On the Edge
Because the dial quivers, the heart quivers with it: on what side of the divide will it settle? It settles on the far side. Four kilos gained in six days. After stowing away the scale I jump without bending my knees, trying to propel the bulk closer to the ceiling, assessing the strain it puts on the calves. Six jumps, clearing no more than nine inches at best, and then thumping down to the floor like lard dropped from a cliff-edge. The heart is sluggish in its struggle as if smothered under a net of fat. Tiny sparks of light ring the head and buzz inside the ears. Phlegm announces its late arrival to the melee. From the effort expended on six small leaps a cold, cold film of sweat covers the body.
It is raining outside, a dead drizzle, no wind, no beam of sun shafting in from the skies, no thunder stirring the distance, just a drizzle that alights more than it rains. I rush outside, walking in a large circle around the neighborhood, envying my friends who are walking in Changunarayan, from where Rakesh will betray Yagya on Facebook with an embarrassing photograph. At the wrong chowk, of course, the wait for a microbus to Tokha is fruitless. At the right chowk, the microbus is crowded and mud-splattered.
At Tokha, I am the only person standing in the light rain, unsure about where to go next. Whim is no magic carpet. The village is at once new and ancient: lime-green paint climbs six stories on a skinny house under which water-pumps whir under strain. Paved alleys twist around low houses. There is the fine black squelch of muck in the streets that smell of an old settlement. I had always imagined Tokha to be further north, a small village peopled with temples and aged men with cataract-clouded eyes. But there is nobody in the streets. From an unseen workshop comes the regular screech of a mechanical saw splitting wood. My plastic slippers normally reserved for the roof slip over the bricks. I look into shops to see what might keep me from leaving Tokha after barely touching its edge. Nothing.
School bell and the shouts of children brings out a Sahuji to the street. There is a sheer drop just outside his shop, a cliff where, he proudly tells me, a hospital building is planned. A hundred meters away is a school from where children spill in twos and threes. Two little girls hold hands as they run uphill, all the way to the village. Two older children arrive at Sahuji's shop where I sit on a low chair, looking out. One buys fife-rupees worth of broken noodles and daalmoth. Her friend buys three-rupees of dry coconut. They run towards the school, still holding hands, not worried about the rain or the steep gradient of the slippery road. From the Sahuji's shop, the children in sky and navy blue uniforms looks like an army of ants.
Sahuji makes small talk. I am amazed that it is still possible to buy a piece of dry coconut for three-rupees. Dates and coconut and rock sugar, the stuff of rural childhood, from Narendra Dai to children in Tokha! Sahuji worries about Prachanda being denied the time to work. We talk about the price of vegetables: it is becoming impossible for a poor family to buy food. “If only politics didn't interfere with livelihood,” he says. If the capacity to interfere with people's livelihood, their ability to earn a meal or breath a lung-full of clean air is taken away from politics, what glamor is left to it? Why would anybody want to become a politician, if not to exceed the truth of history in order to put a foot on the throats of one group to promise a feast for another group? We bond in our immodest claim of insignificance, as citizens lamenting, despairing, spicing the view with cautious hope.
An old couple pauses to let me pass northwards, although there isn't a fourth person in sight. The ground is slippery and sleeked over with a tint of green, only recently awaking to the rain, not yet pliant enough to dig into with naked toes. At Chandeshwori stands a many-limbed, many-headed form of Kali, her red cement tongue lapping up the rain. Most names on the donors-list are from Doti. I find a name I think I know—Sunil Maskey, from Gorkha, a man who owned a rice mill in Abu Khaireni. It is a small world, I marvel, not pausing to examine the truth behind my assumption, hurrying towards the wet pine needles and chalky crumble of Shivapuri. Sting nettle slaps the shins and ainselu scratches the arms, but there are goat-trails to climb, the mist around the corner to dive through. If there is such an urgency, there must be a wonder fast dissolving. There is a sudden, short drop ahead—a bluff, not really a cliff, certainly without the perils of a precipice—and my plastic slippers go tumbling down.
Like Banquo's apparition, a man materializes on the streambed below, giving form to the thin mist to gaze at me before looking for a way up the opposite wall of the gully. I am seized with the desire to reach the streambed, to stand in the depressions left in the soil by his bulk, to check how I must appear to that man as I stand unshod and wearing shorts, wiping a pair of spectacles, teetering at the edge, a lump of lard about to drop off a cliff. The rain has made the chalky soil crumbly, gritty. Only after kicking and packing the dirt can a foot test it for hold; clods with green grass hold but dry clumps fly out in fistfuls, spraying mica behind eyelids. The moment comes when a leap is necessary, not over an impossible distance, but any loss of control will send this corpus careening, tumbling. There is no need to think. Aim with the eyes, jump, think after the fact.
The bag of guts jiggles with a hard shock of rebound. Banquo has long disappeared. There are no witnesses, not even the self, which seems to have tumbled on, leaving behind a deflated, disappointed body. What is the nature of this very personal triumph or failure? Nothing significant, nothing unique, nothing substantial. What is the victory of a body languishing in the depths? The climb up, the climb out, the climb back to the edge. The hope that the next time a body is projected over an edge, it will not fall, but soar over the mist, over the wet sheen over the world. To over-leap the limits of a mind deposited in a chair. To color the world with the flesh and dulcet gold of a mouthful of date and coconut. For now, I wonder how Banquo affected his disappearance.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
25!
1 Micro-Conflict* [Nov 9, 2008]
2 A Sky of Fire*
3 Caravan and Campfire
4 Malami
5 Blame Nobody
6 Lives of Jawang
7 Act III, Sundhara/Chase at Sundhara*
8 Toll and Fatigues*
9 Throw Out the Driver
10 The Weight of Things
11 Fog and Light*
12 Spring Comes Stealing
13 Khichari and Blindfolds*
14 Zeenat Aman Comes Calling*
15 Still Sixteen Hours!
16 Nigger, Baat Humri Maan!
17 Star and Dust
18 What do trees mean?*
19 Boring Uncle
20 On a wire
21 Bihari Nightmares*
22 Moonrise and Eunuch Song*
23 One Way Street*
24 Waiting for Tarkari*
25 Does Integrity Count?
26 Windows into Freedom
27 On the Edge*[scheduled for May 30, 2009]
[*] = 13.
Published: total = 26; [*] = 13.
2 A Sky of Fire*
3 Caravan and Campfire
4 Malami
5 Blame Nobody
6 Lives of Jawang
7 Act III, Sundhara/Chase at Sundhara*
8 Toll and Fatigues*
9 Throw Out the Driver
10 The Weight of Things
11 Fog and Light*
12 Spring Comes Stealing
13 Khichari and Blindfolds*
14 Zeenat Aman Comes Calling*
15 Still Sixteen Hours!
16 Nigger, Baat Humri Maan!
17 Star and Dust
18 What do trees mean?*
19 Boring Uncle
20 On a wire
21 Bihari Nightmares*
22 Moonrise and Eunuch Song*
23 One Way Street*
24 Waiting for Tarkari*
25 Does Integrity Count?
26 Windows into Freedom
27 On the Edge*[scheduled for May 30, 2009]
[*] = 13.
Published: total = 26; [*] = 13.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Last Post?
This might be my last post. I am contemplating deleting my facebook account also, were it not for some photos there which I don't want to lose... I am not trying to erase out memories, after all.
But I do want to go off the grid now, not stay in touch with people, focus on my work and not let anything else intrude into my life or tap into my emotional or intellectual resources. Not be distracted by anything.
Here's today's: [I haven't checked the paper, but I expect it was published. It is a terrible piece of writing, for which I apologize].
---
Windows into Freedom
Chobi Mela is a Bangladesh art tradition. The fifth edition of Chobi Mela has come to Kathmandu. The exhibition started on Friday, May 22, and concludes on Thursday, May 28, at Nepal Art Council Gallery in Babarmahal. It includes photographs by one Nepali artist, and there is a portrait of a Nepali woman in the body of another photographer's work. But this doesn't mean Nepali viewers won't feel the immediacy of most of the photographs in the exhibition. Whereas a photograph of young men leaping in the air to kick a donkey with "Gyanendra" painted on its side might draw chuckles or gasps of horror—what is the poor animal's fault?—other photographs will reduce the viewer to reverential fervor. From the strained wit of spectacles from the Burning Man festival to the quiet strength on faces of individuals whose portraits are only just the invitation to their stories of struggle for freedom, the travelling Chobi Mela, V, is bound to be a crowd pleaser in a city where photography as a cultural experience is a rare privilege. It is also bound to provoke thoughts in many directions.
Masaki Hirano's color photographs are among the quieter body of work in a festival dominated by high-drama narratives in black and white. The other series in color are obviously attractive—the Krazy Kumba Mela by Marti, for instance, with its surreal extremism, or Isabelle Eshraghi's decade-mature catalogue of Women, More than a Veil, where women behind veils surprise you with defiance more often than with complicity to a paternalistic narrative. But Hirano's series, Windows—2001, East Timor (From Down the Road of Life Series) is as contemplative as photography gets. It is full of implied moments, hidden movements, of light and color and the true blood with which art is constructed—the lives of others. If a viewer stands before these photographs of walls, windows and doors, if she cares to count just the layers of paint on a sun-washed wall, she will see the layers of narratives that Hirano has arranged in his photographs.
And these are arrangements, staged to proportional perfection. But these photographs don't yield to a cursory glance the story they contain. Hirano's photographs are without caption, a choice suited to the series if you consider the background of it: “When the independence of East Timor was settled, and the Indonesian army withdrew, Indonesia took advantage of its militia to burn down much of the infrastructure and many buildings. Approximately over 90 percent of private houses were burned down.” These very houses make the protagonists in this single-note story of suffering and defiance. And what attracts first with its color, then shocks with the revelations it can contain, is the square or rectangle of a blur sky that manages to enter each frame, each mood. The innocuous blue consolidates the threat to human life and culture from the era of repression in its recurrence in each photograph. The sun always slants down into what should have been roofed rooms, halls. Windows look past the edge of what must have been a family's intimate quarters, and sees palm fronds in the distance. Rusted tin bars windows: what should have protected from elements transforms into the malice of imprisonment. The translucent shoot of a papaya tree becomes a smirk, a measure of dark humor, as it strains upwards, but is framed by a window that frames in the far distance a small patch of blue sky, a dash of sunlight upon concrete walls without any familial or social function.
Hirano rescues the walls, their layers of paint. I was struck by exactly how many layers of paint I could count on a single wall. How many different lives must touch a wall to paint it over five times, six times, each into a vibrant, unique defiance? What function does such a wall play? There isn't a single inner wall of a house that still carries the soot of the fires that must have made them unusable, yet there are layers upon layers of chromatic playfulness; and Hirano arranging his forms, his squares and rectangles, around these colors on the wall or of the obtrusive exterior or the disarming blue of the sky above, transforms a simple view into a balanced, meditated work of art. Indeed, many of the photographs are in conversation with paintings by great masters. My notes for one of the photographs reads: “Rothko over Rousseau,” my shorthand to remember the arrangement of a rectangle of fading afternoon sky over weathered, rusted paint, and that “Rothko” over a mural of an elephant and a zebra in tall grass, more reminiscent of Rousseau's jungle paintings than a crude, childlike rendering. Sure, the mural alone was enough to suggest the nostalgia the people of Dili must feel for some culture, but it is Hirano's arrangement of the sky over the wall over the mural, in precise proportions, that includes it in a larger conversation about art.
Dili must have had an affinity for stringed instruments: in relief and murals, harpsichords and violins and cellos wait for somebody to come along and strum them. There is an entire jazz band outlined in a timelessly imprecise style, waiting on the walls of what must have been an oft-frequented watering hole. There are violins and cellos on the walls of a building that easily could have been a home, an arts center, a community hall. What the enemy has managed to burn out, what Hirano can only imply through his photographs, are the range of functions of the individual houses. Still, even as charcoal outlines, the intention of the people survive, surprise from unexpected corners: there is the ubiquitous Ché—perhaps in our age more often replicated than Buddha himself—outlined in his brooding rebellious intensity. It reminds the viewer that she isn't simply admiring the colors left on the walls by an oppressed people, or the superb mastery of shapes and colors shown by Hirano, but also that there lived a people in these abandoned houses that cared for things that make us truly human—music, political awareness and action, the desire and capacity to change our surroundings through layers after debated layers of color, and an awareness of where we belong in the jungle, among our fellow inhabitants of this planet.
But I do want to go off the grid now, not stay in touch with people, focus on my work and not let anything else intrude into my life or tap into my emotional or intellectual resources. Not be distracted by anything.
Here's today's: [I haven't checked the paper, but I expect it was published. It is a terrible piece of writing, for which I apologize].
---
Windows into Freedom
Chobi Mela is a Bangladesh art tradition. The fifth edition of Chobi Mela has come to Kathmandu. The exhibition started on Friday, May 22, and concludes on Thursday, May 28, at Nepal Art Council Gallery in Babarmahal. It includes photographs by one Nepali artist, and there is a portrait of a Nepali woman in the body of another photographer's work. But this doesn't mean Nepali viewers won't feel the immediacy of most of the photographs in the exhibition. Whereas a photograph of young men leaping in the air to kick a donkey with "Gyanendra" painted on its side might draw chuckles or gasps of horror—what is the poor animal's fault?—other photographs will reduce the viewer to reverential fervor. From the strained wit of spectacles from the Burning Man festival to the quiet strength on faces of individuals whose portraits are only just the invitation to their stories of struggle for freedom, the travelling Chobi Mela, V, is bound to be a crowd pleaser in a city where photography as a cultural experience is a rare privilege. It is also bound to provoke thoughts in many directions.
Masaki Hirano's color photographs are among the quieter body of work in a festival dominated by high-drama narratives in black and white. The other series in color are obviously attractive—the Krazy Kumba Mela by Marti, for instance, with its surreal extremism, or Isabelle Eshraghi's decade-mature catalogue of Women, More than a Veil, where women behind veils surprise you with defiance more often than with complicity to a paternalistic narrative. But Hirano's series, Windows—2001, East Timor (From Down the Road of Life Series) is as contemplative as photography gets. It is full of implied moments, hidden movements, of light and color and the true blood with which art is constructed—the lives of others. If a viewer stands before these photographs of walls, windows and doors, if she cares to count just the layers of paint on a sun-washed wall, she will see the layers of narratives that Hirano has arranged in his photographs.
And these are arrangements, staged to proportional perfection. But these photographs don't yield to a cursory glance the story they contain. Hirano's photographs are without caption, a choice suited to the series if you consider the background of it: “When the independence of East Timor was settled, and the Indonesian army withdrew, Indonesia took advantage of its militia to burn down much of the infrastructure and many buildings. Approximately over 90 percent of private houses were burned down.” These very houses make the protagonists in this single-note story of suffering and defiance. And what attracts first with its color, then shocks with the revelations it can contain, is the square or rectangle of a blur sky that manages to enter each frame, each mood. The innocuous blue consolidates the threat to human life and culture from the era of repression in its recurrence in each photograph. The sun always slants down into what should have been roofed rooms, halls. Windows look past the edge of what must have been a family's intimate quarters, and sees palm fronds in the distance. Rusted tin bars windows: what should have protected from elements transforms into the malice of imprisonment. The translucent shoot of a papaya tree becomes a smirk, a measure of dark humor, as it strains upwards, but is framed by a window that frames in the far distance a small patch of blue sky, a dash of sunlight upon concrete walls without any familial or social function.
Hirano rescues the walls, their layers of paint. I was struck by exactly how many layers of paint I could count on a single wall. How many different lives must touch a wall to paint it over five times, six times, each into a vibrant, unique defiance? What function does such a wall play? There isn't a single inner wall of a house that still carries the soot of the fires that must have made them unusable, yet there are layers upon layers of chromatic playfulness; and Hirano arranging his forms, his squares and rectangles, around these colors on the wall or of the obtrusive exterior or the disarming blue of the sky above, transforms a simple view into a balanced, meditated work of art. Indeed, many of the photographs are in conversation with paintings by great masters. My notes for one of the photographs reads: “Rothko over Rousseau,” my shorthand to remember the arrangement of a rectangle of fading afternoon sky over weathered, rusted paint, and that “Rothko” over a mural of an elephant and a zebra in tall grass, more reminiscent of Rousseau's jungle paintings than a crude, childlike rendering. Sure, the mural alone was enough to suggest the nostalgia the people of Dili must feel for some culture, but it is Hirano's arrangement of the sky over the wall over the mural, in precise proportions, that includes it in a larger conversation about art.
Dili must have had an affinity for stringed instruments: in relief and murals, harpsichords and violins and cellos wait for somebody to come along and strum them. There is an entire jazz band outlined in a timelessly imprecise style, waiting on the walls of what must have been an oft-frequented watering hole. There are violins and cellos on the walls of a building that easily could have been a home, an arts center, a community hall. What the enemy has managed to burn out, what Hirano can only imply through his photographs, are the range of functions of the individual houses. Still, even as charcoal outlines, the intention of the people survive, surprise from unexpected corners: there is the ubiquitous Ché—perhaps in our age more often replicated than Buddha himself—outlined in his brooding rebellious intensity. It reminds the viewer that she isn't simply admiring the colors left on the walls by an oppressed people, or the superb mastery of shapes and colors shown by Hirano, but also that there lived a people in these abandoned houses that cared for things that make us truly human—music, political awareness and action, the desire and capacity to change our surroundings through layers after debated layers of color, and an awareness of where we belong in the jungle, among our fellow inhabitants of this planet.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Contender!
"I could've been a contender, Charlie. I could've been somebody." -- Brando in Kazan's "On the Waterfront."
Well, RC-Bangalore, you have become one. So quietly did RCB go through its campaign. KKR deservedly feasted at the bottom of the barrel. Dehli and Rajasthan couldn't focus on the task at hand. Mumbai and Punjab were outplayed. Deccan Chargers are truly deserving as finalists, but Bangalore-- no fireworks, no arrogance. M Pandey's last two knocks, and Dravid, innocuous, steady, still the wall even in this format of the game.
I will root for RC-B tomorrow: just because nobody ever really thought they'd be in the finals. Dehli, Mumbai, Rajasthan, Punjab, Chennai, Hyderabad--these teams were all equally favored. Kolkata was a joke from the outset. Nobody cared enough about Bangalore to support or deride them. Now, they are in the final. Will M Pandey rise to the occasion again? Or, will Gilchritst outshine everybody else on the field?
Well, RC-Bangalore, you have become one. So quietly did RCB go through its campaign. KKR deservedly feasted at the bottom of the barrel. Dehli and Rajasthan couldn't focus on the task at hand. Mumbai and Punjab were outplayed. Deccan Chargers are truly deserving as finalists, but Bangalore-- no fireworks, no arrogance. M Pandey's last two knocks, and Dravid, innocuous, steady, still the wall even in this format of the game.
I will root for RC-B tomorrow: just because nobody ever really thought they'd be in the finals. Dehli, Mumbai, Rajasthan, Punjab, Chennai, Hyderabad--these teams were all equally favored. Kolkata was a joke from the outset. Nobody cared enough about Bangalore to support or deride them. Now, they are in the final. Will M Pandey rise to the occasion again? Or, will Gilchritst outshine everybody else on the field?
Who Would Bomb A Church?
@ MBR: Hang in there. It is only just the end of May. You have June and July for the papers, August to prepare yourself for September. I do hope your papers arrive soon.
--
The Nepal Defense Army, a fundamentalist Hindu group, bombed a church in Lalitpur this morning. The blast killed 2, injured more than a dozen. Pamphlets left in the church indicate that the incident was orchestrated by the fundamentalist group who oppose the designation of Nepal as a secular nation.
But, why target a Church? Because churches are perceived as the "enemies" of Hinduism, more so than a madrassa or a Buddhist monastery. Buddhism doesn't count as an "other," Muslims in Nepal have lived for long enough without any major religious conflict. But Christians are seen as actively trying to destabilize the Hindu "harmony," converting people, eating beef.
Returning from Kumaripati to Ratnapark yesterday, I heard a couple from outside Kathmandu talk about how the milk of different types of cows taste different. The lady then turned sad. She said--we used to have a cow, but they ate it. The man asked--who?
I think the subtext was: how did it die? Because, if the lady had said it was one of the "lower-castes," it would have been understood that the cow had died of a disease or accident.
But the lady said--"those who cut a cow while it is still alive." Two possibilities: Maoists during the war, because they used to appropriate people's cattle and slaughter it on the eve of a campaign, to feed the fighters a protein-based diet so that they can fight long, hard hours; and Christians, who seem to be slaughtering cows in order to reinforce their new faith.
The man added--"They are Christians, they eat cow," but I couldn't shake off the feeling that the cow had been slaughtered by Maoists. From what I understand, there isn't yet so large a population of Christians in any part of Nepal that they would so pointedly offend through such an act. I have never heard of Muslims killing a cow in Nepal, even as a part of a Kurbani.
But, why bomb a church? What kind of support can that get you? I don't doubt that Nepal Defense Army--which has sadhus for flag-bearers--will gain some media space through this inhumane act. But what kind of people are going to support them? Has Nepal started producing such fanatics already?
Now dumbass Americans from Missouri or Kansas some other hick-state will pour in money to send more missionaries, to redeem the names of their "martyrs."
Like I mentioned earlier elsewhere on the blog: if you have converted away from your ancestral religion, the constitution doesn't guarantee your right to practice your faith in peace. Fuck Nepal. It pisses off even an atheist like me.
--
The Nepal Defense Army, a fundamentalist Hindu group, bombed a church in Lalitpur this morning. The blast killed 2, injured more than a dozen. Pamphlets left in the church indicate that the incident was orchestrated by the fundamentalist group who oppose the designation of Nepal as a secular nation.
But, why target a Church? Because churches are perceived as the "enemies" of Hinduism, more so than a madrassa or a Buddhist monastery. Buddhism doesn't count as an "other," Muslims in Nepal have lived for long enough without any major religious conflict. But Christians are seen as actively trying to destabilize the Hindu "harmony," converting people, eating beef.
Returning from Kumaripati to Ratnapark yesterday, I heard a couple from outside Kathmandu talk about how the milk of different types of cows taste different. The lady then turned sad. She said--we used to have a cow, but they ate it. The man asked--who?
I think the subtext was: how did it die? Because, if the lady had said it was one of the "lower-castes," it would have been understood that the cow had died of a disease or accident.
But the lady said--"those who cut a cow while it is still alive." Two possibilities: Maoists during the war, because they used to appropriate people's cattle and slaughter it on the eve of a campaign, to feed the fighters a protein-based diet so that they can fight long, hard hours; and Christians, who seem to be slaughtering cows in order to reinforce their new faith.
The man added--"They are Christians, they eat cow," but I couldn't shake off the feeling that the cow had been slaughtered by Maoists. From what I understand, there isn't yet so large a population of Christians in any part of Nepal that they would so pointedly offend through such an act. I have never heard of Muslims killing a cow in Nepal, even as a part of a Kurbani.
But, why bomb a church? What kind of support can that get you? I don't doubt that Nepal Defense Army--which has sadhus for flag-bearers--will gain some media space through this inhumane act. But what kind of people are going to support them? Has Nepal started producing such fanatics already?
Now dumbass Americans from Missouri or Kansas some other hick-state will pour in money to send more missionaries, to redeem the names of their "martyrs."
Like I mentioned earlier elsewhere on the blog: if you have converted away from your ancestral religion, the constitution doesn't guarantee your right to practice your faith in peace. Fuck Nepal. It pisses off even an atheist like me.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Mission Paisa
"Mission Paisa," a Nepali movie I would have probably done a really bad job writing, is out. Tshiring Ritar Sherpa and I went to see it. Tshiring dai is an old hand in the Nepali movie scene, although he doesn't belong to the mainstream. Simos doesn't belong to the mainstream either--this movie was a passion project, made over three years, with tonnes of graphics and digital effects, all done by Simos, who is also the director, producer and editor. If he had better storytelling sense, he would be an auteur: for he has plenty by the way of style.
AWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!! Adam Gilchrist just got out at 85!!!!!!! the man was raining magical runs! he was ON FIRE!!!!!!!! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I don't want Dehli to win this game. I think Sehwag played like the dumbest man on the field throughout the tournament, and I think the Chargers should win simply because they have been consistent, elegant, damn good at everything they do.
Hate IPL life right now.
hate life for another reason, too... feels like a large hole is forming under my feet and one morning not too long in the future, I will plunge into the darkness and despair, a crushing heartbreak... I guess I should just concentrate on the re-write of the script...
AWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!! Adam Gilchrist just got out at 85!!!!!!! the man was raining magical runs! he was ON FIRE!!!!!!!! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I don't want Dehli to win this game. I think Sehwag played like the dumbest man on the field throughout the tournament, and I think the Chargers should win simply because they have been consistent, elegant, damn good at everything they do.
Hate IPL life right now.
hate life for another reason, too... feels like a large hole is forming under my feet and one morning not too long in the future, I will plunge into the darkness and despair, a crushing heartbreak... I guess I should just concentrate on the re-write of the script...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Abortion Access for All
Today's Nagarik had a news item that showed a thousand-rupee note with a fetus on the watermark area. This gory choice of graphics because a two-judge bench of the Supreme Court of Nepal passed a judgment ordering the Government of Nepal to ensure access to abortion services for all Nepali women, regardless of their economic situation.
It is just one rung below a constitutional protection of the right to abortion. The circumstances under which abortion is legal in Nepal was expanded recently, just in the past year, but this judgment will pave way for protection of that privilege, making it possible to enshrine it as a legal right.
I do not know what exact circumstances regulate the right to abortion, but it is not an absolute one, although I remember it being quite comprehensive.
What I don't remember is hearing any amount of protest against these legal provisions. It is quite possible that the funds pro-choice organizations from the US and Europe play a large role in making possible the lobbying for abortion rights in Nepal.
Does this mean, as the laws become more enshrined, there will be fundamentalist money from the US or the Middle East to lobby against the gains made in the field of reproductive rights?
It is just one rung below a constitutional protection of the right to abortion. The circumstances under which abortion is legal in Nepal was expanded recently, just in the past year, but this judgment will pave way for protection of that privilege, making it possible to enshrine it as a legal right.
I do not know what exact circumstances regulate the right to abortion, but it is not an absolute one, although I remember it being quite comprehensive.
What I don't remember is hearing any amount of protest against these legal provisions. It is quite possible that the funds pro-choice organizations from the US and Europe play a large role in making possible the lobbying for abortion rights in Nepal.
Does this mean, as the laws become more enshrined, there will be fundamentalist money from the US or the Middle East to lobby against the gains made in the field of reproductive rights?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Prabhakaran's Eyes
CNN-IBN showed the dead body of Velupillai Prabhakaran, mastermind and supreme commander of the LTTE. It was clear that he had been killed point-blank: the top of his head had been blown off. For somebody who was killed in an ambush, the rest of the body hadn't sustained any injury.
Couple of thoughts: Was it "right" for the Sri Lankan army to kill him like that? It is an accepted protocol among civilized but warring factions that a person who has been arrested in the battlefield is given amnesty. The Sri Lankan army has been saying it took them overnight to locate the body, implying that he was killed in combat. I don't doubt that the army will reiterate this "fact" over the next month. But, to anyone paying attention, it is obvious that he was shot in the head, possibly after being disarmed.
Prabhakaran operated from the pedestal of a reputation of ruthlessness, even towards himself: he reputedly carried a cyanide capsule with which to commit suicide in case he was captured by the enemies. Although morality and a code of civilized warfare would suggest that it is wrong to kill anybody after disarming him in the battlefield, should it apply to Prabhakaran, with his cyanide pill?
The obvious, correct answer is yes. Even Prabhakaran should have been given amnesty from a violent death, and referred to national and international courts where he could be tried for his crimes against humanity, which, no doubt, were numerous.
But, I think the meritoriously Machiavellian answer would be "No." I think the Sri Lankan army has managed to simplify the logistics of victory by removing one individual: to have him alive would have no doubt lead to numerous more suicide-bombings and other acts of terror. He would have attracted funds from the Tamil diaspora to fund an effort to take hostages or lay siege upon civilian targets in order to negotiate his release. The government would have been forced to put more Sri Lanka army personnel in harm's way while he sat safe in a jail cell somewhere. The cost would have come in lives of the ordinary people, not in the lives of statesmen or army generals or top LTTE operatives.
I think this one war crime committed by the Sri Lankan army--and I mean specifically the execution of Prabhakaran--will result in lives saved.
For the scores of innocent Tamil civilians killed by the Sri Lankan army, there has to be a second reckoning.
However, the nation of Sri Lanka failed terribly as a civilized nation in forgetting to give a dead man's body the simplest significant due: Prabhakaran's eyes were left wide open, staring at the sky, unable to shake off the flies that settled on them. I think a civilized people should have ensured that the dead man's eyes were closed after his death. There was something terrible about the pictures on TV because of the open eyes. Sri Lankan army shouldn't have invited TV cameras before closing Prabhakaran's eyelids. That's what I think, at least.
Survive in Peace, Sri Lanka!
Couple of thoughts: Was it "right" for the Sri Lankan army to kill him like that? It is an accepted protocol among civilized but warring factions that a person who has been arrested in the battlefield is given amnesty. The Sri Lankan army has been saying it took them overnight to locate the body, implying that he was killed in combat. I don't doubt that the army will reiterate this "fact" over the next month. But, to anyone paying attention, it is obvious that he was shot in the head, possibly after being disarmed.
Prabhakaran operated from the pedestal of a reputation of ruthlessness, even towards himself: he reputedly carried a cyanide capsule with which to commit suicide in case he was captured by the enemies. Although morality and a code of civilized warfare would suggest that it is wrong to kill anybody after disarming him in the battlefield, should it apply to Prabhakaran, with his cyanide pill?
The obvious, correct answer is yes. Even Prabhakaran should have been given amnesty from a violent death, and referred to national and international courts where he could be tried for his crimes against humanity, which, no doubt, were numerous.
But, I think the meritoriously Machiavellian answer would be "No." I think the Sri Lankan army has managed to simplify the logistics of victory by removing one individual: to have him alive would have no doubt lead to numerous more suicide-bombings and other acts of terror. He would have attracted funds from the Tamil diaspora to fund an effort to take hostages or lay siege upon civilian targets in order to negotiate his release. The government would have been forced to put more Sri Lanka army personnel in harm's way while he sat safe in a jail cell somewhere. The cost would have come in lives of the ordinary people, not in the lives of statesmen or army generals or top LTTE operatives.
I think this one war crime committed by the Sri Lankan army--and I mean specifically the execution of Prabhakaran--will result in lives saved.
For the scores of innocent Tamil civilians killed by the Sri Lankan army, there has to be a second reckoning.
However, the nation of Sri Lanka failed terribly as a civilized nation in forgetting to give a dead man's body the simplest significant due: Prabhakaran's eyes were left wide open, staring at the sky, unable to shake off the flies that settled on them. I think a civilized people should have ensured that the dead man's eyes were closed after his death. There was something terrible about the pictures on TV because of the open eyes. Sri Lankan army shouldn't have invited TV cameras before closing Prabhakaran's eyelids. That's what I think, at least.
Survive in Peace, Sri Lanka!
Monday, May 18, 2009
End of LTTE?
There is hope in this world:
http://tinyartdirector.blogspot.com/
And there is hope for Sri Lanka. 26 long years of terror. It is much, much, much too early to say that LTTE has been eliminated: their strength was always the capacity to draw funds from their diaspora. They have been the most successful terrorist group in modern history. The way the Sri Lankan government ended their run--but, really, have they?--was violent and unapologetic. If economic and political justice isn't delivered to the Tamils in Sri Lanka, LTTE will revive itself. There will be smaller groups, ever smaller cells, operating on their own terms.
I think the season is for un-hope in Sri Lanka: to do the necessary, but to refuse to live in the hope that all has become well.
in other news: [And this is specifically for Ashma Basnyat]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tV8uzspdlWE
http://tinyartdirector.blogspot.com/
And there is hope for Sri Lanka. 26 long years of terror. It is much, much, much too early to say that LTTE has been eliminated: their strength was always the capacity to draw funds from their diaspora. They have been the most successful terrorist group in modern history. The way the Sri Lankan government ended their run--but, really, have they?--was violent and unapologetic. If economic and political justice isn't delivered to the Tamils in Sri Lanka, LTTE will revive itself. There will be smaller groups, ever smaller cells, operating on their own terms.
I think the season is for un-hope in Sri Lanka: to do the necessary, but to refuse to live in the hope that all has become well.
in other news: [And this is specifically for Ashma Basnyat]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tV8uzspdlWE
President Above Constitution?
Today's [Monday] Nagarik has a news item regarding the letter sent to the Supreme Court by the Office of the President. The gist: The President's directives regarding the COAS sacking controversy can't be questioned in a court of law.
I believe the president's office is *technically* correct, but malicious in its intent. It seems as if the President is relying too much upon "universal" dogma regarding the position of a constitutional head of state. Technically speaking, remedy against the President's actions can only be sought through the legislative, which would have to impeach him.
I disagree, however, with the suggestion that Nepal's President is beyond the reproach of the Supreme Court of Nepal. Especially when his direct intervention was in tandem with, and also potentially in conflict with, a decision being deliberated upon by the Supreme Court. And, also because his office isn't, in spirit, above a "politics of consensus." He is still obligated to maintain political harmony, and this pronouncement of his breaches that obligation.
Also, it gives fuel to the Maoists' contention that the Office of the President is trying to create a parallel seat of executive power in the country. That is a dangerous accusation which the President should do everything to disprove.
I believe the president's office is *technically* correct, but malicious in its intent. It seems as if the President is relying too much upon "universal" dogma regarding the position of a constitutional head of state. Technically speaking, remedy against the President's actions can only be sought through the legislative, which would have to impeach him.
I disagree, however, with the suggestion that Nepal's President is beyond the reproach of the Supreme Court of Nepal. Especially when his direct intervention was in tandem with, and also potentially in conflict with, a decision being deliberated upon by the Supreme Court. And, also because his office isn't, in spirit, above a "politics of consensus." He is still obligated to maintain political harmony, and this pronouncement of his breaches that obligation.
Also, it gives fuel to the Maoists' contention that the Office of the President is trying to create a parallel seat of executive power in the country. That is a dangerous accusation which the President should do everything to disprove.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Hero?
Today's IPL hero for me: Irfan Pathan. Wah, wah! There were many moments of brilliance in the game: Rohit Sharma's late charge for Deccan Chargers, Yuvraj Singh's dubitable hat-trick that at least stalled the course of the game, and Irfan Pathan's last over for Punjab King's XI. I was screaming and jumping, clapping in praise of myself for being such a faithful spectator.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Body count: 6
Addendum: I was so excited to be done with the first draft. I thought I'd watch a IPL match--there was no fucking signal. I didn't get to watch a movie: HBO was showing "Fool's Gold" for the sixteenth time, so I watched "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" instead. For learning the tricks of the trade, the Lucas-Spielberg union is pretty good. A silly movie, really.
But now I don't know what I am supposed to do. I do have another project I should dig into... way late on that already, as it is, but today was supposed to be a day for celebrations.
Listening to June Carter's tomboyish, guttural laugh in the "Love Oh Crazy Love" track. The lady must have been a hoot.
---
I finished the first draft of a rom-com/action; Nepali masala. I dilly-dallied for the longest time, letting the story constipate within, seeking escape. Literally, to be honest. I showed up for a story meeting with my bag packed, from there I took a night bus to Birgunj. The writing process started with an escape that lasted 10 days. Upon returning, I wrote a scene and half, and sat on it for almost three weeks. Then I started pounding Red Bull and wrote the rest in about 8 days. Which isn't all that great: it comes at around 15 pages a day, but these are 15 bad pages.
The turning point for me was reading at johnaugust.com that Mr August, wise dispenser of all advice screen-writer-ly, has a somewhat similar approach. Not the month-long constipation, but the "volume" approach: just push the damn first draft out of the way by writing as much as 17 pages a day, then give it at least three re-writes.
I was a lot behind schedule-- the draft was due on the 8th, and I just emailed it today, so I was a good week behind. That is going to push the final draft further back. I want to be done with this one, and the other one, and take a long walk, think hard about a few things that are shaping my life in one direction or another at the moment, make decisions.
Because, right now, Life is a Bitch, then we Die.
Also waiting for bootleg copies of Inglourious Basterds. I might have misspelled that, but should I even apologize? When does the movie even release? What was the reaction to "Up" like? What is the difference between IPL and Cannes, if I live in Kathmandu, without electricity, a significant lag between event and analysis?
In other news: BJP sucked massive balls in the Indian elections. Yachuri was made a bitch by a news presenter on CNN-IBN. Yachuri was smarting because of the election results: Communalism and Communism both were politely buggered by the average Indian voter. Dr. Manmohan Singh and Sonia Gandhi seem poised to create and leave a substantial political legacy to the Republic of India. West Bengal elected Trinamul and Congress: does this mean the "Red India" is turning away from "establishment communists" of Kolkata? or does this mean communism appeals far less to the average India than the idea of prosperity and opportunity?
Is the Light winning against the Darkness, to use Arvind Adiga's allegories from The White Tiger?
How are the various violent [revolutionary, if you are so inclined... to me a bullet is a bullet, and a pint of blood deserves neither glory nor denigration... that sounds lame, perhaps I'll articulate it better elsewhere] Maoist movements in India going to fare now?
But now I don't know what I am supposed to do. I do have another project I should dig into... way late on that already, as it is, but today was supposed to be a day for celebrations.
Listening to June Carter's tomboyish, guttural laugh in the "Love Oh Crazy Love" track. The lady must have been a hoot.
---
I finished the first draft of a rom-com/action; Nepali masala. I dilly-dallied for the longest time, letting the story constipate within, seeking escape. Literally, to be honest. I showed up for a story meeting with my bag packed, from there I took a night bus to Birgunj. The writing process started with an escape that lasted 10 days. Upon returning, I wrote a scene and half, and sat on it for almost three weeks. Then I started pounding Red Bull and wrote the rest in about 8 days. Which isn't all that great: it comes at around 15 pages a day, but these are 15 bad pages.
The turning point for me was reading at johnaugust.com that Mr August, wise dispenser of all advice screen-writer-ly, has a somewhat similar approach. Not the month-long constipation, but the "volume" approach: just push the damn first draft out of the way by writing as much as 17 pages a day, then give it at least three re-writes.
I was a lot behind schedule-- the draft was due on the 8th, and I just emailed it today, so I was a good week behind. That is going to push the final draft further back. I want to be done with this one, and the other one, and take a long walk, think hard about a few things that are shaping my life in one direction or another at the moment, make decisions.
Because, right now, Life is a Bitch, then we Die.
Also waiting for bootleg copies of Inglourious Basterds. I might have misspelled that, but should I even apologize? When does the movie even release? What was the reaction to "Up" like? What is the difference between IPL and Cannes, if I live in Kathmandu, without electricity, a significant lag between event and analysis?
In other news: BJP sucked massive balls in the Indian elections. Yachuri was made a bitch by a news presenter on CNN-IBN. Yachuri was smarting because of the election results: Communalism and Communism both were politely buggered by the average Indian voter. Dr. Manmohan Singh and Sonia Gandhi seem poised to create and leave a substantial political legacy to the Republic of India. West Bengal elected Trinamul and Congress: does this mean the "Red India" is turning away from "establishment communists" of Kolkata? or does this mean communism appeals far less to the average India than the idea of prosperity and opportunity?
Is the Light winning against the Darkness, to use Arvind Adiga's allegories from The White Tiger?
How are the various violent [revolutionary, if you are so inclined... to me a bullet is a bullet, and a pint of blood deserves neither glory nor denigration... that sounds lame, perhaps I'll articulate it better elsewhere] Maoist movements in India going to fare now?
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Integrity Doesn't Count?
UPDATED:
Below is "Does Integrity Count?" as it appeared in TKP. My name was spelled "Pravin Adhikari" instead of Prawin Adhikari, which is a bit annoying. But, at least the article wasn't censored as much as I thought--or as much as Rahul thought--it would be.
---
Integrity Doesn't Count?
Like a mangy old dog curling to sniff at itself, New Nepal has gone full-circle to please the crusty Old Nepal. To put it differently: Old Nepal must have very good smelling testicles that New Nepal obligingly licks them so. To put it differently: The snout is but a distant appendage to the anus; New Nepal is but a thin wash over Old Nepal. To put it differently: The cannibalistic, opportunistic, greedy snake is choking on its own tail. To put is differently: Pox on you, Old and New, for you have shown yourself to be One, seamless, shameless.
Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, duplicity: these were among the reasons why Nepal had to change. These were probably the reasons the Maoists gave against the establishment when they waged their war. Of course, they colored their rhetoric red, for long the favorite of the class in the business of gain through murder, be they feudal or revolutionary. They set up the effigies of enemies always behind a safe red line--India, America, King--, but they killed teachers, farmers, and salary men. They lied to, threatened, coerced and cajoled the most vulnerable among peopel to gain power. They declared New Nepal, but greedy as any other political hooligans, they declared it solely theirs. From their seat in Baluwatar, which got its first cosmetic upgrade in ages, in an age defined by impermanent alliances, what did the Maoists give the country? Browse through news items since first May, and you find the answer: Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, and duplicity. When this fact was pointed out to Prachanda, he gleefully replied: We learned it from the old parliamentarian parties.
Bijayababu's head was split open by riot-police lathi two years ago. On Thursday he worried if he hadn't been a "foot soldier" to a manipulated manifesto. A young man, whose ideals were, in a manner of speaking, spilled before his generation to consider, he has had to commit the grave sin of doubting his moment of true heroism. New Nepal was not a political achievement! It most definitely was not a Maoist achievement. New Nepal was a cultural achievement. It was the permission people granted themselves to imagine the extent of their capabilities, not tethered to a slogan or a moustache or a flag or a fist, but to a future contemplated, a future desired. A year ago when Nepal was declared a republic, there mushroomed so many "Naya Nepal" buses and rickshaws and chhang-rilas. Today they have disappeared, either behind a thick curtain of grime which is the criminal reward of passing time, or have been re-appropriated by neighborhood deities and soft-drinks. In the past year, New Nepal the political achievement has reverted to sniffing at its own rear end, while New Nepal the cultural achievement has disintegrated, doubting itself, harassed by the knowledge that it has to evolve to suit the new conditions.
Let us be coy no more--three paragraphs is enough foreplay for even the driest mind. Let us call Old Nepal by its real name: Madhav Nepal. He was the head of his party when he lost popular elections. To put it differently: people didn't choose him as their representative. His party removed another person, an intellectual and leader of the so-called Civil Society, to include Old Nepal as a member of the Constitutional Assembly. Yet, he asks to be made the Prime Minister. It is perfectly constitutional: after all, he is a member of the assembly, and that is all he needs to contest. Neither is it unethical: just as representatives of the people chose the President, representatives of the people can choose Madhav Nepal as the next Prime Minister. But, to individuals unnaturally proud of their vote and citizenship--not dumb nationalism conjoined to politics of heritage, but the simple fact that they are enfranchised citizens--this is an unimaginable mockery of the idea of citizenship. The people before whom he begged for the basic currency of democracy--the vote--denied him the opportunity to represent. Now he gets to lead the nation?
Why should this vex me so much? I am not a political commentator. I write the most mindless, inconsequential fluff; breezy Sunday read it should be. It vexes me for two reasons: first, because I think I know why New Nepal is smacking its tongue on the dried feces it has lapped up from the anus of Old Nepal. Second, it vexes me that I am reduced by helplessness to write such over-insistent, vulgar images to drive home a point.
The answer, which I claimed I know, I think, is in Bijayababu's question. To put his question differently: Why must the average citizen always have to doubt his leaders? No matter if they be Congressi cronies or mustached Maoist, or the so-called Civil Society Leader, why does duplicity have a greater currency in a political career than does integrity? How is it a greater, advantageous talent to appear a different person to each different group, but a gauche, debilitating disadvantage to appear unchanging in intent, unbuckling or un-supplicating as the case maybe, before different superiors–voters, donors? No, it is criminal to call Prachanda a "seasoned rhetorician" when the unambiguous, accurate, layman term is "liar." And it is wrong, what Prachanda claims--that words spoken by a statesman in a past date have no relevance to present circumstances. It is especially wrong if the same statesman seeks to profit from the gains made through those earlier, divergent pronouncements, whatever may be the "delta" in the circumstances since. That asks the voter to forgive duplicity as a weapon against democracy.
Whereas, an individual's integrity is the best remedy to most political problems: Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, and duplicity. A culture that rewards personal integrity actively, punitively discourages these social maladies. To say you stand for one thing and to have the courage to defend it should be a quality worth rewarding. Integrity requires, above all, a lack of duplicity. This is not a play on words: this is a character necessity. If Prachanda is not actively lying to people who did not raise violent arms under his leadership, then he is actively lying to those who fought for him. This is a binary condition: he is either fighting for a nation where democracy will be fostered, or he is conducting the next phase of Prachandapath. One group is being lied to. And the second group shouldn't tolerate it. Similarly, no group should tolerate the idea that in a nascent democracy it should take less than a year for the political establishment to make a mockery of the idea of Vote. Let us, as citizens and not political cadres, as foot-soldiers to our own ideas and not the ideology of scheming politicians, stop forgiving the lies our leaders tell us. Let each citizen show some integrity, some spine, instead of nodding as yes-people to each manipulative bastard blown in by the dust-storm. Otherwise, too-soon, too-soon, we will get used to that taste in our mouths, and you know very well what taste I am referring to.
---------
I have decided to post my TKP Sunday piece one it gets published. But, here are a few self-proclaimed "gems." In reality, you could call them turds.
Once more, it has too many references to shit and one to testicles; in a round-about way, to Madhav Nepal's testicles. About how they must smell.
I have been going full force on script mode for about 2 weeks now, on separate projects, which involves sitting in my room for really long hours each day. That made it very, very hard to write about anything at all for Sunday's paper: I hadn't met anyone, seen anything, been anywhere for so long. I had to rant. When I rant, it seems, I regress to a 12 year old, when scatology is a science as fascinating as wizardry.
42 people in 24 hours? Why would so many people come to this site? I love you, random reader, but there is really nothing here. I talk about my nephew and my niece, or post pictures by my friends, or talk about phlegm. I assure you, if you don't know me in person, this blog can be of no real interest to you. Except, of course, if you want to click on the adsense links: if I can accumulate a decent amount--say, upwards of US $250 a year--I intend to have Google send the check over to Whitman College, my old school. Just a suggestion.
Below is "Does Integrity Count?" as it appeared in TKP. My name was spelled "Pravin Adhikari" instead of Prawin Adhikari, which is a bit annoying. But, at least the article wasn't censored as much as I thought--or as much as Rahul thought--it would be.
---
Integrity Doesn't Count?
Like a mangy old dog curling to sniff at itself, New Nepal has gone full-circle to please the crusty Old Nepal. To put it differently: Old Nepal must have very good smelling testicles that New Nepal obligingly licks them so. To put it differently: The snout is but a distant appendage to the anus; New Nepal is but a thin wash over Old Nepal. To put it differently: The cannibalistic, opportunistic, greedy snake is choking on its own tail. To put is differently: Pox on you, Old and New, for you have shown yourself to be One, seamless, shameless.
Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, duplicity: these were among the reasons why Nepal had to change. These were probably the reasons the Maoists gave against the establishment when they waged their war. Of course, they colored their rhetoric red, for long the favorite of the class in the business of gain through murder, be they feudal or revolutionary. They set up the effigies of enemies always behind a safe red line--India, America, King--, but they killed teachers, farmers, and salary men. They lied to, threatened, coerced and cajoled the most vulnerable among peopel to gain power. They declared New Nepal, but greedy as any other political hooligans, they declared it solely theirs. From their seat in Baluwatar, which got its first cosmetic upgrade in ages, in an age defined by impermanent alliances, what did the Maoists give the country? Browse through news items since first May, and you find the answer: Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, and duplicity. When this fact was pointed out to Prachanda, he gleefully replied: We learned it from the old parliamentarian parties.
Bijayababu's head was split open by riot-police lathi two years ago. On Thursday he worried if he hadn't been a "foot soldier" to a manipulated manifesto. A young man, whose ideals were, in a manner of speaking, spilled before his generation to consider, he has had to commit the grave sin of doubting his moment of true heroism. New Nepal was not a political achievement! It most definitely was not a Maoist achievement. New Nepal was a cultural achievement. It was the permission people granted themselves to imagine the extent of their capabilities, not tethered to a slogan or a moustache or a flag or a fist, but to a future contemplated, a future desired. A year ago when Nepal was declared a republic, there mushroomed so many "Naya Nepal" buses and rickshaws and chhang-rilas. Today they have disappeared, either behind a thick curtain of grime which is the criminal reward of passing time, or have been re-appropriated by neighborhood deities and soft-drinks. In the past year, New Nepal the political achievement has reverted to sniffing at its own rear end, while New Nepal the cultural achievement has disintegrated, doubting itself, harassed by the knowledge that it has to evolve to suit the new conditions.
Let us be coy no more--three paragraphs is enough foreplay for even the driest mind. Let us call Old Nepal by its real name: Madhav Nepal. He was the head of his party when he lost popular elections. To put it differently: people didn't choose him as their representative. His party removed another person, an intellectual and leader of the so-called Civil Society, to include Old Nepal as a member of the Constitutional Assembly. Yet, he asks to be made the Prime Minister. It is perfectly constitutional: after all, he is a member of the assembly, and that is all he needs to contest. Neither is it unethical: just as representatives of the people chose the President, representatives of the people can choose Madhav Nepal as the next Prime Minister. But, to individuals unnaturally proud of their vote and citizenship--not dumb nationalism conjoined to politics of heritage, but the simple fact that they are enfranchised citizens--this is an unimaginable mockery of the idea of citizenship. The people before whom he begged for the basic currency of democracy--the vote--denied him the opportunity to represent. Now he gets to lead the nation?
Why should this vex me so much? I am not a political commentator. I write the most mindless, inconsequential fluff; breezy Sunday read it should be. It vexes me for two reasons: first, because I think I know why New Nepal is smacking its tongue on the dried feces it has lapped up from the anus of Old Nepal. Second, it vexes me that I am reduced by helplessness to write such over-insistent, vulgar images to drive home a point.
The answer, which I claimed I know, I think, is in Bijayababu's question. To put his question differently: Why must the average citizen always have to doubt his leaders? No matter if they be Congressi cronies or mustached Maoist, or the so-called Civil Society Leader, why does duplicity have a greater currency in a political career than does integrity? How is it a greater, advantageous talent to appear a different person to each different group, but a gauche, debilitating disadvantage to appear unchanging in intent, unbuckling or un-supplicating as the case maybe, before different superiors–voters, donors? No, it is criminal to call Prachanda a "seasoned rhetorician" when the unambiguous, accurate, layman term is "liar." And it is wrong, what Prachanda claims--that words spoken by a statesman in a past date have no relevance to present circumstances. It is especially wrong if the same statesman seeks to profit from the gains made through those earlier, divergent pronouncements, whatever may be the "delta" in the circumstances since. That asks the voter to forgive duplicity as a weapon against democracy.
Whereas, an individual's integrity is the best remedy to most political problems: Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, and duplicity. A culture that rewards personal integrity actively, punitively discourages these social maladies. To say you stand for one thing and to have the courage to defend it should be a quality worth rewarding. Integrity requires, above all, a lack of duplicity. This is not a play on words: this is a character necessity. If Prachanda is not actively lying to people who did not raise violent arms under his leadership, then he is actively lying to those who fought for him. This is a binary condition: he is either fighting for a nation where democracy will be fostered, or he is conducting the next phase of Prachandapath. One group is being lied to. And the second group shouldn't tolerate it. Similarly, no group should tolerate the idea that in a nascent democracy it should take less than a year for the political establishment to make a mockery of the idea of Vote. Let us, as citizens and not political cadres, as foot-soldiers to our own ideas and not the ideology of scheming politicians, stop forgiving the lies our leaders tell us. Let each citizen show some integrity, some spine, instead of nodding as yes-people to each manipulative bastard blown in by the dust-storm. Otherwise, too-soon, too-soon, we will get used to that taste in our mouths, and you know very well what taste I am referring to.
---------
I have decided to post my TKP Sunday piece one it gets published. But, here are a few self-proclaimed "gems." In reality, you could call them turds.
Once more, it has too many references to shit and one to testicles; in a round-about way, to Madhav Nepal's testicles. About how they must smell.
I have been going full force on script mode for about 2 weeks now, on separate projects, which involves sitting in my room for really long hours each day. That made it very, very hard to write about anything at all for Sunday's paper: I hadn't met anyone, seen anything, been anywhere for so long. I had to rant. When I rant, it seems, I regress to a 12 year old, when scatology is a science as fascinating as wizardry.
42 people in 24 hours? Why would so many people come to this site? I love you, random reader, but there is really nothing here. I talk about my nephew and my niece, or post pictures by my friends, or talk about phlegm. I assure you, if you don't know me in person, this blog can be of no real interest to you. Except, of course, if you want to click on the adsense links: if I can accumulate a decent amount--say, upwards of US $250 a year--I intend to have Google send the check over to Whitman College, my old school. Just a suggestion.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
PDF of Interim Constitution, 2007
http://www.worldstatesmen.org/Nepal_Interim_Constitution2007.pdf
Searching "Interim Constitution of Nepal" in Google will also help generate an HTML version, easier to access/search through with the "ctrl+f" function.
Abhi Subedi wrote in today's TKP that the "cabinet" took the decision to retire COAS Katwal. He would've been more cautious with the language if he had been mindful of the pertinent sections of the constitution regarding the "council of ministers" and their nature as stipulated by the document.
Searching "Interim Constitution of Nepal" in Google will also help generate an HTML version, easier to access/search through with the "ctrl+f" function.
Abhi Subedi wrote in today's TKP that the "cabinet" took the decision to retire COAS Katwal. He would've been more cautious with the language if he had been mindful of the pertinent sections of the constitution regarding the "council of ministers" and their nature as stipulated by the document.
Monsoon Taxi
From Kasnatscheewa's blog. Beautiful pictures of Kolkata seen through a taxi caught in a pre-monsoon downpour.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Interim Constitution of Nepal, 2007
I have been reading the constitution, trying to get a sense for just what the hullabaloo might be regarding the actions of the Prime Minister and the President.
My opinion: President was wrong to send the letter to Katwal directly. He should have sent it through the Prime Minister. President Yadav can be blamed only after an interpretation of provisions in the constitution, after taking a certain line
However, the Prime Minister was unconstitutionally wrong in firing Katwal, because he simply didn't have the authority to do so.
These are assessments made from decisions taken by Yadav and Dahal, not from the consultations they had regarding the reading of provisions int he constitutions that affected their respective roles.
The Maoist party seems to have erred, or kept a strategic silence, twice: When a new Army Act was created in 2063, it provided for the COAS in office to have a guaranteed tenure of three years, meaning any decision taken to fire him would automatically have to be referred to the Supreme Court, which has been the case;
and, when they didn't heed President Yadav's caution that it was necessary to amend that particular provision through the Constituent Assembly before proceeding with any action against Katwal. They actively chose not to honor the "laws in force," which then renders them untrustworthy.
In a later post, I intend to lay out, point by point, the particular articles in the interim constitution that define/describe the roles of the President, and of the Prime Minister.
Trivia:
In Nepal, there is no constitutional guarantee that you may practice a religion of your choosing, especially if you have converted to it. I couldn't expect to convert to any other religion than Hinduism, which is the 'religion handed down to me by my ancestors," and expect the constitution to defend my right to pray, congregate with persons of shared faith.
I have no right to convince another individual to convert to my religion.
The legislative body can pass a law requiring me to participate in compulsory service/labor for the "public good."
The constitution does not vest the Prime Minister with executive authority. Executive authority is with the Council of Ministers, which must be formed through consensus under the chairpersonship of the Prime Minister elected by the legislative body.
The President is the only person provided by the Constitution to "adhere" to, and protect, the constitution. The vice president begets this role in the president's absence. It can be defined that the President is the only person who can "interpret the constitution through example," which is my clunky way of saying he can attempt to define certain clauses in the constitution through his actions. In the present scenario, this would be his attempt to:
Force the unconstitutional decision taken by the Prime Minister to be referred to the Supreme Court; and,
Forcefully abort an unconstitutional move by the Prime Minister to sack the COAS by sending an order to Katwal to stay until further deliberations are made by the SC; and,
Force the Maoist party to recognize the constitutional mandate given to it to follow a politics of consensus by entertaining the request of the 18 political parties to revoke the retirement of Katwal; etc.
Okay. Back to teenage romance.
I wrote a fart joke into the script yesterday. Really proud of myself.
My opinion: President was wrong to send the letter to Katwal directly. He should have sent it through the Prime Minister. President Yadav can be blamed only after an interpretation of provisions in the constitution, after taking a certain line
However, the Prime Minister was unconstitutionally wrong in firing Katwal, because he simply didn't have the authority to do so.
These are assessments made from decisions taken by Yadav and Dahal, not from the consultations they had regarding the reading of provisions int he constitutions that affected their respective roles.
The Maoist party seems to have erred, or kept a strategic silence, twice: When a new Army Act was created in 2063, it provided for the COAS in office to have a guaranteed tenure of three years, meaning any decision taken to fire him would automatically have to be referred to the Supreme Court, which has been the case;
and, when they didn't heed President Yadav's caution that it was necessary to amend that particular provision through the Constituent Assembly before proceeding with any action against Katwal. They actively chose not to honor the "laws in force," which then renders them untrustworthy.
In a later post, I intend to lay out, point by point, the particular articles in the interim constitution that define/describe the roles of the President, and of the Prime Minister.
Trivia:
In Nepal, there is no constitutional guarantee that you may practice a religion of your choosing, especially if you have converted to it. I couldn't expect to convert to any other religion than Hinduism, which is the 'religion handed down to me by my ancestors," and expect the constitution to defend my right to pray, congregate with persons of shared faith.
I have no right to convince another individual to convert to my religion.
The legislative body can pass a law requiring me to participate in compulsory service/labor for the "public good."
The constitution does not vest the Prime Minister with executive authority. Executive authority is with the Council of Ministers, which must be formed through consensus under the chairpersonship of the Prime Minister elected by the legislative body.
The President is the only person provided by the Constitution to "adhere" to, and protect, the constitution. The vice president begets this role in the president's absence. It can be defined that the President is the only person who can "interpret the constitution through example," which is my clunky way of saying he can attempt to define certain clauses in the constitution through his actions. In the present scenario, this would be his attempt to:
Force the unconstitutional decision taken by the Prime Minister to be referred to the Supreme Court; and,
Forcefully abort an unconstitutional move by the Prime Minister to sack the COAS by sending an order to Katwal to stay until further deliberations are made by the SC; and,
Force the Maoist party to recognize the constitutional mandate given to it to follow a politics of consensus by entertaining the request of the 18 political parties to revoke the retirement of Katwal; etc.
Okay. Back to teenage romance.
I wrote a fart joke into the script yesterday. Really proud of myself.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Yes!
It is raining! It was raining hard, then it subsided a little, now it is picking up to a medium pace. At least it has cooled the air a little. This means it will be terribly hot for a few days, though, with all the rain making the air humid.
I am taking an anti-biotic for my cough, which I got semi-tricked into. Because my sister in law is a nurse, she and my brother thought it better to buy me antibiotics instead of the Himalayan Herbal's "Kofet" I had been taking to soothe my throat. The antibiotic wasn't going to help me instantaneously. I spent an hour agonized, trying to cough up nothing, before giving in and buying the bottle of Kofet, which was immediate relief. It is all the purified honey in it that does it.
I had a meeting with a bunch of INGO/NGO/Government Employees types. People are extra cautious and polite when they are trying to run a scam, but all I was doing was giving them a story. I got pissed at a man criticizing the story I had written, so asked him if he had actually read the damn thing. They complained that they couldn't understand the story. Trust me, it is not a difficult story at all... it might just have been that they aren't in a habit of reading narratives. You'd be surprised how little skill some people have in gleaning what is hidden in a story. I was pissed--at the duplicity of people involved in the project more than anything else. The thread of lies is becoming stretched very, very thin. It is not possible to accomplish certain things in the time frame promised, but people seem to want to happily sail along.
We'll see. I am tired of working in response to idiots who add nothing to my skills or life experience.
I am taking an anti-biotic for my cough, which I got semi-tricked into. Because my sister in law is a nurse, she and my brother thought it better to buy me antibiotics instead of the Himalayan Herbal's "Kofet" I had been taking to soothe my throat. The antibiotic wasn't going to help me instantaneously. I spent an hour agonized, trying to cough up nothing, before giving in and buying the bottle of Kofet, which was immediate relief. It is all the purified honey in it that does it.
I had a meeting with a bunch of INGO/NGO/Government Employees types. People are extra cautious and polite when they are trying to run a scam, but all I was doing was giving them a story. I got pissed at a man criticizing the story I had written, so asked him if he had actually read the damn thing. They complained that they couldn't understand the story. Trust me, it is not a difficult story at all... it might just have been that they aren't in a habit of reading narratives. You'd be surprised how little skill some people have in gleaning what is hidden in a story. I was pissed--at the duplicity of people involved in the project more than anything else. The thread of lies is becoming stretched very, very thin. It is not possible to accomplish certain things in the time frame promised, but people seem to want to happily sail along.
We'll see. I am tired of working in response to idiots who add nothing to my skills or life experience.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Typo
In today's TKP, I misspelled priorities as "prioroties." What happened was that I had typed up the whole essay on Notepad instead of Word, or more accurately, Open Office Writer, in order to save battery life. A word processing program is a bigger, clunkier, hence it would consume more wattage, was my line of logic. [I don't have the Microsoft Office Suite in my computer]. I tried to catch and fix errors in Writer just before I mailed the article, but some typos escaped me, because I seemed to have italicized prioroties along with all non-English words in the article. Coincidentally, or contextually, however, it made for a bad pun in the article.
There must be an average of three, four typos in each article I publish. That is a source of embarrassment for me when I get the paper. Because, unfortunately I should say, a small group of unusually critical friends read my articles. They go so far as to say, "Prawin, I am not impressed with you, but I must say your articles are really impressive." Such compli-dissers they are. Yet, I haven't found complete control over typos. They are so easy to miss. Sometimes a complete word seems to have vanished. This is typical to a situation where a sentence has been revised multiple times. Sometimes there are extra words. Outright spelling errors are rare, but the erroneous substitutions made possible only by a spell-checker are more common. For instance, "for the" often ends up as "fort he," and in today's issue, I didn't catch an "of" where it should have correctly read "or." Over-reliance on the squiggly red lines will eventually punish.
There must be an average of three, four typos in each article I publish. That is a source of embarrassment for me when I get the paper. Because, unfortunately I should say, a small group of unusually critical friends read my articles. They go so far as to say, "Prawin, I am not impressed with you, but I must say your articles are really impressive." Such compli-dissers they are. Yet, I haven't found complete control over typos. They are so easy to miss. Sometimes a complete word seems to have vanished. This is typical to a situation where a sentence has been revised multiple times. Sometimes there are extra words. Outright spelling errors are rare, but the erroneous substitutions made possible only by a spell-checker are more common. For instance, "for the" often ends up as "fort he," and in today's issue, I didn't catch an "of" where it should have correctly read "or." Over-reliance on the squiggly red lines will eventually punish.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
What the hell is love, anyway?
Not only do I have flu, I am also suffering writer's constipation: I can't seem to write a single word about love. Which makes teenage romances hard. I mean-- teenagers are by nature dumb, their experiences immediate but shallow. What does a person say in love that can be interesting to others?
What kind of a curse is this? Writing about love? What the hell? I am much better at killing people off, making them brood over insignificant failures. What in hell is love, anyway? I have been listening to the "October" piece by Tchaikovsky, and that seems as close as it gets without being sappy, without descending to muck. The trade in cheese and corn is eluding me; movie romance, especially one targeted at teenagers who skip school to smooch in a dark theater, requires much cheese, much corn. The combination must taste like puking in your mouth a little, and that is what I am trying to do: write something that will make the viewers puke a little in their mouths.
I need help, people. The few of you who come to this site--tell me what it is like, this thing called love, if you've been lucky enough to articulate it after experiencing it. Give me a few phrases to go on.
What kind of a curse is this? Writing about love? What the hell? I am much better at killing people off, making them brood over insignificant failures. What in hell is love, anyway? I have been listening to the "October" piece by Tchaikovsky, and that seems as close as it gets without being sappy, without descending to muck. The trade in cheese and corn is eluding me; movie romance, especially one targeted at teenagers who skip school to smooch in a dark theater, requires much cheese, much corn. The combination must taste like puking in your mouth a little, and that is what I am trying to do: write something that will make the viewers puke a little in their mouths.
I need help, people. The few of you who come to this site--tell me what it is like, this thing called love, if you've been lucky enough to articulate it after experiencing it. Give me a few phrases to go on.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Waiting for Tarkari
Here's the next Sunday's:
---
Waiting for Tarkari
Politics has gone the kimchi way, which is to say, everyday it rots a little, excites a little. The paralysis born of small insights is diluted by another insight into the vast comedy of terrors that fills each blighted hour of news. Each ballooned politician inspires more envy for his skills as a theatrical actor than for his achievement in the political arena. Eventually, the political imperative becomes less embodied than a forgettable itch: Diwas tells me we disagree on everything, and that becomes the farthest reach of my political work. Naturally, the mind turns to far more important events: waiting for something to happen; waiting for the humid mulch of May to lift; waiting for a beauty-queen to pause mid-sentence and giggle; sucking on the teats of trite wit and anticipating the satisfaction that comes from ending a sentence.
When Diwas says we should go crowd hunting, it feels decadent and rich, nourishing with the froth of all excitement strictly revolutionary. But, when Alston and Diwas meet me by the post office in Sundhara on Monday afternoon, we find nothing of the throbbing masses, no reverberations in the air of red salutes and red fists. Instead, it is one-size-fits-all rayon socks by the dozen, a dump of cheap pumps in gold pleather, and comic books of Bollywood movies from the late eighties waiting for praise in the shadows of malls and library. They walked all the way from Sanepa, and I took a microbus to Sahid Gate, but there is no political disturbance, no action to be had. The most surprising aspect of the new development is the extraordinary restraint shown by fellow citizens. It makes me feel cheap, almost idiotic, for wanting to witness something to the contrary: something less surprising and more violent, much less mindful and far more bloodthirsty.
It is Tuesday. Thamel is so quiet that we have to wake up the napping employee at a popular hangout. Yagya and Rahul are meeting after seven, eight years, but soon their conversation runs dry, because, in the age of facebook and twitter, there is no private thought, even if private life is protected. There is talk about women and marriage, nothing that leads anywhere. There is a bigger concern, a bigger circus that commands attention: cricket! The film of sweat that separates the body from the seat becomes stickier, saltier; the world shrinks to the swing of a bat of the leather of a white ball describing an arc with its lazy spin. Activity reduces to speculation about scores and the finger raised to get the bar's attention. Nothing happens: it is a fast-scoring game, but it happens inside a glass-faced box, with screaming legions of fans and cheerleaders who flash their smiles and red silk underwear, but still inside the protected box.
A murmur rises, beating a rhythm with slogans, approaching from an indeterminable direction. At first, it mingles naturally with the noise in the cricket stadium, but soon it filters in through the windows, around the door, riding the excitement on the faces of the restaurant staff. The murmur becomes an indistinct, overpowering roar. But, as it gets closer, it become chopped into smaller choruses, each led by a voice inching towards a torn, hoarse whisper. It is a sea of red, hammer and sickle, and endlessly marching past. Restaurant employees run to bolt the street entrance from the inside, idle by the walls, fingers laced into the meshed wire fence, watching passively, bickering actively about the number of people, the direction in which Prachanda's resignation will take the country. The procession seems too precise to have been driven or derailed by passion: they don't exhort to the pedestrian, they don't try to engage the spectator. There is no thrill of terror. It is decidedly not paisa-vasool.
On Wednesday morning there is a fresh perspective on the new political scenario: since the Maoists are no longer in the government, this year's Miss Nepal competition can be organized without the usual fear. Of course, the beauty queen making this observation doesn't foresee Prachanda's press conference, through which he makes it clear that this resignation is a mere change of diet until he heads the next government. What is both exciting and disappointing about the farce is the realization that the bite has been taken out of the political barking. There aren't enough drumbeats of doom.
Thus the day coils into itself, begets a fresh habit for unattached details, looks for minutiae while postponing acknowledgment of the political reality. What sound like lonely dogs barking across the neighbourhood loom and compound into a swollen caterpillar of a julus writhing its way through a silenced neighbourhood. And what sound like anger and self-righteousness bounding down an alley become nothing more than neighbourhood dogs, each barking to defend its piss-lined shrine to itself. By the time another large julus passes outside a sekuwa joint in Nayabazaar, ears perk but the conversation doesn't pause. The julus plays itself to the mind: a throng driven by no particular crisis, and much too studied in the art of the julus, following not an all-consuming passion, but by a party directive.
But all of this seems distant, like a circus on another planet. What used to seem hallowed--the business of creating new political realities--now appears as it really is: ridden with lies, no matter who is the party lied to. The parties seem to be filled with silver-tongued dimwits, or others that are brilliantly inarticulate, with a tail of unquestioning fellowship. In the everyday, however, small changes happen without shouting for attention: the streets are easier to navigate; there are fresh vegetables in the market; newlywed friends finally arrive in Kathmandu from Dang because the roads are open. Sacks of parwar inspire a prayer of thanks and women leafing through fresh saag smile at each other, secure in the knowledge that there is plenty to go around. And that says a lot about the simple prioroties of the simple people. Let the naked ambitions of the political parties continue to make a fool of each unworthy one of them. Today there will be fresh, inexpensive tarkari to look forward to, and that is enough. That is more thrilling than the next video-tape, next unconstitutional shenanigan, or the next, inevitable act of terror.
---
Waiting for Tarkari
Politics has gone the kimchi way, which is to say, everyday it rots a little, excites a little. The paralysis born of small insights is diluted by another insight into the vast comedy of terrors that fills each blighted hour of news. Each ballooned politician inspires more envy for his skills as a theatrical actor than for his achievement in the political arena. Eventually, the political imperative becomes less embodied than a forgettable itch: Diwas tells me we disagree on everything, and that becomes the farthest reach of my political work. Naturally, the mind turns to far more important events: waiting for something to happen; waiting for the humid mulch of May to lift; waiting for a beauty-queen to pause mid-sentence and giggle; sucking on the teats of trite wit and anticipating the satisfaction that comes from ending a sentence.
When Diwas says we should go crowd hunting, it feels decadent and rich, nourishing with the froth of all excitement strictly revolutionary. But, when Alston and Diwas meet me by the post office in Sundhara on Monday afternoon, we find nothing of the throbbing masses, no reverberations in the air of red salutes and red fists. Instead, it is one-size-fits-all rayon socks by the dozen, a dump of cheap pumps in gold pleather, and comic books of Bollywood movies from the late eighties waiting for praise in the shadows of malls and library. They walked all the way from Sanepa, and I took a microbus to Sahid Gate, but there is no political disturbance, no action to be had. The most surprising aspect of the new development is the extraordinary restraint shown by fellow citizens. It makes me feel cheap, almost idiotic, for wanting to witness something to the contrary: something less surprising and more violent, much less mindful and far more bloodthirsty.
It is Tuesday. Thamel is so quiet that we have to wake up the napping employee at a popular hangout. Yagya and Rahul are meeting after seven, eight years, but soon their conversation runs dry, because, in the age of facebook and twitter, there is no private thought, even if private life is protected. There is talk about women and marriage, nothing that leads anywhere. There is a bigger concern, a bigger circus that commands attention: cricket! The film of sweat that separates the body from the seat becomes stickier, saltier; the world shrinks to the swing of a bat of the leather of a white ball describing an arc with its lazy spin. Activity reduces to speculation about scores and the finger raised to get the bar's attention. Nothing happens: it is a fast-scoring game, but it happens inside a glass-faced box, with screaming legions of fans and cheerleaders who flash their smiles and red silk underwear, but still inside the protected box.
A murmur rises, beating a rhythm with slogans, approaching from an indeterminable direction. At first, it mingles naturally with the noise in the cricket stadium, but soon it filters in through the windows, around the door, riding the excitement on the faces of the restaurant staff. The murmur becomes an indistinct, overpowering roar. But, as it gets closer, it become chopped into smaller choruses, each led by a voice inching towards a torn, hoarse whisper. It is a sea of red, hammer and sickle, and endlessly marching past. Restaurant employees run to bolt the street entrance from the inside, idle by the walls, fingers laced into the meshed wire fence, watching passively, bickering actively about the number of people, the direction in which Prachanda's resignation will take the country. The procession seems too precise to have been driven or derailed by passion: they don't exhort to the pedestrian, they don't try to engage the spectator. There is no thrill of terror. It is decidedly not paisa-vasool.
On Wednesday morning there is a fresh perspective on the new political scenario: since the Maoists are no longer in the government, this year's Miss Nepal competition can be organized without the usual fear. Of course, the beauty queen making this observation doesn't foresee Prachanda's press conference, through which he makes it clear that this resignation is a mere change of diet until he heads the next government. What is both exciting and disappointing about the farce is the realization that the bite has been taken out of the political barking. There aren't enough drumbeats of doom.
Thus the day coils into itself, begets a fresh habit for unattached details, looks for minutiae while postponing acknowledgment of the political reality. What sound like lonely dogs barking across the neighbourhood loom and compound into a swollen caterpillar of a julus writhing its way through a silenced neighbourhood. And what sound like anger and self-righteousness bounding down an alley become nothing more than neighbourhood dogs, each barking to defend its piss-lined shrine to itself. By the time another large julus passes outside a sekuwa joint in Nayabazaar, ears perk but the conversation doesn't pause. The julus plays itself to the mind: a throng driven by no particular crisis, and much too studied in the art of the julus, following not an all-consuming passion, but by a party directive.
But all of this seems distant, like a circus on another planet. What used to seem hallowed--the business of creating new political realities--now appears as it really is: ridden with lies, no matter who is the party lied to. The parties seem to be filled with silver-tongued dimwits, or others that are brilliantly inarticulate, with a tail of unquestioning fellowship. In the everyday, however, small changes happen without shouting for attention: the streets are easier to navigate; there are fresh vegetables in the market; newlywed friends finally arrive in Kathmandu from Dang because the roads are open. Sacks of parwar inspire a prayer of thanks and women leafing through fresh saag smile at each other, secure in the knowledge that there is plenty to go around. And that says a lot about the simple prioroties of the simple people. Let the naked ambitions of the political parties continue to make a fool of each unworthy one of them. Today there will be fresh, inexpensive tarkari to look forward to, and that is enough. That is more thrilling than the next video-tape, next unconstitutional shenanigan, or the next, inevitable act of terror.
Falling Sick
I had my imminent illness explained to me by a micro-bus driver. He wasn't talking to me, but screaming at his khalasi, for buying a bottle of water that had been sitting in the freezer.
"You get sick if you drink very cold water in hot weather." Now, to me that seemed odd. I thought you wanted it cold, you know, to cool you off. But, apparently, it is bad for you to drink water too cold if the day is too hot.
Yagya bought a very cold bottle of water, and it was very hot indeed, so I poured it into my mouth. I could feel it burn the back of my throat. But, I thought nothing of it. Then we added some beer to the mix. My guess is: the too-cold water freezer-burned by throat; the cold water depressed the immune system momentarily; the beer added to the same. Now I have a very scratchy throat that seems to have caught something. I woke up with phlegm, and now one nostril is blocked.
In other news: I don't give a rat's ass about the politics. I think most of the excitement is behind us now. The only possibly explosive/outrageous thing would be if the Maoists killed the man they have arrested for leaking the tape out. He is in custody in Shaktikhor, which is where the video was shot. I am sure it hurts the PLA members a little to see PKD so vehemently deny everything they stand for: a final, bloody revolution.
And, do you know why I don't believe in what PKD says about the party's change in direction? Because the base is still talking about "enemies" and "blood-red revolution." And I am not talking about what they say in their meetings--this is the language they use in a forum organized by INGOs.
"You get sick if you drink very cold water in hot weather." Now, to me that seemed odd. I thought you wanted it cold, you know, to cool you off. But, apparently, it is bad for you to drink water too cold if the day is too hot.
Yagya bought a very cold bottle of water, and it was very hot indeed, so I poured it into my mouth. I could feel it burn the back of my throat. But, I thought nothing of it. Then we added some beer to the mix. My guess is: the too-cold water freezer-burned by throat; the cold water depressed the immune system momentarily; the beer added to the same. Now I have a very scratchy throat that seems to have caught something. I woke up with phlegm, and now one nostril is blocked.
In other news: I don't give a rat's ass about the politics. I think most of the excitement is behind us now. The only possibly explosive/outrageous thing would be if the Maoists killed the man they have arrested for leaking the tape out. He is in custody in Shaktikhor, which is where the video was shot. I am sure it hurts the PLA members a little to see PKD so vehemently deny everything they stand for: a final, bloody revolution.
And, do you know why I don't believe in what PKD says about the party's change in direction? Because the base is still talking about "enemies" and "blood-red revolution." And I am not talking about what they say in their meetings--this is the language they use in a forum organized by INGOs.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Civil Society were Beggers
This man is incredible. Again, either he was pandering to his base, or he felt secure enough in that environment to speak the truth. But, regarding Jana Aandolan-II, this is what Prachanda has to say:
"We never compromised with the state. Our agreement was with the protesters. Sometimes I say--they were wandering the streets like beggars. We picked them up to make the 12- point pact."
He thinks he saved the hundreds of thousands of people who came out to the streets to throw the king out. He calls them--the civil society--helpless beggars.
Perhaps he just doesn't understand what civic pride and sense of duty, and the sense of injustice, means to the people he seems to delight in deceiving.
"We never compromised with the state. Our agreement was with the protesters. Sometimes I say--they were wandering the streets like beggars. We picked them up to make the 12- point pact."
He thinks he saved the hundreds of thousands of people who came out to the streets to throw the king out. He calls them--the civil society--helpless beggars.
Perhaps he just doesn't understand what civic pride and sense of duty, and the sense of injustice, means to the people he seems to delight in deceiving.
Prachanda's Old Video
From Republica's website:
http://www.myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=4670
--
This is a good watch. The video is in Nepali, but the gist is there in English. Also, Prachanda is a very physical actor, delighting in the limelight he is at the focus of, so his intention, his glee, his duplicity does come across. It is somewhat troubling that this video has been leaked from the inner circles of the Maoist Party: it must have been a, official video document of the Prachanda's visit to the guerrillas in the cantonments. At that time, the party's ambition was to make him the president of the country, with executive powers.
This, of course, makes the biggest difference: to me it points to their naivete regarding the complexity of negotiating their way through the hurdles set in their paths by coalition partners, and other mitigating factors of democracy, like a free press, for instance, or the fact that a lot of people may fundamentally disagree with their world view.
If Prachanda was lying to his guerrillas and telling the truth to the Nepali people, he is still a liar. If he was lying to the Nepali people and telling the truth to the guerrillas, he is still a liar. Worse, this choice of whom to lie to and to whom to tell the truth, shows how he cannot conceive of a single nation of people. Democracy allows for differences in attitude and opinions, but only a dictatorship separates the people into friends and enemies.
One curious observation: among the comments made by people who've seen this clip, commentators using the Nepali language tend to favor Prachanda, whereas commentators using the English language tend to disfavor him.
There was a ginormous procession through the city yesterday, by the Maoist organizations, while the party was disrupting proceedings at the CA, demanding that the president ask for their forgiveness for his "unconstitutional" move. The president's move was indeed unconstitutional, but in my opinion, only so because certain ideas, certain contingencies hadn't been addressed in the interim document. I think the man acted to show balls, unlike all other politicians who are using this opportunity to show how cunning they can be.
The fall-out of this video, although it was also aired through Image Channel, can't be a huge one: what should be the most shocking aspect of this revelation is the manipulation of the people by the Maoist party with its "relief" package of Rs 100,000. Second to that, I think, is the revelation that the party had to come to the negotiating table because they had ruined their relationship with the people, and not because they were having a strategic upper-hand in the war. Third is the revelation that they were never serious about the elections.
It is quite possible that the incompetence of UNMIN, on which they seem to have banked, and the wisdom of the people to force them into the democratic process by voting for them, surprised the Maoists into being more seriously dedicated to their new role as "the state."
Nagarik has a full-page spread dedicated to the text of the video, and it appears that the video has been cleverly edited, the chronology shifted around, but that's TV for you. Nothing erroneous, though, in the edit, nothing deceptive.
http://www.myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=4670
--
This is a good watch. The video is in Nepali, but the gist is there in English. Also, Prachanda is a very physical actor, delighting in the limelight he is at the focus of, so his intention, his glee, his duplicity does come across. It is somewhat troubling that this video has been leaked from the inner circles of the Maoist Party: it must have been a, official video document of the Prachanda's visit to the guerrillas in the cantonments. At that time, the party's ambition was to make him the president of the country, with executive powers.
This, of course, makes the biggest difference: to me it points to their naivete regarding the complexity of negotiating their way through the hurdles set in their paths by coalition partners, and other mitigating factors of democracy, like a free press, for instance, or the fact that a lot of people may fundamentally disagree with their world view.
If Prachanda was lying to his guerrillas and telling the truth to the Nepali people, he is still a liar. If he was lying to the Nepali people and telling the truth to the guerrillas, he is still a liar. Worse, this choice of whom to lie to and to whom to tell the truth, shows how he cannot conceive of a single nation of people. Democracy allows for differences in attitude and opinions, but only a dictatorship separates the people into friends and enemies.
One curious observation: among the comments made by people who've seen this clip, commentators using the Nepali language tend to favor Prachanda, whereas commentators using the English language tend to disfavor him.
There was a ginormous procession through the city yesterday, by the Maoist organizations, while the party was disrupting proceedings at the CA, demanding that the president ask for their forgiveness for his "unconstitutional" move. The president's move was indeed unconstitutional, but in my opinion, only so because certain ideas, certain contingencies hadn't been addressed in the interim document. I think the man acted to show balls, unlike all other politicians who are using this opportunity to show how cunning they can be.
The fall-out of this video, although it was also aired through Image Channel, can't be a huge one: what should be the most shocking aspect of this revelation is the manipulation of the people by the Maoist party with its "relief" package of Rs 100,000. Second to that, I think, is the revelation that the party had to come to the negotiating table because they had ruined their relationship with the people, and not because they were having a strategic upper-hand in the war. Third is the revelation that they were never serious about the elections.
It is quite possible that the incompetence of UNMIN, on which they seem to have banked, and the wisdom of the people to force them into the democratic process by voting for them, surprised the Maoists into being more seriously dedicated to their new role as "the state."
Nagarik has a full-page spread dedicated to the text of the video, and it appears that the video has been cleverly edited, the chronology shifted around, but that's TV for you. Nothing erroneous, though, in the edit, nothing deceptive.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Standoff!
First: politics in Nepal is getting spicier. Times are getting more interesting. Coup? I think not. Street confrontations? I think so. I think the Maoist party will be conclusively shown how delusional it has remained about its position within the civil society, and the rest of the world will be shown how much the Maoists still covet their brutish strength, their capacity to force their way into or out of a political situation.
Second: check out the photo! That's me, circa 90/91. My guess is that it is sometime before I joined Budhanilkantha, possibly the passport-size pictures taken for the entrance exams and subsequent paperwork.
Thank you, Hikmat dai, for emailing me this photo.
Friday, May 1, 2009
One Way Street
For Sunday's TKP appears below. Once [or, when] the posts for Nagarik and Republica are up, I will post links to them. Probably put a .pdf of the Nepali text, because I don't want to mess with unicode, mostly because I don't know quite how, yet.
Today is May Day--city is closed. I think there are lots of Maoist activists in the valley for the day's celebrations. Prachanda's plan to gift them with the expulsion [forced retirement] of Chief of Army Staff Rukmangud Katwal has failed, so they [the assembled Maoist masses] have little to celebrate, much to berate. I think the people who got caught going in the wrong direction in a one-way street were of the PLA.
--
One Way Street
Traffic police in Kathmandu seem to delight in scaring pedestrians and drivers alike with banners advertising against reckless behaviour: riding without helmet, leaning out of buses, walking under a sky-bridge. At Gaushala they post the annual road-death toll in the valley. Then there are slogans reminding drivers that "little ones" wait for them at home. All in all, it makes a person feel good that the diligent, masked officers work hard to protect his life.
Among all uniformed services, their uniform commands and receives the least amount of respect, because they inspire the least amount of fear. A microbus driver had apparently been picking up passengers from Muglin to sneak them into Kathmandu during the night, against traffic rules. He was stopped at Thankot one day. He wasn't happy. He turned revolutionary. The driver's reply was: "Enjoy what life you have left, because the next time I see you I am going to cut your heads off."
The traffic police never lost their cool. "What are you saying?" One officer asked. "You couldn't cut off this head in ten years of war. Now we are paid employees to the bosses of your revolution." Once the microbus was sliding downhill to Naubise, the driver added: "Let them live. They escaped once. Now they show off the borrowed days of their lives." Which is to say: there is another revolution coming, and you'll be lucky to survive that.
The traffic police are always the first officer of the law to face the first stones of rebellion cast at the powers that be. They are also the first recipients of violence of a different sort: the folded bank-note after an infraction, the mercurial crowd that pools around a minor accident to offer bribes and threats. The short one-way slope from Thamel to Galkopakha probably yields a daily tally of thousands of rupees in attempted or solicited bribes. Everybody wants to gun up the short slope; nearly everybody gets caught.
These men have just been caught and hauled opposite a shop that sells boar meat. "We are staff," the biker and his companions tell everybody. Onlookers seem to grasp their meaning. "License," the traffic policeman demands. The biker opens his wallet, takes out a folded note. It is dusk; it is unclear how much money is being offered. Another policeman joins the commotion.
"What is happening?" The usual: motorbike gunned up the slope, a bad move at six-thirty in the evening. Onlookers don't volunteer that a bribe was presented. "License," the second policeman rhymes. The biker takes off his helmet, but doesn't take off his mask. He quickly tugs at the elastic bands to show his face, lets the mask snap back. "I said, I am staff," he repeats.
"Doesn't matter if you are staff or general," a policeman replies. "I said sorry. I said I am staff," the biker shouts back, not backing off, holding out his license tentatively. "You didn't say that first, did you? You didn't say you were sorry. You didn't speak to me like this. You threatened me, didn't you? What staff? Where is your staff ID?" The original traffic police doesn't back down.
"Look," the passenger grabs a policeman's shoulder. He pats his heavy, square backpack and says with significance: "We are staff. We came from outside. We didn't know. We are sorry." They don't look like they are traffic police staff. "What staff?" The biker snatches his license back, snaps his mask off and on again. "We are staff. We came from outside. We didn't know." He repeats what his friend said. "Doesn't matter if you are staff or not," one policeman says. "Did you talk to me in a civil tone when I asked for your license? What did you say then? Go ahead, repeat it. Repeat it in front of these people." The policeman grabs the arm that snatched the license back.
"We came from outside the valley. We didn't know it is one-way," the passenger says. His voice becomes more a warning than an explanation. He holds the backpack between him and the uniformed men, careful to avoid jostling it. A policeman with one star on his shoulder arrives, nose twitching, scratching his face with a walkie-talkie antenna. "What's happening? One-way?"
"We said we are sorry," the biker whines as the inspector snatches the key from the motorbike. The inspector waves his arms, irritated at his men, impatient with the men who insist they are staff, in Kathmandu for tomorrow, first of May. "I said I was sorry. They should let me go if I have asked forgiveness once," the biker turns to the onlookers. "Is this the rule of law?" his companion adds.
"You tried to bribe me in front of these people," an exasperated traffic policeman seems close to pulling out his own hair. "You threatened me first. Then you tried to bribe me."
"Take it away," the inspector tells his men.
"Listen," the passenger says. "We are staff. We came from outside…" The inspector stares at the passenger. "I heard that. Now shut up and follow them to the station." He marches off, pauses, and turns to add, "That is a one way street. You saw the sign at the bottom. You ran through a no-entry. That is a one way street!" Indeed, a one-way street, as it should be. The passenger is angry. He looks at the onlookers who don't say anything in his defence, just as they said nothing in defence of the policeman who refused the bribe, who enforced a small rule of law, who didn't care if the culprits were staff or generals. The motorbike is lead away. There is nothing more to see. But there is someone in the distance still shouting, and a policeman shouting back: "It is one-way. You made the mistake. Then you threatened me. You made that mistake. Then you tried to bribe me. You made that mistake."
A microbus stops right under the peepul tree to pick up passengers going to Samakhusi. From afar, cutting through the chaos, a shrill, lone whistle urges the microbus to get moving. It is breaking a rule if it lingers any longer.
Today is May Day--city is closed. I think there are lots of Maoist activists in the valley for the day's celebrations. Prachanda's plan to gift them with the expulsion [forced retirement] of Chief of Army Staff Rukmangud Katwal has failed, so they [the assembled Maoist masses] have little to celebrate, much to berate. I think the people who got caught going in the wrong direction in a one-way street were of the PLA.
--
One Way Street
Traffic police in Kathmandu seem to delight in scaring pedestrians and drivers alike with banners advertising against reckless behaviour: riding without helmet, leaning out of buses, walking under a sky-bridge. At Gaushala they post the annual road-death toll in the valley. Then there are slogans reminding drivers that "little ones" wait for them at home. All in all, it makes a person feel good that the diligent, masked officers work hard to protect his life.
Among all uniformed services, their uniform commands and receives the least amount of respect, because they inspire the least amount of fear. A microbus driver had apparently been picking up passengers from Muglin to sneak them into Kathmandu during the night, against traffic rules. He was stopped at Thankot one day. He wasn't happy. He turned revolutionary. The driver's reply was: "Enjoy what life you have left, because the next time I see you I am going to cut your heads off."
The traffic police never lost their cool. "What are you saying?" One officer asked. "You couldn't cut off this head in ten years of war. Now we are paid employees to the bosses of your revolution." Once the microbus was sliding downhill to Naubise, the driver added: "Let them live. They escaped once. Now they show off the borrowed days of their lives." Which is to say: there is another revolution coming, and you'll be lucky to survive that.
The traffic police are always the first officer of the law to face the first stones of rebellion cast at the powers that be. They are also the first recipients of violence of a different sort: the folded bank-note after an infraction, the mercurial crowd that pools around a minor accident to offer bribes and threats. The short one-way slope from Thamel to Galkopakha probably yields a daily tally of thousands of rupees in attempted or solicited bribes. Everybody wants to gun up the short slope; nearly everybody gets caught.
These men have just been caught and hauled opposite a shop that sells boar meat. "We are staff," the biker and his companions tell everybody. Onlookers seem to grasp their meaning. "License," the traffic policeman demands. The biker opens his wallet, takes out a folded note. It is dusk; it is unclear how much money is being offered. Another policeman joins the commotion.
"What is happening?" The usual: motorbike gunned up the slope, a bad move at six-thirty in the evening. Onlookers don't volunteer that a bribe was presented. "License," the second policeman rhymes. The biker takes off his helmet, but doesn't take off his mask. He quickly tugs at the elastic bands to show his face, lets the mask snap back. "I said, I am staff," he repeats.
"Doesn't matter if you are staff or general," a policeman replies. "I said sorry. I said I am staff," the biker shouts back, not backing off, holding out his license tentatively. "You didn't say that first, did you? You didn't say you were sorry. You didn't speak to me like this. You threatened me, didn't you? What staff? Where is your staff ID?" The original traffic police doesn't back down.
"Look," the passenger grabs a policeman's shoulder. He pats his heavy, square backpack and says with significance: "We are staff. We came from outside. We didn't know. We are sorry." They don't look like they are traffic police staff. "What staff?" The biker snatches his license back, snaps his mask off and on again. "We are staff. We came from outside. We didn't know." He repeats what his friend said. "Doesn't matter if you are staff or not," one policeman says. "Did you talk to me in a civil tone when I asked for your license? What did you say then? Go ahead, repeat it. Repeat it in front of these people." The policeman grabs the arm that snatched the license back.
"We came from outside the valley. We didn't know it is one-way," the passenger says. His voice becomes more a warning than an explanation. He holds the backpack between him and the uniformed men, careful to avoid jostling it. A policeman with one star on his shoulder arrives, nose twitching, scratching his face with a walkie-talkie antenna. "What's happening? One-way?"
"We said we are sorry," the biker whines as the inspector snatches the key from the motorbike. The inspector waves his arms, irritated at his men, impatient with the men who insist they are staff, in Kathmandu for tomorrow, first of May. "I said I was sorry. They should let me go if I have asked forgiveness once," the biker turns to the onlookers. "Is this the rule of law?" his companion adds.
"You tried to bribe me in front of these people," an exasperated traffic policeman seems close to pulling out his own hair. "You threatened me first. Then you tried to bribe me."
"Take it away," the inspector tells his men.
"Listen," the passenger says. "We are staff. We came from outside…" The inspector stares at the passenger. "I heard that. Now shut up and follow them to the station." He marches off, pauses, and turns to add, "That is a one way street. You saw the sign at the bottom. You ran through a no-entry. That is a one way street!" Indeed, a one-way street, as it should be. The passenger is angry. He looks at the onlookers who don't say anything in his defence, just as they said nothing in defence of the policeman who refused the bribe, who enforced a small rule of law, who didn't care if the culprits were staff or generals. The motorbike is lead away. There is nothing more to see. But there is someone in the distance still shouting, and a policeman shouting back: "It is one-way. You made the mistake. Then you threatened me. You made that mistake. Then you tried to bribe me. You made that mistake."
A microbus stops right under the peepul tree to pick up passengers going to Samakhusi. From afar, cutting through the chaos, a shrill, lone whistle urges the microbus to get moving. It is breaking a rule if it lingers any longer.
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