Tnahsin Garg's Blog, page 3

Rape, Terror, and War

“Why? Why does evil exists? Why there is so much of rape, terror, and war all around us? Why can’t the world be free of at least these three horrors? That’s all I ask for. This is 21st century after all!" asks a naive and concerned citizen in despair. 

The artist looks at the citizen with sympathy and then glances away towards the dim horizon, assuming a brooding, meditative pose. Everything in the background except these two silhouettes appears blurred and insignificant like that of an irrelevant, forgotten dream. Finally, the artist replies. 

“Rape, terror, and war. They are central aspects of a universally prevalent situation known as conflict. Conflict exists, permeates, and even forms the very fiber of our being. Before life arose on Earth, before the Universe sprang into motion, conflict was there and will always be there. From atoms undergoing ionization to stars spiraling into galaxies, conflict drives everything - living or non-living.

Evil festers upon conflict. Evil, which stems from the spine of Good, is thus impossible to eradicate. To completely get rid of Evil, we must first get rid of all that is Good. A shadow can’t form without the assistance of light, so worried human, blow away the Sun if you’re so afraid of the night! Evil will exist, no matter what century we are in, only it’s form may change. The only way to end our suffering may, perhaps, lie in ending ourselves. 

Otherwise, we must liken our lives to that of a doomed, flickering flame. As long as we live, we shall burn.”

As the artist utters his last words, the blurred twilight allows complete darkness to take over. The citizen can not see the artist’s face anymore. Only the cold and careless words of the artist ring in his mind, impressing upon his prejudice. A surge of anger wells up in the citizen, his soul is desperate for some form of revenge. He would burn them, burn them all, all who had brought misery upon his beautiful world. 

Suddenly, the citizen sees a bright spark emanate from the place where the artist stood before. As the spark explodes, to his horror, he sees the artist engulfed in flames. The immolating artist, thus, stands burning with a glowing red face, staring at humanity with a set of unflinching eyes. Eyes that are longing for dawn. 

A Literary Ghost

Black, black, and black. Everything’s black in the apartment I moved in last week. From curtains to shelves, and floor rags to the furniture, it’s an embodiment of colorlessness. Like any newness, that new space, enclosed within a mute set of walls, has a novelty of its own. Each silent wall has a story to tell, a verse to rhyme. 

The owner of the apartment  was a student of English literature and philosophy. 26 year old, Danish, he recently left for Singapore after his inability to find a job fitting his qualifications and interests. “He was a lover of darkness,” his mother, who acted on her son’s behalf, told me as we signed the contract for 1 year. 

“You know he hated the Sun. The sunlight pouring in from the windows - he didn’t like it. That’s why you have these black curtains, blinds, and sheets all over the place. And beneath that lamp, there, he would sit and read his books. Yeah, his books. He so loved them,” she said in a dreamy voice, musing and staring at the ceiling, recollecting memories from some cherished, old corner. Her son, meanwhile, in Singapore, is living with his estranged father who divorced his mother recently after a few decades of marriage. 

The apartment, in it’s original form, furnished with the usual necessities, also housed more than 100 literary novels. The mother had moved about half of the books the first day, and she removed the rest, box by box, in the following days. She was not hesitant to stress, every time we met, how much his son cares for his books and how he wants her to move all of them to a safe place until he returns. Almost every novel looks fresh out of the printer, with not a page upturned and so they appear, stacked in four tall, black (painted) book racks like some sacred treasure. 

Do we really escape from the places we’ve left? What of all those footprints and thoughts that impregnate a space endlessly after we’re long gone. Aren’t ghosts simply the apparitions of ourselves caught up in an inertia of our wants? Refusing to give up or let go? Isn’t my landlord’s son, the owner of this serene apartment, still here, in some literary form? 

With his varied and rich tastes, reflected from his whole author collections ranging from Edgar Allan Poe to Dostoevsky, from the metaphysical to the romantic poets, from popular science fiction to Norton anthologies of old and medieval English literature - covering all: Chaucer, Dante, Shakespeare, Donne, Dickens, Wilde, Twain, Orwell, Steinback and so on - he lived a life that would leave any writer in pangs of jealousy. All these years, he had engulfed himself alone in a towering self-built library. So even though he may have left the place for a new settler, his ashes remain. 

“So do you want me to replace those curtains with a better color, maybe white or blue?" The mother asked me on her last visit to remove the remaining set of books.  She had to repeat her question in order to pull me out of my reverie. 

“No," I said suddenly as if haunted by some unknown force. And then, drawing a deep breath and looking at the whole place in a single sweeping, reassuring glance, I addressed the thin air, "Black is fine. Let there be darkness."  

Book Review: Kafka on the Shore

Utterly stupid book.

Perhaps Murakami had achieved such an iconic status by the time this book came out that he allowed his arrogance and egotism to overpower his common sense. In this self-obsessed careless mess, Murakami has failed to give any consideration for the precious time of his potential readers (especially new ones).

I can understand all the raving and good reviews are coming from Murakami fans who are used to his style and would read any shit written by him out of loyalty, but to a lay reader like me who chanced upon this book to take a break from well-written classics this was a terrible experience. Why on Earth did I venture to read this crap? (Note to self: Stick to renowned, dead authors and next time do quit the book if you don’t like the book. Don’t be a I-don’t-leave-books-halfway-kind-of-guy)

The chapters alternate between the stories of two seemingly connected characters: a 15-year old jack-ass named Kafka whose lame, anatomical description of his surroundings makes you want to put a bullet in your head and an old slug called Nakata who is plain dumb and is not afraid of mentioning it to everyone he meets. “Sorry dear cat, but Mr. Nakata is dumb. Nakata can’t read. Nakata can’t write," converses the old Nakata with seemingly intelligent cats, while he predicts weather patterns which involve raining of leeches and fishes from the Japanese sky.

At once the book was enticing to me, I thought, there must be a great amount of parallelism and metaphor in the story and it would be royal to crack all that symbolism. But half way through you become sure it’s not going to make any sense, and the author does a terrific job by making a stale curry out of it. I’d say perhaps multiple readings of the book, galloping everything written by Franz Kafka, gathering knowledge of Japanense history/spiritualism might reveal the connections and riddles that are running about in the book, but the reader must have a lingering interest to re-read the book. I didn’t have any stamina to bear the prose written by a teenager anymore, so I’m glad I finished the book. And let’s forget the story/plot for a moment because all great novels are not primarily known for their stories. But this doesn’t even have half-decent prose. It’s like a failed play where shallow characters read mechanical lines over and over.

Brimming with grossing out incest sex, characters who can’t stop showing off their knowledge about jazz and literature, and the author stepping in his characters time to time to throw out some forced metaphor at the poor reader, ‘Kafka on the shore’ is a neat mess. I sincerely hope that the Great Franz Kafka must have felt much disturbed in his grave on the publication of such adulating, sucking-up work.

Final Verdict: Read it if you’re a hardcore Murakami fan or you’re a lazy teenager who will bite into anything that’s thrown at him/her.

Rating: 1/5

Hello dear liked reading your posts... and im waiting eagerly for amreeka.... :-) all the best from cute girl

Hello cutegirlsayshello, 

Glad to know that there’s someone out there stalking my blog and liking it in the meanwhile. I’m too waiting eagerly for Amreeka. :)

I hope you will continue to make your presence felt frequently through questions and comments. Such events drastically alter the life of an artist, even though they maybe mostly originating from mysterious creeps, trolls, and cute girls. 

Regards,

cute boy 

A Note on Democracy

Never before in my life I had paid attention to politics of India, not until few months ago when the great 2014 polls began. Politics has always been a dirty game (and perhaps it still is) for me and countless other silent observers who have been trudging along in their lives and careers, lost in a pursuit of their own fantasized, passionate dreams and aspirations. Hell, I was so much of an ignorant Indian that five years ago in college I wasn’t even sure of the name of then President of India. Then, at the ripe voting age of 20 in 2009, I neither had a voter card (or a desire for one) and nor any clue of ubiquitous abbreviations like NDA, UPA flooding the newspapers and media from which I maintained a careful and dangerous distance. 

But since early 2014, something in me changed. I spent the past few months reading political articles online sitting in my office every morning, letting the research papers relevant to my PhD gather dust. A huge amount of credit goes to Aam Aadmi Party which introduced me for the first time to the relevance of politics and politicians. Now that I think of it, perhaps, the national defeat of AAP, bad performance of Congress and rise of BJP (Modi?) are not as important as what these elections have taught us. They have taught us (and especially me) to be openly skeptical, informed, and conscious of our leaders. AAP has managed to convert one ignorant Indian into a logical Indian - and that is, perhaps, their unsung victory. 

Voters of India, cheers for electing a stable government. But don’t falsely presume that you have pushed the right button, and your role in this gigantic democracy has come to an end. From now on, you make sure you do your job as honestly and as righteously as you can while keeping an open eye on your colleagues and leaders. It will be dangerous to hope that Modi (BJP?) will take care of the growth and economy while you sit back and watch the news unfold your future. Today is not the end of the biggest democratic exercise of the world. 

It is merely the beginning.

The Prophecy of Trivine - Facebook AMA

The Prophecy of Trivine - Facebook AMA :

chronicblabber:

A couple of weekends ago, I experienced one of the most exhilarating moments in my life. Never would I have imagined that a group of talented people, on their own free will, would interview me about a book that I had written. Thanks to the Book Club, I along with my supremely talented co-authors…

A live interview of TPoT authors. 

Book Review: Crime and Punishment

“Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.” 

I’ve had a bit of an affair with Russian authors before chancing upon Dostoyevsky. From Nabokov’s Lolita to a few short stories of Tolstoy and Gogol, Russian works had a special corner of admiration in my heart. After finishing Crime and Punishment, I can very well say that this corner has grown into a large, spacious room, a room full of reverence. 

Such is the effect that every eccentric character of this genius work left upon me. Rodion, the central character of great intellect, undergoing through great misery and circumstantial pressure (part of which is a false construction from his excessively paranoid brain), finds himself plummeting towards a hideous murder and the guilt that follows soon after. Rodion has all qualities that one may ascribe to a hero or an anti-hero, he may even be loathsome to several readers. His monomania, self-obsessed behavior and ruthless, flawless intellect renders him as a charming personality. 

What is crime? What, in essence, it really is? Who defines it? And why? And how? Isn’t morality only a matter of perspective? Dostoyevsky points plethora of such poignant questions, on a backdrop of the evils of then Russian society (which is very relatable to that of urban India) through his formidable array of characters, and leaves the reader biting his nails in what is also a ‘what-will-happen-next’ kind of thriller. 

While the prose is mainly governed by dialogue and little authorial observation, it’s the characters’ introspection and psychological analysis of each other that bowled me off my feet. This is one of those novels in which you, only few pages in, become aware of the potential of literary treasure that you hold in your hands. 

Final Verdict: If you’re slightly eccentric, have occasionally looked down upon your fellow human beings, and live in a self-constructed invisible bubble foaming with delusions of grandeur, you’ll love this book. And of course, go for it, if you’re otherwise sane and have a great interest in human psychology & classic literature. Overall, it can be a highly disturbing book for the common reader, and hence recommended with caution.

Rating: 5/5

The Hunt for Vitamins

"Hello?" cracked a voice over the phone on a cold Monday morning in November 2013. 

"Hi? Yes?" I said in some confusion, not expecting a call from an unknown number. 

After the greetings were exchanged, I realized it was the new doctor I had seen a week ago.

"So…I’ve got your blood test results here," he announced mildly. After spells of muscle ache, general tiredness, and lazy mornings I had decided to get myself checked for Vit-D levels. 

"And?"

"You’re indeed deficient in the D-Vitamin. The concentration of Vitamin-D in your blood is below 10 nano-grams/ml. And perhaps there’s also a reaction between your bones and your blood…"

Suddenly, my consciousness began to steer away from reality as the doctor’s monotonous voice slowly turned into a static noise in my head. I knew this was coming. Lack of Sun and abundance of melanin in my skin had limited my exposure to UV. A dark skinned individual living a hermetic life in a Nordic country is a lethal recipe for Vit-D deficiency. While becoming aware that I was nutritionally deficient wasn’t the best feeling in the world, I did feel a bit relieved on knowing the true cause of my lethargy in the past months. 

I knew the problem, all I had to do now was to tackle it.

The doctor prescribed a 70 micro-gram per day dosage (Vit-D3) for 3 months to see if that brings my Vit-D levels back to normal. I wasn’t too thrilled by the idea of living on a medication, and that too for 3 months. Moreover, another thing that constantly loomed at the back of my head was this greater possibility of some day being suddenly diagonozed with something fatal. I don’t know, I’m a paranoid you know. I had this feeling, that this Vit-D deficiency is only a beginning, and one day down the road I might have a phone call where I’ll be informed of something worse, like cancer. What then? 

It was high time I took the matter in my own hands, and started knowing as much as possible about issues that concern my health. For a start I went ahead and read two fat books on nutrition which have completely changed the way I now look at food and lifestyle. My dietary habits have radically altered, my trips to popular restaurants and junk food are now replaced with regular home cooking of whole grain, organic food, backed with regular swimming and yoga, leading to a belly which is way less embarrassing than what it once ballooned to some time ago. 

Vitamins, as I learned, are vital amino acids that our body requires for sustenance. And since I wanted to avoid over-dependence on the pills for a prolonged period, I looked for alternate sources. There weren’t many natural vegetarian food sources for Vit-D, so the only other option was enriched foods. And there lay the problem. I found out, going around several grocery shops around the city, that Denmark, is among one of the few countries, which has rigorously banned enriched foods. Anything fortified is illegal. In direct contrast is the US, where I remember, if I had my daily cereal I could have the mental peace of having met most of my dietary requirements. Denmark’s singular policy appeared absurd to me at once. But slowly, it all started to make sense. 

In this country obsessed with healthy and peaceful living, where obesity & poverty are virtually non-existent, where people rely on eating whole grain based foods, where bikes are preferred over cars, where high gender equality is reflected in abundance of unisex toilets everywhere, the food and what goes into it is taken very seriously. While American cereal making firms have been trying hard to convince the lawmakers in order to penetrate the Danish breakfast cereal market, and even though a significant number of Danes may themselves be suffering from Vitamin D deficiency (source: personal detective-giry and investigation on internet), enrichment and fortification is largely viewed in a negative light. 

As I hunted more and more for a Vit-D enriched milk or yogurt at obscure shops and convenience stores run by immigrants from the middle-east, I began to realize that, perhaps, in some sense this banning of foods was appropriate. At least for this singular country where native whites formed a majority in the population, and for whom a little UV exposure was enough for their daily need. 

So I stopped searching, and as an obedient patient took my pills. After about a month of medication, I started to feel much better. Eventually, I also ended up stumbling across some sort of almond milk with enriched Vitamin-D and B12 (possibly a product aimed at hardcore vegans) in an obscure, darkened corner of a large grocery store. But it didn’t matter much as the doses were low, and I accepted the fact that I needed high doses to get out of the deficiency. Today, three months have past since my first blood test, and I’ve left my hunt behind and turned into more of a Sun-flower, always getting as much of Sunlight as possible wherever it fell. 

I took the second blood test last week feeling hopeful that I’ll hear only good news from the doctor. And as I look back at this whole affair in retrospect, I think it wasn’t that big an issue. Millions of dark skinned people living in cold regions of the world suffer from this problem unknowingly. But still, the reason I write this post is because this affair has changed quite a lot of things in my life, for the better.

Two days ago, pangs of relief hit me when my doctor called in for the results of the second test. As his voice announced that my Vit-D levels were now 93 nano-grams/ml which he considered to be ‘perfectly fine’, I could only marvel at fate’s clever trick to teach me one of the most important lessons of my life: Nutrition, exercise and healthy living are life’s elements that only a fool will dare to ignore.

And what a fool I’ve always been.

Book Review: Midnight's Children

What can’t be cured must be endured. 

Wordplay. And Allegory. Two words which summarize the strength and genius of this spectacular piece of art. 

I had heard a lot about Rushdie and had avoided him so far for fear of reading something too political and too bland. Moreover, seeing this classified as ‘magical realism’ always made me think, “Hmpf, what awkward genre is that!”. Now I know how stupid I’ve been to keep my mind away from an absolute literary treasure. 

Rushdie is a clever, clever, clever magician of words. His manipulation of fact, history, and truth entwined alongside his tale of extraordinary fantasy simply swept the ground beneath by quivering feet. The story involves the lives and evolution of children that were born on the midnight of Indian independence and thus had their fates locked with the post colonial developments in the Indian sub-continent. Every child is a mutant cursed with rare gifts, the protagonist being endowed with telepathy and heightened ability of smell. But it’s not the fantasy or the story that is brilliant, it’s the metaphor and allegory to history that impregnates every damned word. Everything, every name, every event has layers of meanings and connections to both fact and fiction. With my very little knowledge about Indian post-independence history, even I was gushing over in ecstasy. I can’t imagine what a well informed reader would do on reading this! 

Simply breathtaking work. No wonder it got the Booker of Bookers. And with it’s harsh views on the Gandhi family, no wonder it got sued in court. Some people may find the narrator a bit eccentric and incredible, or at times even, pedantic, but you know for me that’s the guy I would bow down to. Rushdie is the guru. I guess I will read Satanic Verses this year as well. The best part is, being an Indian, I could relate to all things Indian very closely - from the importance of spicy chutneys to the pervading pickles, I had bells ringing in my system which even the old English prose masters had failed to hit. 

Final verdict: If sighing and moaning in pleasure from reading clever prose is your idea of activity before going to bed, buy yourself a copy of Midnight’s Children. (Caution: This book is not for the lighthearted) :)

Rating: 5/5

Book Review: The Picture of Dorian Gray

“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

I cannot say how much I adored Oscar Wilde after finishing his epic and only novel. If Wilde lived in our times, I’d have thrown away everything to just have a glimpse of him, to have a conversation with him, and to tell him, he has created art in a fashion that is simply supreme. The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of the rare books which encompass prose of the highest form woven into a thrilling, heart beating, and gothic plot. 

The story follows the life of a handsome young man, Dorian, whose painting made by his artist friend, Basil, is a picture that has no other match. Its beauty captures attention of the intellectual and wise Lord Henry, which encourages him to influence the vulnerable mind of Dorian. And what follows is an intricate plot webbed on a Faustian theme. Dorian desires to sell his soul in want of retaining his beauty, so that the portrait may age rather than he himself. This strange wish of Dorian does come true, and motivated by Lord Henry’s hedonistic way of life, he is left to lead a sinful life of pleasure that is exciting yet disturbing to his conscience. No wonder the text was banned by the British reviewers when it was released in 1890. 

There are slight homoerotic undertones in the way Basil loves the picture he has painted, Lord Henry adores Dorian’s youth, even though Dorian has a few mistresses to keep him amused. Depending on the edition you read, several phrases could vary. But a close reading can allow one to see the meaning that is beneath the thin pages of prose. Wilde wanted us to know that there is nothing amoral except wanting for things that are ephemeral – like beauty. One fades with age – an undeniable truth that Dorian could never accept.

Any praise done about this book can’t do it complete justice. The importance of beauty and pleasure is so deeply immersed in the text that it may even begin to change the way a reader thinks about the world. One is always lured by things that are mysterious, hidden, beneath the surface and invisible to us.  But Wilde time and again stresses in his story the importance of the living and beautiful. Lord Henry explains to Dorian at one point that appearances are everything, and goes on to say, “The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.” And that killed me. The dialogues of Wilde’s protagonists, and especially Lord Henry, are universal quotes in their own right.  

Since Wilde was primarily a playwright, his prose compared to other 19th century Victorian writers like Dickens, Eliot, Bronte sisters, Thackeray, etc. was concise and employed sufficient brevity. He preferred dialogue over scenic description, allowing the reader’s imagination to render the aesthetics. Wilde, however, through his exquisite choice of limited words, still managed to show brilliantly the narcissist and obsessive nature of Dorian, which reminds one of yearning that is associated with everything that is good and fleeting.

Wilde might have written more if he hadn’t gone to prison (for indecent affairs with men) or if he hadn’t died poor at the age of 46. While the book was considered ‘scandalous’ and ‘contaminating’ when it was published in late 1800’s, today it has influenced countless cinematic and artistic adaptations.  Even if you don’t care about the aesthetics or the sins of a changing Victorian society that is portrayed in the book, and you want a short literary book to snuggle with in bed - this is the book. It is, simply put, art for art’s sake. 

Here’s another quote from the enigmatic, Lord Henry, where he answers to great questions of all times:

“What of Art?
-It is a malady.
—Love?
-An Illusion.
—Religion?
-The fashionable substitute for Belief.
—You are a skeptic.
-Never! Skepticism is the beginning of Faith.
—What are you?
-To define is to limit.”