Solo notes

Solo. Solitude. Loneliness. Alone. Dreaded words in today's world, probably more dreaded than the words cheating, villainy, slander. It is not easy to admit, to oneself, or others that one does not have company. Somehow, there is a great deal of acceptance associated with company, however inferior, and none associated with the company of oneself. A loner is a word with strong negative connotations, as is lone wolf. One who seeks company, however, is not called a sheep, but a social butterfly!
Most people who are questioned about this phenomenon would retort with the cliche"Man is a social animal". I am not sure who came up with this statement, and whether it has evolutionary/biological/anthropological arguments. I wonder what these arguments are. It seems like there are many "social animals". Sheep, for one. Cows, elephants, penguins, monkeys to name few more. All these animals stick together in packs, mostly for ensuring food and security for themeselves. So how is it a human prerogative to be a social animal?
In fact, outside of the animal functions of eating, mating, bringing up young etc., the achievements of the most intelligent species have rarely been communal. A thinking mind always strives solitude, as does one that creates. What philosophies would have been born if Thoreau, Nietschze, Sankara, Confucius and Ramanuja had not meditated on life alone? What excellence could have dazzled forth from mathematicians and musicians, writers and poets, physicists and painters, if they had spent their lives in parties! A scientist, an artist, a thinker, a gymnast or even a cook cannot reach his peak in a community setting. For every significant achievement of the human mind, there are hours of solitude required. Then, why is solitude not our fundamental nature? Is it because our fundamental nature still closely resembles animals who live in herds? Is solitude only for those who exercise their minds, and is it therefore, a higher form of evolution that has not yet become the norm?
Clearly, pursuits of the mind are not the reason why we have social hangovers.

People usually like to have new sensual experiences in groups, or at least pairs. The magnificence of natural sights, the mellifluousness of a musical concert, the savor of a gourmet dish, the fragrance of blooms, or the touch of a spring breeze...can any of these intensely personal, sensual experiences be enjoyed any better because of the presence of another? Narrating the experience to one-another could possibly give some joy. But how can words, however articulate, convey any more joy than the experience itself? Why does another person's experience provide reassurance and legitimacy of our own? If it concerns matters of the heart, then that is a different genre that i will not venture into! Most of the times, though, the society we seek (and find) is shallow, unfulfilling, trifling and uninspired. They are around us, for their mere presence, as if the value of a human being is in his skin! The protocols that we have developed, enable us to be "courteous" and "well-behaved", euphemisms for unnatural and affected. We ask questions that we dont want to, hear answers that we dont listen to, make passive-aggressive statements that show how we are somehow playing the game better and then disperse back into our own zones. Heartless attempts, full of propriety. Its almost as if we wouldnt be who we were, if not for the endorsement that groups of far less qualified indviduals gave us! Confucius aptly put it when he said "Virtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors."
I imagine a society where lives are not intertwined. Where people are not perenially under a parasol of approval or disapproval from their "designated critics". Where social acceptance does not rely on popularity indices. Where the number of invitees for one's graduation party does not determine one's image. Where gossip is not cast into million dollar industries. Where another person's foibles are less attractive than one's own. Where the culture is to savor the silence of solitude and to use it well. Where the emphasis, on a man's 80th birthday, would be the number of achievements his mind made, as opposed to the number of guests in his birthday party.

No one other than Thoreau could have come up with this ode to solitude: I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumblebee. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.

Seinophilia

Jerry Seinfeld is not a genius. Yet people seldom think so, when landing up in 1000s, paying $70 for an hour of his standup routine. It seems outrageous that a man in a suit, telling jokes about public restrooms and mobile phones, is priced at the same value as an entire production, with cast, crew, music, lighting, glitz and grandeur. How does he compare with the Phantom of the Opera? Has he put in as much money into putting up his show? Clearly not. Has he spent months choreographing, coordinating and reharsing? No. He's probably taken a good, hard look at all the animate and inanimate objects around him and identified their most annoying traits, in preparation for the show. And probably read the newspapers.
Whether it is a musical concert, a dance performance, shows on ice, circus acrobats, or even theater, the principal reason why people would go, is to get inspired by the talents or skills possessed and trained for, by other men and women. Stand-up comedy, due to its fragmented and quotidian nature is not inspiring. It has traditionally been a filler in variety entertainment shows, done by funny men outside of their day jobs. It comes nowhere close to an art form, or a honed skill that can wow other human beings. It is decidedly a lesser form of entertainment than theater, and a much less deep than humorous writing.

So how is Seinfeld able to justify the whopping ticket prices to his audiences?

An easy answer is that he is the title star of a stupendously successful television blockbuster. However, one wonders if Jennifer Anniston or Matt Le Blanc, both stars of a similarly successful TV show would have garnered 7000 people at $70 each for an evening. Maybe not. Seinfeld's appeal is not just that he starred in a top TV show. He has, somehow, managed to win America's trust and indulgence, enough to get them to laugh at their raisin bran bowl and their own toddlers. For some reason, it feels like Jerry really understands. Even though he may not have been the principal writer of those shows, he has earned credibility as a cerebral, insightful man. Probably some of this has to do with the fact that he is a standup comedian in the show too. In an expert stroke, he has managed to ensconce himself in the American psyche over the past 10 years, as the guy who has the right to laugh at them. One wonders if his character was intended as a mega brand imaging ploy to guarantee the rest of his standup comedy career, or that events have played out to his advantage.

His jokes, themselves, are wry, observational and have a repeat value due to their universal relatability. Whether it is mobile phones, household garbage, weather reports or his mom's paranoia, everyone in the audience can relate to his topics. There are no cultural or background references, no know-what and know-how of concepts, or anything that can make one feel left out. For instance, if one translated his jokes to a native Indian tongue, they would still be as funny, and one's parents would laugh at them. That means he his humor is beyond language and culture. That also means it is way more native than sophisticated. After his show yesterday i overheard a man on the road tell his wife "Why are you asking me to go to our son's best friend's party? Didnt you hear Seinfeld yesterday? 4 year olds dont have best friends! Put a sock on your hand, call it a puppet and that is their new best friend!".
Perhaps that is why people pay to listen to him. He teaches them when and how to laugh.

Brown Man's Burden?

I visited London recently, my first time.
I went to all the pamphlet favorites - the edifices and experiences that one has grown up reading about and dreaming up. They lived up to and sometimes surpassed all those dreams. London is one of the rare cases where the hype does not dissapoint.
But i did not set out to play "Lonely Planet" here. I wanted to share my stream of consciousness while seeing some of the city.
A stark difference between the medium-sized American city life i am used to and London, is the choice of commutation. So, as opposed to driving to any place further than the mailbox, the average Londoner prefers a brisk walk even to public transport for any given distance.

On one such short-as-per-interpretation walk that started at Piccadilly circus, i sauntered along the glitz of London's shopping and theatre enclaves toward Trafalgar Square. The vast, open space, with a flight of stairs that seemed to lead to the sky, gave Trafalgar Square a vibrant look. Lord Nelson's statue stood tall, gazing down on two strategically placed fountains whose waters have promptly been used to quench young lovers' thirst for romance. Bronzed lions guarded the periphery of the expanse.
Against the backdrop of the inky London sky, with flocks of gurgling pigeons, the Square pulsed with the sound of...freedom. Freedom. Trafalgar Square seemed to be a monument to the feeling of freedom. It symbolized spontaenity, forthrightness, openness, abandon- all that is associated with freedom. There was no sense of awe or insignificance one feels while seeing historical monuments, nor the curiosity for knowing its legend. This was, simply put, where the heart leapt.

As i savoured this rare sensation, an imposing statue to the south of the arena beckoned my attention. This was of Sir Henry Havelock, a stalwart general of the East India Company. The inscription on his statue lauds his efforts and bravado in restraining the Sepoy mutiny of 1857. Havelock, comandeering an army comprising the Sikh regiment, had systematically routed the Indian soldiers from Cawnpore (Kanpur) on a rampage that ended (ironically) on 15th Aug, 1857. The statue piqued a sudden surge of nationalist sentiment in me, that is typically caused by history books. Except, this time, the poignancy struck me like a bolt. Here, at London's focal point, that Dickens calls "the finest site in Europe", alongside Lord Nelson, arguably one of Britain's brightest stars, was a tribute to the man who destroyed Nana Sahib. A tribute to exploitation, plunder and savagery. To the man who is known to have said "His skin was black and did not that suffice?" when questioned about the savage execution of 54 men in 2 days in Kanpur. The statue spoke of how a "grateful country" would not forget the mercenary army's valor. Valor, shown toward a working class uprising against economic, physical and religious opression on their own soil. What Indian history textbooks call the freedom struggle. Freedom. 100 metres back, i had sensed this in my bones.

Suddenly, i felt like my ocean of freedom was choked with thick oil. I stopped to think if this was jingoism. A flood of images crossed my mind- of the wretched visions of poverty i had seen in India, of our staggering debt statistics, of the current global perception of India, of servility that now comes so naturally to us, of the brown man's burden...
I realised then that there was something stronger than nationalism, or resentment or even anger that i felt. I felt suffocated by something no one could change-history. The history that had, profoundly, definitely, permanently, effected the way i and all my future generations would feel, when at the Trafalgar Square. This was, simply put, where the heart plunged.

The article about nothing

This article does not do anything. Well, actually, it knows what it does not do. It sure does; does know, that is, what it does not. OK, that's getting loopy. Let's move on.
Oh wait, but we cant move on. You see, this article does not believe in space or time or dynamism thereof. So let's just figure out what it does not, which is all that it really does.
Should we eliminate in alphabetical order? Probably not, since that reeks of order and one thing this article definitely does not like is order or structure of any sort. (But we are just starting out, so we needn't take the not-taking-seriously too seriously.)

A-No three-letter-word -starting -with -A-and ending-with-T. Please. We cant encourage profanities. (Henceforth referred to as A**)
B- Not bombastic. No big words, buddy boy. I, whoever i am, will connect with you, whoever you are, without the crutch of language.
C- No connections. The above usage notwithstanding. There cant be a connection between two nobody-reallys.
D- No definition...i mean...ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT IS THE ONE THING WE DO NOT BELIEVE IN, ALRIGHT???!!
E- No emotions. (What about emoticons, you ask?). None either. That would imply that we have emotions and the whole point is that we cant be like beasts or insects or whichever unfortunate form that is supposed to have them.
No ego too. No self, so no ego. But what about the case where our non-being is threatened by earth-resident-aliens? If we defend ourselves, would we have an ego? Confusing. Nothing that cant be taught by a little training, though.
F- Nothing fancy, flouncy, florid, feathery or frilly. Basically, no F-words other than the 4 lettered ones.
G- No G**. G**! Sorry to offend yoll's sensibilities (where applicable) , but there seems to be no decent way out of this non-definition.
H- No hoity-toity high-brow hogwash. However, it is fine to be hoity-toity about not being high-browed. Hogwash? No, i can explain...
I- No I. Clever, huh? Oops...will you stop that ego massage already?
J- No joys. Although this is a subset of E, this needs to be handled separately, since presents the most danger to us. Joys, Joyce..explosive stuff.
K-No kindness. No kin, so no need. No ken. Any trace of it must be stashed away in the kennel.
L-No love. Nossir, it aint love that makes our world go flat.
M-No mentors.
N-No. Nahin. Nyet. Negative. We love "N"!
O- No order, none other.
P-No pretense. For that matter no pre-tense. That's our way of saying we dont care for the past.
No political correctness. For that matter no political and no correctness. Let's spell it out into the open-seniors, women, kids...watch out! We know our cuss words and are not afraid to say them!
Q-No quotations. Nobody's trash gets emptied in our garden...wait...trash can. (I think i am finally talking the talk!)
R-No refinement. Crass is class.
S- No self-control. We dont need none of it.
T-No theory. You A** theoreticians, you science theoreticians, you pomposities, you monstrosities, just you wait-we have a theory about you.
U- No unnecissities. (Does that mean invention, what with necessity being big momma and all that? Training will tell. I am sure we cant admit to being inventors, or any such grand title!)
V-No Victorian. Well, maybe, just her secret.
W- No wins. No whines. (Notice, did not say no wines, cant say no to everything, can you now?)
X-Nothing in Xcess. Fine, that's cheating, but X is not E-see?
Y-No you. Phew! That was easy.
Z-No zephyr. OK, so i looked for all the words from Z and this was the most pleasant one i found, so i decided that negating it would be fine by us.

That was a lot of work. Darn it, at the end of it, the article turned out to be something-work!

Within or Without?

I've always found that the best kind of product, whether scientific, artistic or anything else that is cognitive, comes about when there is no audience in the creator's head. The minute one starts thinking about the recievers of the product, it will severely compromise the quality of what one creates. A probable reason for that, is that originality gets relegated to a background, in favor of populist appeal. Pandering, however altruistic, is in direct conflict with the self-satisfaction or "spirituality", or "inspiration" or whatever it is that allows you to make a connection with ether! That is why, it is quite common to see the best kind of creativity, when it is unsullied by the desire for acceptance. So, the best way to learn Bharata's natyashastras is not from the "Noopur" and "Nartaki" dance schools that are strewn from Mumbai to Milipitas. That art form 's spirit lives in Thiruvaiyyar in Tanjavur, in Rajamanikam Pillai's hutment. For he dances for himself, not for the Padma awards and the UN shows that get him a house in Delhi's VIP localities. In a strange paradox, the best outputs are those where you are most selfish. That said, i am not convinced of that thought when taken to the extreme. Like i once saw a show of a famous modern dancer, which had silence for 40 minutes on the stage, with the lights out. Needless to say, when the lights came on, there was silence again, since everyone had left! (I stayed on, curious to see what the dancer had imagined. That is a different story!)
At such times, one can argue that the point of all art is some sort of expression, so it is probably good to know how to express it, by knowing your audience. So, when Alarmel Valli started the remarkable trend of communicating in English what her mimes mean, before every piece she performed, it was communicating with her audience, not pandering to it. But there is a thin line. And transgressing it, is the difference between a truly great work and a could-have-been.
In writing, which uses the crutch of language, it is far easier to not transgress that line than in dance, music, painting or for that matter, science. So poets and writers can write purely for themselves, and then bask in the universality of the medium, that makes a reader recognize some part of his life or thoughts in the writings, and hail it as a great piece. That's what it is, isnt it? When you are able to relate some thought, feeling or experience to what you are reading/seeing/ listening, another man's indulgence becomes a work of art.

Amazing Amadeus

I saw "Amadeus" yesterday, after having heard of it forever. Since it is a 20 year old movie, I am not really going to review it now, but some portions of it astounded me, and I’d like to analyze why. The movie is an account of Mozart's life. It has 17th century Austrian noblemen and German sopranos speaking in chaste American English! In fact, cuss words, casual slang, and all that jazz (unintended!) results in a rather unconvincing rhetoric. Or that is what I thought, until I looked beyond that, and saw the reason why the film had won 8 academy awards in its time.

The movie is told as a story by one of Mozart’s contemporaries, a musician called Antonio Saileri. Salieri is shown as a Lucifer of sorts, in what proves to be one of the most interesting portrayals of the landscape of human aspirations. Although historians do not agree with the depiction of Salieri as Mozart's culprit and murderer, there is enough evidence to believe that he did thwart Mozart significantly. However, irrespective of its faithfulness to history (the writers of the play version denied any claim to authenticity) the film tells a compelling story.

The story is about the great and the trifle, the sublime and the petty, the magnificent and the pusillanimous -all in a single stroke. Salieri, born as a musical underdog, is scalded with the desire to be a musician, and worship God with his music. Mozart, with the indubitable makings of a genius, is backed by his musician father, Leopold, into a famous innings as a child prodigy. Salieri grows into a religious, devout Christian; Mozart, an uncultured, perverted boor. Salieri wears himself thin, praying for the voice of God to enter his soul. He works on his music relentlessly, until he becomes a court composer of the Emperor of Vienna. To the untrained ear, Salieri is the epitome of classical music. Salieri himself, however, is painfully aware of his music does not even compare to Mozart’s mesmeric melodies. When he meets Mozart for the first time, he expects to “see” the genius in his being. Although the movie does not dwell on it, it is interesting how a certain class and bearing is associated with the word “genius”, despite the obvious lack of correlation between ability and social adeptness. It therefore, comes as a rude shock to see an “infantile, vulgar, boastful” person possessing the genius of Mozart.

Salieri’s intense grievance, as he feels that God betrayed him, is expressed movingly. He complains bitterly, “You manifest yourself in a child of obscenity and crudity, and give me, only enough caliber to recognize your incarnation…”. The line strikes one, because of the truth it touches upon. The unhappiest people are not those who do not have any talent or caliber, in fact, they are blissfully unaware of their relative positions in the world. The unhappiest are those, who have just enough capacity and keenness to know what it means to be great, and that they can never get there.

Salieri decides to wage a battle against God, and makes it his business to crush Mozart. So Mozart makes his music, in the quest of sublimity, while Salieri does everything in his power to keep him unemployed and unrecognized. The contrast between one man’s pursuit of great things, and another man’s pursuit of petty trifles is dramatic. Salieri speaks of the astounding brilliance of Don Giovanni, and in the same breath says how he ensured that it did not play more than 5 times in Vienna. Each of those 5 times he goes to watch that historical opera, and weeps for every line that he should have composed but could not.

In one of the most moving scenes in cinema, is depicted the contrast between the sheer excellence of Mozart, as he dictates the complex interplay of notes in his requiem, and the dull, halting mediocrity of Salieri as he grapples with the speed and fury of genius. Both are moved to tears-Mozart, because of the intensity of his creative process, which is causing him physical pain and literally killing him; Salieri, due to the frustrating medley of inspiration, awe and smallness that he feels, since he is knowingly killing this manifestation of divinity.

So, who wins? In the physical sense, Salieri ensures that Mozart dies a pauper, and is buried in a pauper’s grave. However, in his life after Mozart, he watches his own music fade away from people’s minds, and dies the death of ignominy and anonymity every day. While Mozart’s music lives on, centuries later. Salieri confesses his crime to a priest, and admits that in the battle between God and him, although he destroyed God’s incarnation, he still feels God won.

The movie is a remarkable account of human fallibility in the form of Salieri, and human ascent in the form of Mozart. For the same reason, it is at once uplifting and demeaning.