Layla Majnun

We all have heard about Layla-Majnun story. Mostly through the same source, the sleazeball Bollywood. Cute Rishi Kapoor, how could they treat that gentle Kapoor to such extremes- maniacally running, singing, moaning over sand dunes. However, that is not my point. Read below.

Story of Layla and Harun-ar-Rashid, the famous Abbasid emperor. Upon hearing that a Bedouin poet named Qays had fallen hopelessly in love with Layla and lost his mind for her, and was therefore named Majnun- the madman- the emperor became very curious about the woman who had caused such misery.

This Layla must be a very special creature, he thought. A woman far superior to all other women. Perhaps she is an enchantress unequaled in beauty and charm.

Excited, intrigued, he played every trick in the book to find a way to see Layla with his own eyes.

Finally one day they brought Layla to emperor's palace. When she took off her veil, Harun-ar-Rashid was disillusioned. Not that Layla was ugly, crippled, or old. But she wasn't extraordinarily attractive either. She was a human being with ordinary human needs and several defects, a simple woman, like countless others. 

The emperor did not hide his disappointment. "Are you the one Majnun has been crazy about? Why,

you look so ordinary. What is so special about you?"

Layla broke into a smile. "Yes, I am Layla. But you are not Majnun," she answered. "You have to see me with the eyes of Majnun. Otherwise you could never solve this mystery called love."

Love cannot be explained. It can only be experienced.

Love cannot be explained, yet it explains all- Rumi.

Godfather.

People who LIKE movies have a favorite. People who LOVE movies couldn't possibly choose. As much as I want to choose one favorite movie from the Gangster or the 'Wiseguy' genre- made by Italian born director Martin Scorsese almost his own, I fail. One can easily close his eyes and name ‘The Godfather’ as probably the greatest ever motion picture- across all genres. Who dares to contest it? Francis Ford Coppola in one act of cinematic brilliance transcended all benchmarks. He created  a magnum opus, a catharsis of vulnerability, a celebration of unpoetic justice. It is perhaps only his genius ingenuity that he could pull of another classic 'Apocalypse Now'- a war movie that again set a new touchstone. But then men like Coppola are few. I can only think of two other movies that compete with The Godfather: GoodFellas and Once Upon a time in America.  You decide the order.

What sets Godfather aside to many others ( I keep Coppola's , Scorsese's and Sergio Leone's on same scale) is its exquisite plot: three generations intertwined around the great American dream, envisioned by  many Italian expats, in early 20th century. Some call it the best ever family movie. I wouldn't disagree. It glorifies patriarchy, yet never fails to expose the subtle beauty of its women. I still maintain Michael Corleone's Sicilian wife is the prettiest actress in a 10 minute role.

It is one movie where you do not find any discernible weakness. That itself speaks. Direction is top notch, and not for a moment do you feel Coppola is faltering or losing the plot. Like a true captain of the ship he is in complete control. Editing is crisp, and the haunting background score captures every essence of hard core professional criminals who live laugh and love their families. Cinematography is flawless. The depiction and the way the director takes his audience into his story remains unparalleled to the day. In one of it’s more celebrated and widely talked scenes 'Khartoum', the director introduces the brutality of Don Vito Corleone in a way that stays forever in a viewers mind. He may be a family man, he may have his moral code- but he is an uncouth Don after all. The scene never fails to send a chill down my spine.

Many of its lines have achieved the status of sacred scriptures. We use them in every day pillow talks. "I am going to make him an offer he can't refuse”.

Godfather has moments that drown upon a viewer; every time, no matter how many iterations one may have gone through. One such moment is when Paulie is killed in the car. Clemenza very routinely asks Rocco, who has killed him [Paulie]in the car, while he goes off to pee, with the liberty statue in the background; to drop the gun and take the conolli. Clemenza in the earlier scene was reminded by his wife at home to pick up conolli on the way back. The shear ease with which these gangsters go around killing is remarkably put on the screen. You will actually not fail to recognize the silent impact many of such scenes had on the forthcoming gangster movies.

It had an ensemble of cast that is tough to match. Marlon Brando is just the ideal Godfather. After his riveting performance as a torment soul in 'On the Water front' this is Brando's best. I cannot imagine anyone in his place. And I'm glad he agreed to the movie, though it took a lot of persuasion from Coppola. Al Pacino as the young war hero is charming. He acts through his eyes. Those powerful  meaningful eyes. While no praise is enough for Brando and Al, I think the beauty of Godfather also lies in the performances of fringe actors. James Caan the hot-headed elder son of the scion. Robert Duvall, the Irish lawyer, who is remarkably re-affirming in the skin of his character. Diane Keaton as Michael's girlfriend comes across as a strong women on her own, amidst the dominating patriarchy.

Godfather has tons of symbolism, evident in the opening scene when Bonasera seeks Vito Corleone's help in bringing justice (not the American justice) to his daughter violent abuser. He laments in front of the Don. 'I went to the police like a good American. These two boys were brought to trial. The judge sentenced them to three years in prison - suspended sentence. Suspended sentence! They went free that very day! I stood in the courtroom like a fool. And those two bastards, they smiled at me. Then I said to my wife, 'for justice, we must go to Don Corleone.' The scene finishes, the soundtrack plays. Moments later Vito Corleone is posing for a family picture on his daughter's wedding. It is business as usual for the Corleone family.

The movie gives you an idea about how the Italian mafia worked. Of how the baton is passed to a son from an ageing father.  Old and dying Vito Corleone grabs Michael’s hands while plowing on flower beds, like any retired father would be doing.  Sad that Michael had to join family business in the circumstances that he did, Vito Corleone makes it known that he had envisioned a future for him: Senator Corleone, or Governor Corleone. Michael looks into his father’s ageing eyes and replies, ‘ We’ll get there, Pop. We’ll get there.’

Godfather should be seen by anyone who considers himself to be a fan of film and film making.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Have you not heard of that mad man who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market

place and cried incessantly," I seek God."  As many of those who do not believe in God, would stand around just then, he provoked much laughter. 

"Why? Did he get lost,"  said one.

"Did he lose his way like a child," said another.

What is he hiding. The mad man jumped amidst and pierced into his glances.

"Where is God? We have killed him- you and I. All of us are his murderers. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm a wanderer and a mountain climber, Zarathustra said to his heart. What returns, what finally comes home to me is my own self. Alas! I've begun my loneliest walk. But, who ever is of my kind, cannot escape such an hour. The hour which says to him- 'Only now are you going your way to greatness. Peak and abyss are now joined together. For all things are baptized in a well of eternity

and lie beyond good and evil. 

My principle article of faith is that one can only flourish among people who share the identical ideas and identical will. I have no one: that is my sickness. 

Parvaiz Rasool: Best of Luck My Country Man.

"I'm not aware of any mistakes I've made this summer", this was Ted Dexter chairman of selectors after England got caned in the 1989 ashes. Selecting a side is never say; making an impression over the over greased selectors even difficult, in India, where the sheer weight of baggage is enormous that a player has to carry before catching a selectors eye. Parvez Rasool did catch. Playing for Board President's XI ( Yes, the head honcho of irregularities has an XI) against Australia, Parvez's drift and guile duped 7 unprosperous Aussies. The shy boy from a small town of Bijbehara- a town that connects us with India through a jalopy laden highway- started making noises in the gray corridors of BCCI HQ at Mumbai. An IPL selection for Pune few months later boosted the boy's confidence further.

In between BCCI had a harmless scheduled tour to Zimbabwe. Mugabe's godforsaken land still plays cricket. Who hoots?  "I want everyone to play cricket in Zimbabwe; I want us to be a nation of gentlemen", Mugabe had said famously in 1984. The story didn't turn the way he had expected. Despots paint a picture and then ruin it themselves. But, that is for another day. 

Parvez was named in the  touring squad of 15. Took me at least by surprise. Was this is a Sadbhavna gesture? The mind kept boggling. Nevertheless, seeing a fellow countryman doing well, bloated our chests. After all, there are only two things that get us Kashmiris excited for all dime and reasons: Saal batte and cricket. We loathe; we bemoan; we rue and we sing the blues, over a well gelled Yakhni and a copybook cover drive: in same measure. 

The Boy waited patiently on the bench, cooling his heels. I don't know if he got a chance to catch the African Safari all those days. Or was he too nervous already, to test the african wildlife. Meanwhile, the nation gasped its breathe back home. After each game the back-fence whispers started gaining vigor- from narrow snaky alleys of Bijbehara to the over-heated 'navid vaan'  in an unusual hot summer,  in downtown Srinagar. The buzz was common: they won't play him: Virat Kohli is Jansangh: this was just an eye-wash. The speculations came true. Sadly. Parvez returned home without playing a game. Knee-jerk reactions poured left and right. We blamed the poor boy- a traitor, a friend called him. He deserved this disgrace. Good lord! He is just trying to lure the batsman with his flight. State's cute, fish mouthed CM joined the bandwagon. He demands he has a right to opinion-ate in one of his tweets. We agree. If only he did on more serious matters.

All said, Parvez perhaps deserved a chance. Or may be he didn't. But, if he is good he will have his day in the sun. A good Ranji season should get him back in reckoning. India is still searching for a Kumble, a Harbhajan. The Ashwins and Chawlas haven't still earned a permanent place in the XI. Someone remind Parvez, before he loiters depressingly along the fields that run parallel to Jehlum, where he first learned that flight. 

Say that cricket has nothing to do with politics and you say that cricket has nothing to do with life. Prophetic words.

Best of luck my countryman. 

The article appeared in daily Kashmir Observer.

The ism of Existentialism:

What a man is and can become is a fundament question for man. To fail to be human would mean slipping into nothingness. Man, however, is not a self-sufficient entity, but he is constituted by the things he makes his own. In every form of his, man is related to something other than himself. If man wants to grasp himself directly, he ceases to understand himself- to know who he is and what he should do. He faces a state of forever confusion.

The existence of man 'being there' as coined by many existentialists like Dostoevsky and Heidegger can be understood immediately by this key sentence: "the essence of being there lies in its existence." In metaphysics both refer to the reality of anything, from God to a grain of sand. Man exists, and he can be conscious of it, both at the same time. The physics follows him. However, he compounds his problems when he goes into what Sartre called the 'Faith' of self-deception. The problem of self deception evidently stems from the fact that self-deception is faith. It is neither a lie nor a certainty- but simple adherence. Man believes in concepts which he forges to persuade himself. What self-deception on other level does, is, that it makes truth appear as a method of thinking. 

Sartre here simplifies things to some extent, by this doctrine: existence comes before essence. We think of God as the ultimate creator. When He creates he knows precisely what he is creating. God makes man according to a procedure and formula. The essence here precedes existence. We call it the human nature. Something that is common in between a peasant and the bourgeois.

However, Sartre twists this in an interesting way. He says if God does not exist there is at least one being whose existence comes before essence. That being is man or the human reality. What does he mean by existence comes before essence? He means that man first exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world- and then defines himself afterwards. Thus, there is no human nature. Man simply is. Not that he is simply what he conceives himself to be, but he is what he wills. Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself. That is the first principle of existentialism. There is nothing good or evil, only the will of the man. This perhaps explains the extreme steps few beings take: A murder. A heist. A rape. The culprit never sees evil in his acts. He exists and his essence drives him. 

Perturbed I've always been over this: someone born in felony, lawlessness and immorality - with no control over it, can we really blame this 'being'? Isn't his circumstances to be blamed and not him? It is Gods will after all.

'Before the law' is a parable by Kafka in which Before law stands a gatekeeper on guard. A man from the country comes to seek admission to the law. He is stopped. The man understands the power of the gatekeeper- he his tall and stout. He agrees to wait. And he waits for years. When the gatekeeper perceives that the man is at the end of his strength, he bellows in his ear: "No one but you could gain admittance through this door, since this door was intended only for you. I am now going to shut it."  Did the Doorkeeper delude the man? No, he actually didn't. He was deluded himself. He was only following orders. He is a servant to the law. The man is seeking the law, the doorkeeper is already attached to it. For gatekeeper to doubt his integrity is to doubt the Law itself. The gatekeeper never doubts. He never knows what goes inside. He is a mere pawn. The parable ends by this line: it is not necessary to accept everything as true, one must accept it as necessary." A melancholy conclusion. 

Yeh paap hai kya

Yeh punya hai kya,

Reetoon par dharam ki mohren hain.

Har yug main badalte dharmoon ko 

Kaise adarsh banaoge?' 

What is a sin

And what is a good deed?

It is just a stamp of approval or disapproval of the society 

on rituals and customs. 

Allepey: Gods Own Country

Perhaps more than any other place in the world, Allepey is defined by its Gods. There are more than a 100 hundred churches and chapels congregated in this small, lazy town of picturesque canals, lakes and backwater lagoons. The backwaters of Allepey, for which Lord Curzon named it as the 'Venice of the East', is a major tourist attraction, and our reason for being here.

It was not uncommon for me to gather a few rupees, strap on a backpack and spend part of a summer searching through adventures- few years back. Travel gives me a thrill. It tires me. I curse myself for being so tough on myself, postponing the inevitable adult responsibility of 'work'. But it is something where I found my purpose of life. I'm blessed. Very few can claim this.

Things have changed though. The vagaries of everyday life have engulfed this nomad. Consumerism, capitalism: terms I loathed, are a part of the society I'm 
contributing to. However, the nonconformist still shows up, sporadically. My dogeared biography on Karl Marx's Das Kapital, nestled in my backpack,
while I left for Kerala, portrayed this. It wasn't a co-incidence. I was traveling to a place where marxism has deep roots. Kerala emancipated through education, and feudalism was shown the door. In Face to Face- a highly acclaimed malayalam movie, when the aged, alcoholic and disappointed Marxist, Sreedhar is murdered mysteriously, his old union comrades solemnly pledge and march under their red flags, chanting, 'Long live Comrade Sreedharan'- proving death is so much easier to celebrate. 'Without revolutionary theory there can be no revolutionary movement'- a Vladmir Lenin's quote atop a ceremonial gate, in Allepey, proclaimed, while we were driving towards it from Cochin- a distance of around 65 Kms.

Allepey's early mornings are booming and noisy, unlike its afternoons, which are much quieter. The fishermen get busy in traditional methods of fish curing and drying; workers working in processing firms ride on bi cycles to work; annoying trade union members assemble at harbors and markets taking money out of poor fisherman's pocket. This is, this towns, business time. For rest of the day, people just loiter around. Easy going is a term people live by here. 

Houses are neatly built with noticeable colonial architecture. In more prosperous part of the town, along the beach, the walls are low lying, giving a good view of the SUVs parked in almost every home: the Audis, the Toyotas and the BMWs. 

At noon we hired the boat- our vessel de tetra for next 24 hours.The boat was spacious with an open lounge area, two enclosed air conditioned bed rooms and at the back a small kitchen and staff area. We were introduced to our staff. There was a boat master, a helper and a cook named- Joseph Stalin. Yes, the Russian red tsar had a name sake in our boat. The ride was incredibly peaceful with only the clattering of the migratory Kumoan birds breaking its eerie silence. It seemed we were offered banana fritters, fried fish every hour, by our hospitable staff. Some small boats drop off regularly selling fresh fish and vegetables. Cars and trucks can only access the periphery, so everything else ends up going by the water. The parade of the boats and their uses are diverse. We saw small boats dropping students at individual jetties, livestock being carried to pastures, people at taxi depots waiting to go home. Amidst all this, there was visible care taken of the habitat. The canals and these numerous inland waterways stretching hundreds of kms were largely kept clean.

While we were sipping afternoon chai on the open deck of our boat, Mohsin propped up a question. What brings us here? In a hurriedly hustled program-me I packed my bags in Dubai; Akhter joined from Kashmir cursing us all along; Mohsin reported sick to office in Bangalore. And here we were, three of us, sitting atop a boat, in a remote south Indian village. Friedrich Nietzsche has drawn a fantastic conformity to it. He says men are inclined to laziness. They hide behind customs and opinions. At bottom, every human being knows that he is in this world just once, and that no accident, however strange, will throw a second chance. He knows it, but hides it like bad conscience. Why? From the fear of his neighbor who insists on convention. But what compels the individual human being to fear his neighbor? In vast majority it is the desire for comfort, inertia. That inclination to laziness. Only artists hate this slovenly life of borrowed manners and loosely fitted opinions. They unveil the secret, everybody's bad conscience. They dare to show us the human being as he is, down to his last muscle. In his uniqueness he is beautiful and worth contemplating, as novel and incredible as any work of nature. Nietzsche adds that a human being who does not wish to belong to the mass must merely cease being comfortable with himself; let him follow his conscience which shouts at him: 'Be yourself'. 

The boat meanwhile kept on pacing leisurely. At night we pulled into a mooring that was close to Stalin's village, so that he could go home for the night. As evening fell, with picture perfect sunset, we settled in watching lights in the village come on and the night traffic on the canal. For now it seemed everything had a purpose. The birds had a home to reach. The skies had a promise to turn dark. A new dawn had to break somewhere else. Kerala calls itself 'Gods own country'. On a night like this, I think they're right.

Ashes and rivalries.

There are some sporting rivalries that go beyond playing and players. England- Argentina in soccer. Maradona's one genius work, and one Godly work, gave it an all together different flavour- remember Mexico '86.

Then there was Bjorn Borg and McEnroe fighting out on French clay and English grass. Fans sighed. The rockstar Borg had females bating. The head-band and the sweaty forearms had them swooning all over. McEnroe had a temper and personality. Contrasting styles. Great tennis for fans. This was a rivalry called as 'Fire and Ice' by the aficionados.

India- Pakistan in cricket has had its moments. But, it is marred by politics. The rivalry as I see it, is not sporting, but, political. Hence, I keep it away from the discussion.

But there is Ashes: tradition, folklore, heritage. There is something when these two countries meet. First day of the first test at Edbagston or Brisbane. The buzz is in purists. It's time when everything else takes a backseat. Cricket is all what matters. A bouncer is hurled, a hook is played. The Barmy army sings. The urn may be tiny for which they play, but it carries the weight of a century and more. Of sweat and squabs; of long sea voyages in earlier 20th century; of Bodyline and Jardine; of Bradman and Jim Laker; of Botham at Headingley and Warne at Old Trafford.