Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Anarchy Unplugged

Accursed, abused and abhorred. The figure of Vice that has adorned literature for centuries has spawned ill favored reactions from readers, across the ages.
The unmitigated malice and irrepressible vengeance that characterizes the ‘Satanic genius’ or the anti-hero has been seen for its sheer ingenuity to overpower all good.
Literature flummoxes us with its depiction of moral categories by showing them as fluid and not a rigid system of ‘good’ and ‘evil’.
While depiction of good lends itself to doubts, evil seems enthralling and attractive, to the extent of sometimes winning our sympathies.
Despite their philosophical deviance, ‘evil’ characters have spurred the imagination of writers and readers alike for generations.
One may wonder why this darkness attracts our psyche and the sneers seem more attractive than pitiful sighs? Why do the evil monologues seem to induce a sense of wonder and awe, along with waryness?
From Shakespeare and Dickens to the contemporary Bret Easton Ellis, writers have romanced with the infernal side of man.
Iago, one of literature’s greatest villains, has been labeled with negative epitaphs ranging from being a “moral pyromaniac” to “onto-theologian on evil”.
Yet, it is interesting to note that Iago still remains one of the most engaging characters of the bard; Shaespeare.
Through clever manipulation of the spoken word and the impeccable use of his victims’ cognitive power, Iago dodges all blame and inflicts Othello, who ends up earning the readers ire.
However, Coleridge’s formulation- “the motive-hunting of motiveless malignity” seems to be the best explanation – behind the sneers and the jabs, Iago’s mind is seething with white noise.
The most memorable characters in fiction are often those whose evil isn’t comprehensible. That is, they aren’t driven purely by greed or mania for power. It is this incomprehensible nature of these characters that transcends the understanding of the author and readers alike and makes them acquire a dangerous life force of their own. For instance, Stavrogin in Dostoevsky’s The Possessed is a charming, intelligent and handsome man who nonetheless frightens even his own mother with his riveting and inexplicable deeds.
King Lear’s Edmund , another Mephistophelian figure of Shakespeare, who baffles readers with the depth of his malcontent. Reeling under the torment of injustices meted out to him because of his illegitimate birth (which in no way justifies his subsequent actions), he frames his own brother; plays the love rat with Goneril and Regan and finally orders the execution of Lear and Cordelia. The audience is initially made to feel sympathetic towards him, until his true character is revealed.
There exists, of course the question of the existence of pure Evil. Writers like Kafka see evil as a function of a system rather than that of an individual. Hannah Arendt has written about the “banality of evil” and the possibility of our contributing to it through bureaucratic detachment or through the lack of action by good men. Some of these notions are difficult for a writer to depict. Perhaps this is the reason why there arises a need to look at these characters with a different eye. Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities produces a formidable femme fatale in the character of Madame Defarge for whom, revenge lies in the annihilation of the French aristocracy. As the book says, “… imbued from her childhood with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class, opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of her.”
However, Lucie, with her golden curls, perfect home and air of innocence is a “good woman”. These binaries don’t give Madame Defarge (who’s intent on finding political justice for the wrongs done to her family) much room to work in.
Perhaps Shylock may also be seen as representing the angst of a marginalized class in the dominant Christian society. Perhaps, the apparent anti-Semitic politics of The Merchant of Venice paints the Jewish moneylender in negative terms. These terms seem to be a construction of the European majority, which denounces the entire Jewish race as lasviscious, greedy and crafty, thereby completely nullifying the voice of the subaltern.
It is not the immortal fantastical creatures like vampires and zombies that make the greatest impression, but those that are human.  For instance, in the novel The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dr Jekyll doesn’t start out as a monster. He is instead forced, almost against his will, to become the sociopath Mr. Hyde and commit crimes he would shudder at. However the author takes an interesting route. Dr Jekyll decides he likes being Mr. Hyde. He enjoys indulging his  worst nature.  Perhaps he has, at a subconscious level, wanted to commit those crimes and now, as Mr. Hyde, he finds that he can. But, in trying to isolate the evil in his character, he is consumed instead which may be seen as tragic. Thus, Stevenson adds another dimension to this ‘evil’ character.
Milton unconsciously, is seen depicting Satan as a hero in Paradise Lost. With some of the most beautiful similes and lines in the epic poem, Milton makes him more attractive than God or Adam. He is shown as representing ambition, determination, nobility and honor- all qualities worth emulating.
 Therefore villains, despite their sinister side, have something to recommend them . Although there is nothing Captain Hook likes better than plunging his hook into people, he also has a gentle side. He  plays the flute and the harpsichord (how is not the point), loves Wordsworth and Coleridge, and is a stickler for form.
Patrick Bateman from American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis is the smiling face on Wall Street who enjoys fine dining, the Genesis, the band called the Talking Heads, rape, murder and dismemberment. Ellis’ success is perhaps because none of Bateman’s interests appear to bore this murderous fact-finding martian, who is revolting and humorous in equal measure.
Lastly, one cannot forget to mention the figures of Lord Voldemort and Sauron when talking of an evil, seemingly beyond human reach. These figures represent a powerful and all encompassing menace that strives for absolute power. The “unsleeping eye” of Sauron and the “horcruxes” of Voldemort embody their diabolic essence.
One may conclude that there are and will be some very enchanting evil figures representing all that is wrong with our society in literature. Perhaps the attractiveness is a sub-conscious reminder of the “evil” or simply that the good is too conventional, too powerful and brings out the rebel in us.
One shudders at their acts and yet is in awe simultaneously because latent in us is the awareness in the Joker’s words, “We’re not so different you and I.”

~ Amrita Singh




Manto says the blame’s on all


Manto says the blame’s on all
But who cares, we are ready for the fall
He wrote short stories, 250 in all
But who cares, we are ready for the fall.
 
1947: the year we were free
We went on a killing spree
Brotherhood forgotten, love long lost
Let’s see today, who slaughters the most
Manto was shaken,
And so were the rest
Birds were scared,
Even in their nests.
 
Some said, ‘its all because of these British
Before they came there was nothing amiss’
We accepted it then
Felt good for the heart
After all we are Indians,
Pretty smart.
 
Years passed Manto was dead
Trotting trudging lives we lead
Thought we had rewritten our past
So 1984 left us aghast!
 
Mirrored the same old violence and vengeance
Our thirst for blood wasn’t quenched
For a hollow identity
For something so fake
How could we put our everything on stake?
 
No one spoke, not only the khadi-clad
Not even you, me or any common lad
Soon we forgot soon we were back
Our normal lives again on track.
 
1992 our throat ran dry
Long time didn’t see anyone cry
Hunger for some more blood
A little more shroud
How could we live without - it
Our staple diet!
More blood, more gore
Still chanting ‘more, more’
This wasn’t all
Just a bigul ‘call’
A lot was left
Grief, lust, theft
Houses broken, broken hearts
Broken into pieces, shreds and parts
Jigsaw puzzle, did we think it so?
Lives can’t be fixed, they are meant to grow.
 
It happened then,
It’s happening now,
Only numbers remain,
As years move on.
 
Manto is dead,
And so will be the rest,
We didn’t care then,
We don’t care now.
 
So let’s accept our fault, and put a halt
This killing spree must come to a stop
Manto had said the blame’s on all …
                    the blame’s on all …

~ P. S. Pranika 

Life


Life is like a river, it flows on,
Halting at precious moments, it goes on.
Meandering from beginning to end,
And here and there you see a bend.
Passing lush meadows and bountiful woods,
Which you may not notice though you should.
The beautiful trees swayed by the wind,
The azure sky above the rivers brink,
The golden sunlight making the waters gleam,
The countryside crisscrossed by numerous streams.
Yet sometimes the river gets stormy and wild,
And rocks you like a cradle rocks a child.
Now and then it changes coarse,
And takes you along with its currents force.
At times when the river is tidal and rough,
Going against the flow may be tough.
So flow with the river, wherever it takes you.
Overcome the storms, though there are few.
And when the river is smooth and mild,
Enjoy the experience till the end of the ride.

~ Bhavika Sicka

Monochrome of Dreams

Another muse comes and goes,
Another mound of waste.
One more masterpiece spun out of the no man's space.
He looks beyond everything and sees everything.
A child prodigy..
A shapeful, meaningful monster.

Rotting muses.
Fading tunes.
Broken lines.
Broken lies.

Wild hair, wild wind.
A sad melody.

Masterpieces trashed in a corner.
They're all beautiful, all same.
All to nothing, nothing to all. All out of nothing. Nothing out of it all.
He's dreaming.

Crystal shards. Up close. Receding.
Rose tinted.
Ice-blue.
Filigree, snow flakes.
Lights. So bright. Receding.

He wakes. A sleepy wake. A waking dream.
He looks, more muse to follow.
Masterpieces to come.
They mean nothing. To him. To anybody.
Beautiful, works of a lunatic.

He closes his eyes.
He's dreaming.
Sweet, sad dreams.
He's dreaming.
Let him dream.

~ Angel

The Mess

While bridges fall and newer craters emerge with each spell of rain- even as rollers roll and labourers toil tirelessly- I sit on my bed trying to think; blocking out the metro’s din and carpenter’s drill. My plight is shared by hundreds of DU hostel residents who are being evicted on the “occasion” of the Commonwealth Games. That’s all I genuinely wanted in my life since DUTA strikes, semester system, hostel eviction, rising cafĂ© prices, college politics, assignments, projects, exams, CAT, lack of money and work are petty things and of absolutely no consequence to me. All I needed for celebrating the glory of the Queen was dug up roads, falling bridges, and of course, no place to live!

In case you haven’t figured it out already, I fail to see a point in any of this. Unless it is to make news, which isn’t a good enough point in my book. Roads are makeshift pools and breeding place of mosquitoes, every project incomplete or sub standard and the GoM has proved it is as efficient as the OC. The Games Village is filthy and unliveable and one can almost imagine it pleading to the Yamuna to drown it, again. The footbridge outside the main venue falls injuring 27, and the Union Urban Development Minister refuses to talk about something as little as that. Metro, of course, never disappoints as the next disaster waiting to happen.

We insist on having bus stands, shades, dust bins and streetlights that are no less than a work of modern art and are eager to portray Delhi as the next New York, but is it so hard to see that we are nowhere close? I don’t even know why we have to be. Why are we so bent on putting a face pack, in an attempt to hide the zits and scars, knowing full well that it’ll only take another good spell of rain to get rid of the facade?

I am appalled at whoever decided to bid for the Games and then went ahead with it, partly because it is a pointless event but mostly because we were just not ready for it. We still aren’t, and won’t be in another ten years if we go on like this. And believe you me one doesn’t have to be Einstein to figure that out. The point is that we haven’t matured enough, as a nation and as a people, to host an International event like the CWG or the Olympics. We don’t have the infrastructure and we don’t have a system or the people who can get the infrastructure ready. Not anything world class anyway. It is just another exercise in looting the aam junta and pocketing the taxpayers money or gifting the moolah to one’s son, if you please, as our dear OC Chairman has done by allotting contracts without taking out tenders.

My only regret is that we’ll give the world a proof of our inefficiency and corruption. We’ll justify the stereotyping and branding we’ve fought tooth and nail against. And all for something like the Commonwealth Games. What a waste.

~ Sakshi Arora

Her Father

You're her father?
Oh! She has your smile!
You're her father?
Oh! What a lovely child!
You're her father?
Yes! Thank You! The kid is mine.

I am your father
lower your eyes
I am your father
I'm always right
I am your father
Don't put up a fight

I am her father
what have you taught the wench?
I am her father
knock some sense into this head
I am her father
make her understand

He is your father
how dare you speak like that?
He is your father
Cause of you, enough I've had
He is your father
obey all his orders

He is your judge
till you have his roof above your head.

~ Kritika Mudgal

I've Been

I've been near the frayed edges of madness,
I've been there; and stayed.
I've seen the lies that overpower;
When the world stands a bait.
To the mad men, that die, and wait.

I've turned circles, and turned lines.
I've turned forces, and walked mines.
I've felt what pushes through; when you lose control.
When the nerves snap, and the the soul pines.

I've pulled demons, out of angels.
I've burnt poison, and touched pain.
I've killed...when the day dies, again.
When the miasma spreads and leaves a stain.

I've screamed. For the fear.
I've smiled for the fright.
I've scraped away at the darkness,
I've seen the years take flight.

When the world cries, in wild agony.
When the souls drown in disdain.
When the heavens weep in anguish,
And the crepuscular takes the reins.

I've seen the world handed over,
And over.
And I've seen the shadows, last and go.

I've been around, for a long long time.
I've been here,
and stayed.

~ Angel