened except the betrothal. For they were waiting … actually… were made to wait.

The bride-to-be was nowhere to be seen. The man-to-be was anxious. Actually the ambience made him act that way. There were allegations and the tones that rose, arose to create only problems. However, nothing deterred the would-be couple. They acted the way they ought to. Then the unexpected happened.

The power went off. The Mahal was filled with exhaled heat and mouthed clatters. It was de-silenced. If the Mahal had a story to tell, would it distinguish between the many functions it witnessed? How many festivities? – Grand and casual; People of different castes and classes; regions and religions; cultures and ethnicities. The Mahal knew none. However, it could have recognized a pattern in all the proceedings; A dramatic outline in the revelry. And it is performance that drives the social-real in. The Mahal of course has stories and it must be a million tales of a particular version. If its walls had had ears and its fans eyes; the versions we could have known might have been disturbing.

Ah the bride arrives… along with the noises/voices.
Lenny.

SHADOW-S

2010-01-16T05:59:00.000-08:00

Loose baggy pants, yellowish white shirt, unkempt receding hair, head stooped down, dull eyes that looked over the spectacles, a bag on the shoulders - a shadow of depression, of unknown hatred and of uncertain confusion.

The shadow cycled the roads, everyday. The house to the school and back, to tuition centers, to special classes, to church, to Sunday school, to hospital … the shadow was diseased. Tied and fettered. It thought nothing was free; that everything had an investment, an amount to be paid – one liked it or not. Actually, it never thought. It was made to think. It was always shown an ideal to look up to. Whatever it did was practiced. It had lost its ability to create and think for itself. The shadow literally lost its source of existence and creativity. It became what it was projected – a shadow.

But the shadow had a dream, a hope. The more it was subjected unto, the more it dreamt of freeing itself from the projection. One day the shadow unfettered itself. It moved away, without any reason it escaped. It went in search of its identity – its self but it had lost it, forever.

The shadow had dreamt of fleeing free into the skies. Now it is captured in the maze of words inside four walls, stuck between a chair and a desk, in front of a screen – glued, its fingers danced according to many tunes. And it thought it dreamt freely.

The shadow now thinks it has realized its dream. It has actually learnt how to transform into many shadows. Shadows for different surroundings, for very many reasons. It had lost its source forever. Perhaps, the source itself was just a shadow!

The shadow became what it is.

BE PRE-CAUTIOUS!

2010-01-16T05:51:00.000-08:00

BE PRE-CAUTIOUS!

We take pre-cautions: A lot of them just to escape danger. We plan our life just to avoid danger, don’t we? We walk on pavements, exactly paved for us. Doing this ensures as well as conforms. It ensures safety from disaster as it conforms to an existing pattern of normality.

Anything chaotic is abnormal and dangerous as it disturbs the existing pattern. The pattern has been paved for a larger purpose. This purpose is something the commoners cannot understand. We are just made to follow it. One may protest yet ONE HAS TO OBEY.

Fear, my friend, works through notions of safety and normality: What if something goes wrong? What if someone dies? What if one is the cause for a disturbance? Everything now is fine, right? Then why disturb? Why do you anyway think of something that disturbs the existing pattern? - Why? What if? How could one?

These seeds are planted through a wonderful discourse of fear. Safety rules, anti-viruses, insurances, university degrees – all these institute a larger plan that ensures a feeling of safety and execute conformity. One eventually feels happy to accomplish these pre-cautions since it successfully evades us from danger.

Now, who really is the cause of danger? In accurate terms, who constructs this fear of danger and why?

For instance, I installed an anti-virus, last month. I spent a lump sum amount. I feared therefore I did: ensure and conform. This fear is caused by someone – a fear of being affected by a virus. This constructed fear comes with a hope of an antidote: an anti-virus. Apparently, fear and hope are two sides of the same coin. One cannot work without the other. One has to fear in order to see hope. Hence both fear and hope are constructed by the same person for a larger purpose – actually their purpose.

‘Trust me… Thou shall not fear, if you fear ME!’

interro'N'ation

2009-12-19T02:13:00.000-08:00

Nationalism and Nation-state: what are they? and how do they relate to my immediacy of the moment?
The right wing invests on the emotional quotient of an imagiNation, the left wing on the economic relationships and positions that emerge from a political, economic unit called state. Now I - a commoner, as Nasrudeen shah reflects in 'a wednesday': a stupid common man, without a face - can i relate with these concepts?

we live in our 'own' localized problems and solutions. we need a structural crisis to feel with the nation. for instance, we need a 26/11 or an Indo-pak war to feel what is to be an Indian. Primarily, through emotions and feelings, we shun our localities to participate in the larger structural conformities. It is always good to feel that we are part of a larger group: a group that always stays in the imagination.

i have read somewhere 'the theory of evolution' structurally works through an assumption. This assumption works on the imagination of time. hence, Can we materially know 10000 years. No, It can only be imagined. it's always imagined - It cannot be realized nor observed.

Hence, the monolithic national public is always an imagination. what is considered a national conscience is actually a dominant 'local' conscience. the Nation, perhaps is a conspiracy!

2009-11-13T10:21:00.000-08:00

அப்போதே தந்துவிட்டேன் உம்மிடம்

என் உடல், பொருள், ஆவி அனைத்தையும்-

ஒன்று இல்லை இவ்வுலகில் வைத்துக்குள்ள என்னிடம்:

இவ்வனைத்துக்கும் பதிலாக நான் வாஞ்சிப்பது

அடியேன் என்னை நீர் ஏற்றுக்கொள்வது:

அப்போதே தந்துவிட்டேன் உம்மிடம்

என் உடல், பொருள், ஆவி அனைத்தையும்-

பகிரவோ, சேர்க்கவோ இன்னும் இருந்திருந்தால் என்னிடம்

நான் வள்ளல்கள் கொடுப்பதுபோல் கொடுத்திருப்பேன்,

கீழே குனியாமல், குமிந்ததை ஒதுக்காமல்;

அப்போதே தந்துவிட்டேன் உம்மிடம்

என் உடல், பொருள், ஆவி அனைத்தையும்-

என் உடல், பொருள், ஆவி அனைத்தையும்.

a poem by Henry Newboldt
translated by
Leonard, Dickens.M

THE CAGE AND THE SHOES

2009-10-26T11:22:00.002-07:00

It was yet another day. The morning alarmed him back to consciousness. His eyes filtered the early morning light through the windows. Every day was a caged existence. He woke up to exist and then to sleep again. He was a routine. His mornings were automated. A bottle of water, a flush in the toilet, the gargle in the mouth, a flash on the face – his tryst with water in the morning would bid him good bye.

His eyes would then, search for The- morning –Hindu. He’d feel a part of India, every time he flipped through the pages. He negotiated and created an India of his own, every day, as he became a part of The– every day -Hindu.

But today was not to be yet another day. This morning was not be The Hindu’s. Today’s was The– unusual – times of India’s; An India with which he could not negotiate and relate with. The times of India were not his times. If at all, an India existed in it, it was not his India – he never wanted to negotiate with an India which was not an India of his times. For, he existed in a cage - a window, a table and a chair. His boundaries pre-determined his actions. He could not-NOT be caged. His space existed before him. Until his today was visited by a not-so-hindu times of India.

Her days were not to be the same anymore. Her frozen -black and white- smile smiled back to her. She kissed her smile with her nose. The print smell was still fresh. It filled her lungs. Her breath could suck it and exhale every bit of it. She loved doing it. She smiled back. The frozen smile reciprocated it from The – usual- Times of –her- India. Her games were not her sports; her play was not her act and her masks - not her roles; for she was a champion. She was the India she dreams; the India she acts. She was present in the times of India.

Her phone sang, her shoes got life and the road ran back as a drop sweated it. She ran fast, the roads retreated faster. She was of the roads, and they belonged to her. She hit them every day. They were a routine in her life. She could not just be frozen.

His c‘age’-ing eyes. Her fr(l)ee-ing shoes. They belonged to each in their own spaces: One over tables, frozen on a chair; another on the roads, freed by the shoes. One defeated by the ‘unusual’ times that portrayed the frozen smiles; the other enabled by the ‘shoes’ that freed her into the times of her India. His caged existence could not stop her freed exploration.

P.S: thoughts, words and phrases are stolen and used without acknowledgement.

TRADING TRADITION.

2009-10-26T06:47:00.000-07:00

Any tourist spot means business. A small vacant land or a piece of log would be ‘museumised’ for eternity – a wonderful idea that makes business. Why do places/spaces demand this attention? What makes it different, so much so that, we rush to them spending the most, we possess? The simple available answer (that we love to think) is – ‘the place demands this necessity’ … or … do we create and attribute this necessity? For instance, a whole commercial system works around the aura of this place – exotica, if I’m allowed to pronounce this oft-repeated term. Who creates this place and generates this system of differential attributes? The travel agency, the government or the place itself? Perhaps, ‘WE’ do. We ‘want’ a place to be different – out of the ordinary. Difference -here perhaps- is commercial. We make it commercial. We attribute commerce. Hence we play an important role in constructing a commercial aura of a place. Hence, the habit of visiting places by spending money signifies a lot about human behavior.

Now, why do we visit places at all? Tourism – we know, is more about being at the right place at the right time rather than just experience ‘being travelled’. The destiny becomes important than the travel. Then why would we just spend money to 'be' in places? Perhaps, the concept of ‘spending’ here is conceived as an investment - be it time or money. It is an investment on an aura – a status – a good feeling – a feeling of superiority therefore, an investment on the sense of exclusion. This sense is a ‘want’ that has to be ‘cultivated’. This ‘want’ is a construct. A ‘want’ is an act of sophistication, not a ‘need’. Perhaps, the industry meticulously works in converting all the ‘wants’ into ‘needs’. And we happily play our parts in desiring the wants to be converted into needs.

What if the government of India comes with a law that would co-sponsor the citizens to necessarily ‘tour India’ at least once in their lifetime, so that they experience the idea called India? What would happen then?

What was then necessarily, an act of sophistication would be converted into a compulsory act of necessity. Conversely, the discourse of exclusion breaks down as every place would become a place to be toured and everyone would become a tourist. All ‘spots’ would become sites of repeated attendance. Touring would become an act of/by/for the people - the commons. ‘De-aura-fication’ happens. Chaos would rule. Tourism then, would become a wonderful ‘working idea’, just like democracy, wouldn’t – it?

A system of exclusion would be converted into a system of legalized inclusion. Tourism would then be a necessary practice. The mass – the people would give meaning to it. The aura of a tourist place would change; nevertheless, the ones who tour them also would change. Everything changes or... would it?

This discourse of hope we wish and promise: The hope of a not-so-‘business’-like- activity of ‘busy-ness’ is an idea which, would not seem to mean business.

Oh… what a business that’d make, sir jeeeeeeeeeee... perhaps what could be better traded than an act of tradition?

THE WINDOW OR THE AISLE?

2009-06-30T00:48:00.000-07:00

THE WINDOW OR THE AISLE?

A bus drive teaches what a choice is. As one waits in a bus stop, it is only a matter of choice whether we board a bus or a van or an auto. Inside a bus, it is our choice that we stand or vehemently sit in someone else’s seat. Our choices rule our lives or … do they? What is a choice after all? Isn’t it another kind of compulsion that one is pushed into? The compulsion of a choice is a wonderful paradox.

One feels one is free. How mediocre we are? Here in India we have a discourse that says we are absolutely free to elect our own government. It is our choice it seems. Precisely, what say do we have in this collective conformity and mob behaviour? Aren’t we made to conform? Aren’t we made to think what we get actually suits us? Apparently, we are made to please others and by doing so we are pleased. This mechanism is an illusion - it appears. The whole system works like that. We become mobs. Therefore we have schemers to control us. The system is a scheme. It works for those who systemized it. We become the system – subjects on whom the schemes perfectly suit. We cannot work or act on our own. We are made to think that we are better only as a mob. The schemers, who are they? They unleash power over the mob by instigating their senses. They are sensual predators. The powerful politician, the over-caring parent, the over-protective spouse, the patronizing teacher, the all advising pastor and the-good-for-nothing culture – all of them are nothing but sensual predators looking out for their prey.

As prey we apparently become the bus in which we travel. We become what we travel - devoid of our individuality, our identity and our self. The predators make us either a TNSTC or a Metro. We become crowds and they the crowd pullers. However, even in this predator – prey scenario, a bus driver preserves his core. However, s/he cannot act on his own will. A larger scheme of things controls him - the traffic rules, the passengers and also the conductor. It’s a system of conformity.

The contradictions are galore. Therefore a public domain in itself is self-contradictory. ‘Public’ loses its meaning in the absence of the ‘private’. Both attribute meanings to each other. By doing so, they become self-contradictory. Schemes are contradictory since they are devised by schemers. The subject i.e. the prey ironically has a great respect over its schemers - the predator. Now do we need a better paradox?

THE INVENTION OF A 6:30

2009-06-30T00:35:00.000-07:00

THE INVENTION OF A 6:30

An old milk maid used to come to our home every day at 6:30 in the morning. She was what she did. She was a 6:30. Every day, whether the weather be hot or whether the weather be cold, she would be there at 6:30. She was old and withered but strong – she carried an old milk can – old and withered but strong. It carried what it had - Milk. She got us milk - alone and persistent, everyday. She became what she did every day. She became a 6:30. She became the calling bell that buzzed aloud everyday whether the weather be …or whether the weather be… she became the old droning voice – kind, interactive and patient. She became the old woman who brought us milk. She had no name. She had no identity but for the work she did, everyday.

I used to look at her - at her eyes. They would seem to smile, grin and laugh. I understood those very expressions. To me, she became what she was not. I saw ‘us’ through her. To her, we were what she was not. We were just, yet another 6:30, in an array of so many 30s in her monotonous cline. We were not defined by our work or our actions. We were what we paid her and what we received from her. We were the milk that she gives. We were the money that she receives. And we were just one among many.

She was an old milk maid. She was what she did and we invented her.

MUMBAI 26/11 - A CELEBRITY DISASTER

2009-02-05T06:51:00.000-08:00

The idea of a nation is the most celebrated idea that media mediates during a disaster. mumbai 26/11 is such one. here's an analysis of how media transformed a terror disaster into a celebrity disaster.

MUMBAI 26/11 - A CELEBRITY DISASTER

The role of media and the relationship between media and audience were influential in making the recent Mumbai terror attacks into a celebrity disaster. The terror site (taj hotel) was made into a celebrity site through images which depicted terror. The images were converted into a system of signs. Apparently, the signs signified multiple meanings and worked as a text. By doing so, the idea of India as a nation was condensed and mediated as a celebrity idea.

1. Media’s role

Live coverage and commentary (for a continuous 60 hours) gave the attacks a spectacle effect. Media portrayed a monolithic depiction of the popular reaction. In captions like ‘political India responds unitedly’, ‘a grave moment to the nation’ and etc., it homogenised the response. The disaster’s mediation accounted a narrative of unity and integration. Western media and Indian media (English) appropriated as well as borrowed coinages. For instance – ‘India’s 9/11’, ‘war on terror’,’ India strikes back’. Media was reactive and therefore provocative. Indian media portrayed a celebrity driven response where as Western media portrayed the terror site (India) as chaotic and exotic. For example- the Larry king’s (cnn) guest, post- attack was Deepak chopra, a philosopher and a post modern guru. As a celebrity is mediated and constructed through media, this disaster was mediated and constructed by tv news channels. However, Mumbai 26/11 became a celebrity disaster due to audience’s participation in co-constructing the text.

2. Construction of Audience.

The audience was conditioned to learn the reaction from the media. This created a distant yet intimate relationship with the gravity of the disaster. Media urged businessmen, authors, corporate leaders, media personalities, bollywood celebrities and sports icons respond to the attacks. Therefore, the people who reported, they themselves were an audience to the disaster. The tv audience were conditioned to believe that Pakistan was their enemy and one should lose faith in the Indian government. An attempt was made to create an ‘alternate government space’. Therefore, media worked as a consent generating machinery.However, there was an interface between media and audience in the internet space. Social network sites such as twitter and jextr updated live feeds of the proceedings. It is reported that information came from people who updated from the besieged hotels. The stance of news media as an authoritative, authentic source of information was challenged. The differences between audience and media were partly erased. Co-construction happened in the mediation of information.Starting fan groups for karkare, sandeep unnikrishnan (over 7000 visits were made to his orkut profile, the week post attacks), and kasab/kasav were examples of co-constructing the celebrity, as authors as well as an audience.

3. ‘Terrorography’ and terror scapes.

Media used images of the terror sites to construct multiple meanings. For instance the image of ‘twin towers-9/11’ connotes America 9/11, alqaeda, George bush, the wars on terror (Afghanistan and Iraq), osama, obama and etc. The continuous telecast of the image of taj hotel blanketed by smoke is an analogy. In fact, visuals are necessary to construct a celebrity. Therefore these tele -visuals depicted crisis and converted the disaster site into a celebrity site.Later, the stories that revolved about jamsetji tata and taj, its history, deshmukh’s ‘terror tourism’ and taj as a potential site for producing films were examples of taj’s conversion into a celebrity site.As a story evolved around a ruin in the romantics, an attempt was made to mediate the idea of a nation through visuals of taj 26- 28/11.

As it Dawns - a short story

2008-11-26T20:20:00.000-08:00

AS IT DAWNS - A SHORT STORY BY LENNY.
the cell phone trembled as the glow flickered on its screen. the ring tone disturbed the silence around. the phone shuddered nervously before she answered it. it was past midnight. she stood there drowned in a shroud of darkness. the fan's motor just accompanied the speechless silence. the orangish glow from the night lamp in the corner made her, a mere contour. she was a 30 something, womanly-to-not-so-motherly features were evident in her appearance. she stood there dumbstruck . the phone slipped from her hand. silence prevailed. deaf to the silence around her,she muttered something and cried to herself. i negotiated it with a baritoned 'what?'. she graced me with a 'he-is-dangerously-ill' whisper.

'who?...where was the call from?...who called you?'

curiosity transformed into questions. there was a flash and then a thunder. i looked outside through the window. dark clouds had encroached the sky. it was pitch dark. i informed 'it's about to rain'.none of these things disturbed her. then she whispered to herself 'my husband ... he is dangerously ill. he..he is admitted in the apollo hospital. someone just called from his mobile'. i continued 'but...but..how?' words betrayed me. i noticed again a photo flash outside - a glimmer followed by a long rolling thunder. it made me speechless. it was pitch dark.

swapna was married to thanaraj and was settled in nungambakam, chennai. her husband worked in a call centre. 'he hardly sees the sunlight.' i'd often comment. i'd even wonder whether they've slept together. she slept her nights alone, when he talked to someone, somewhere, with an identity which she might never know. he slept alone when she taught students, whom he might never know. they were like day and light put together for namesake, i remembered. she had come back home, to MY home, for her vacation.

suddenly, i realized that it was still dark outside. my mind was in tune with the rumbling outside. it hadn't started to rain. then I looked at her, she was still silent. she had sunken into herself.The surrounding, amma, and I made no meaning to her presence. i went into the kitchen to return with a glass of water. i saw her crouched, her legs folded and grasped tightly by her embraced arms. i didn't see her cry but expected her to. i gave her the glasses and initiated slowly, 'Akka, do you.. believe in this message?' after a few seconds of doubtful silence, i disturbed it again.'I think we shouldn't worry about it, so hurriedly. Let us confirm first.' i talked with authority now. i suggested 'Akka, let us call Nambi mama and ask him to check with the hospital.' nambi mama was my sister's father in law. He stayed alone in chennai at kodambakkam. The Apollo hospital was a fifteen minute drive from his residence. she took a minute and replied with a delicate but resolved voice 'i want to go there now.'
by the time she had informed Nambi mama, i was ready in the car, clad in my brown cargos and a sweat shirt. the Jerkin laid untouched in the back seat. she was in her white chudis wearing a black overcoat and her hand bag dangled her way to the car. the clouds were spread as an umbrella, they sprawled across like a mushroom over our head. i checked my watch. it showed the digits 03:18. the road was hardly visible. the lights of the car now into action made the darkness ahead darker as i wheeled it. the dark sky now roared furiously and it warned me to drive faster. and suddenly I hit the breaks as the cloud released theirs. the car jerked. it rained and rained and rained. the road to kodambakkam via anna salai was flodded with water. we floated through puddles, sailed across rushing streams beaten by water-drop-arrows.
we passed the long stretch of marina, waved past higgin bothams, LIC building and the spencers. suddenly she broke the rain-drop-silence. she croaked, ' what did i achieve in my life with this man? i..i..our life was never ours. i don't know how.. how to react to this situation..' she voiced it out loudly and then i remembered her head slide down on my shoulders. i expected her to cry but she didn't. with one hand on the steering, i realized the other being crushed by hers, as I ensured her comfort. It was still raining outside and the tyres ran two hours together. we then saw the rain disappear slowly before us. we reached apollo amidst a mild drizzle.
The clouds were now grey as somewhere far away, the sun was trying.. still trying to pierce in through the dark shroud.
i realized that nambi mama was not present anywhere. Neither was he on the reception nor was he available on phone. i pondered over his absence. it disturbed me. 'patient Thangaraj... yes, he was admitted here last night' - i inquired at the desk. five minutes later, 2 doctors beckoned us into a bright room. as we entered, she winked twice against the bright neon lamps. her eyes were pale red. she hadn't slept the whole night. then came the droning voice of the doctor coated with long lost hope. 'Mrs.Thangaraj...'
her body rustled in response to the name. the doctor continued,'mrs.Thangaraj, we are ... very sorry, we couldn't help. your husband passed away last night. he.. he had a massive cardiac arrest.'
Tears welled in her eyes as it dried away. i noticed blood rush to her cheeks which were pale until then. her lips parted slightly. i expected her to say something. she didn't.
the doctor passed her a form. it was the permission to retrieve his body from the mortuary. she left the room along with the doctors. i stood there silent and confused. the absence of Nambi mama perturbed my mind. a butterfly disturbed my chest. my head screamed aloud as my voice failed.
who called us?

how did they know him?

how did everything happen so suddenly?

above all, where is Nambi mama?

my mind raved with questions -unspoken, unanswered.
i noticed two nurses enter our room and part off the window screens. the sun was out. the dark clouds were nowhere around. the sky was clear. a cool breeze brushed my hair. then I saw my sister's lips curve as she came back from the mortuary after seeing the dead man's face.
the sunlight filled the room as the lights in the room were switched off. it had dawned.

lenny.

foot notes:

swapna- dream in sanskrit.

thanaraj-wealthy king in tamil.

nambi-origin from nambikkai in tamil meaning hope.

mama-uncle.

akka-elder sister.

WHO AM I?

2007-09-07T07:23:00.000-07:00

"AM I A BIRD SCULPT TO FLY?!

AM I A BEAST DESTINED TO ROAR?!

AM I A REPTILE CHISELLED TO SWIM?!

OR AM I WHAT I AM!"

for i'm identified as DICKENS LEONARD, but unlike charles and vinci, i neither write nor paint but in order to identify myself i paint words and write paintings.

I believe in "thrusting and creating destinies", As some are born great, some achieve greatness but very few create greatness.

having graduated from LOYOLA,Chennai; Experience and exposure have devised and sculpt me into a bird startin and ignitin off to fly. 'Loving to meet people and cementin relationships' have been the protocol of my life till date, thro divine intervension!

At present i'm pursuin my post graduation studies at the central university-hyderabad in what i believe am good at. do experience humane relationship. so -LEZ FLY tog(a/e)ther!