Love in the time of Christmas

I have often wondered about why people fall in love. And, I have been told that unlike in animals, humans look for more than sex. They redefine sex as sexuality, that is, one's sexual abilities are recast as constituents of one's identity. One dresses 'up', one looks 'pretty', one is 'coy' and a host of other things. Soon even in non-sexual spaces, one gets an opportunity to express ones 'mating' behaviour. This leads to attraction and courtship and soon what is primarily sexual becomes socio-cultural. The institution of marriage is an excellent case in point. Therefore, people talk of the sense of humour, honesty, intelligence and a host of non-sexual attributes as the criterion for loving each other. In banal terms, we call them 'turn ons'. Why do we hunt for these attributes? Are we too embarrassed to admit our primary drives? Are they absolutely irrelevant in the course of 'falling in love'? I guess not.

Over a period of time human activities expand beyond hunting and gathering food, cooking, nursing family and procreating. With resources, machines and civilization we have leisure and activities that fill up our leisure. We read, watch plays, paint, play games and talk and listen to each other. Increasingly, these activities assume significance in our lives and they inform our 'basic' activities.
Soon, we replace eating and food with the notion of 'cuisine', 'work' increasingly incorporates 'play' and sex is aestheticised in art. As all of this happens, 'love' becomes a complicated affair. Or, we pretend that what is basic to be evolved!

I think we need to re-phrase the question? What sustains happiness between two people when they do not procreate? Many relationships break because people do not focus on being happy in togetherness. Instead, we build our own fairy castles in the air and look for their realization through others. Love becomes the oppressive heat of May.

Where is the love that we have lost to living, to honeymoons, fine-dining and Pattaya and Venice? O love why is so much labour lost? Let us not revel in the spirit of poor Orsino and say: "Let music be the food of love". Let us instead, learn to give, care and be happy in the 'other's' world.

Thoughts on my thirtieth birthday

I have lived long and much of that has been lonely. There have been moments of immense pleasure and moments which have slipped by and have been recollected much later—sometimes with grief and mostly with happiness.
Thirty years is a long time. My grandfather, Sukanta Bhattacharya, was a poet of decent repute by the time he was eighteen. He, of course, died when he was twenty-one. Keats died when he was twenty-six and he had written his odes—the greatest specimens of lyric poetry in the English language— by that time. So had Shelley and many more.
This brings to my mind that I can no longer be particularly useful to myself and to the world around me. That in itself is not a disturbing thought. But what is discomforting is the idea that I shall continue to be so and degenerate and become more useless—for my parents, friends, employers –and that is unnerving.

But then there have been moments of unending cherish: taking my parents to the Darjeeling hills; spending a vacation in the rains with a dear friend in a mist laden forest; listening to my teacher sing live for a private audience in Darjeeling, being hosted by my teacher on several occasions, and many of those ocassions were fraught with gloom and ennui, even at half-a day’s notice; walking in the rain after I got my first job—I happily waded through water logged college street and went to meet a friend, a sixty-year old radical. I also remember walking with my father to a nearby park and sitting on a bench as someone sang Tagore’s Krishnakali Ami Tarei boli—it was a Suchitra Mitra rendition at the local community centre. I remember my first trip to Puri and the first sight of the sea. I also cherish my first sight of the mighty Kanchenjungha. I was on my way back from work. It had rained for some time and monks were playing badminton in the fresh sun. I turned around near the Governor’s House and lo! There stood the mighty Kanchenjungha. I would see it again many times but the first unexpected view has no parallel.
I have had dinner with Gopal Gandhi and lunch with the thespian Feroz Abbas Khan. I do not earn pots of money but I do decent enough. And, yes, I’ve been in love and that took me to Ram Kumar Chattopadhyay’s place and to Geeta Ghatak’s place. She sang on my friend’s request—Je ratein mor duarguli. My hair stood still. I had the privilege of being taken to Goethal’s library by Professor Rohinton Kapadia—a great teacher.
But nothing takes away from me my birthday wish—to die quietly in my bed and to die soon. I wish that my reader’s watch this lovely Colin Firth film called A Single Man. The Prufrockian idea is taken to its logical conclusion in this film. Speaking about the film and its hero George, its director says: “His inner world and his outer world are connected, and the only thing holding them together is the polishing of his shoes, the scrubbing of his fingernails, the perfect white shirt. If he let go of that, he would collapse. There is an enormous part of myself that is like that.”...

I recall reading Yeats’s An Irish Airman Foresees his death last night after everyone was asleep. Here is the poem, once again:
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Of Prufrock , Pattaya and Bangkok

This is how my favourite English poem begins:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

The poem struck me as I came across the pane of a brothel in Pattaya. I read the invitation—a grammar-gone-awry mock Eliot stuff—and suddenly I could figure out the poem being read aloud by the city—the city of hotels, brothels, money changers , the city where the ocean’s wave comes to the road but the muck never washes away. To be able to recognize its paralysis is to be able to see—the fatigue in the legs that dance to rock-n-roll tunes, the fatigue in the hands that try to reach out to men, ugly and portly. There is this Walking Street in Pattaya—the street where Adidas and Starbucks curl up amidst the music-blaring brothels, dance-bars, and sellers of pirated DVDs (you can get your Bob Marley and Jimmy Hendrix videos for less than four dollars). From behind the neon lights, peeps this question—‘why do people come here with such compulsion?’ The answer is, unfortunately not, ‘blowing in the wind’. To quote the poem once again: ‘Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”/ Let us go and make our visit.’ (My friend, Amit Kumar—a product manager with Pearson--has taken some soul-stirring photographs over there. You can see his photographs at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kusamit2/sets/72157623830860232/). Yet, it is not your Sonaghachhi or Har-kata-galli. Sleazy it is but without the offensive aggression of the red-light districts of Indian metropolis. The penury is invisible and unheard of. All we get to know of and hear about are ‘muttering retreats’ in ‘one-night hotels’. Yet, when they look at me there is indecision, a desire to confront and to escape simultaneously acts upon a soul that is so used to ‘the marmalade, the tea,/Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,/ Would it have been worth while,/ To have bitten off the matter with a smile,’.
We are so used to walks by the sea-shore, on the malls of the hills walled by birch, oak, and pine, that we seldom think of walking on this ‘Walking Street’ as tourism. These women, these eunuchs (they call them Lady-Boys), we have seen them all, known them all. But, the light was different and the faces more unfamiliar, more unlikely of being attractive.
‘And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]’
I ran from Walking street to first-class comforts of Dusit Thani. I sat by the pool that overlooked the Gulf of Siam. I downed a cola and walked back to my room. The sea loses its character amidst this opulent sleaze. The Amari Orchid and the Four Seasons tower over the sea. In the afternoon the sea-side restaurant throws up a continental fare. I put in the delicate chocolate mousse, a speed boat sails to the middle of the sea, a parachute unfurls and a tiny human dips into the vast ocean.
The day we went to the coral island, the sky was without a cloud and the heat was scorching. People went under the sea, they flew above the sea, they rode on scooters, drank lots of beer and I bought a parasol. ‘And, in short I was afraid’. There was no time to think, to be with ourselves. We conferred, imparted training, danced, drank, debauched, whored, bitched, politicked, shopped but there was hardly a moment, even for a second, when we were not doing any of these things. In fact, we tour with such an obsession for ‘things-to-do’ that I am prompted to ask ‘where is the leisure that we have lost in travel.’ The hotel had a lounge bar. They played music over there. The music was lovely and I ordered a drink as I heard them sing. I haven’t had a mango drink that has tasted better. It was my only ‘moment’ in Pattaya.
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

We reached Bangkok amidst chaos: the ‘red shirts’—a party backed by a guy called Thaksin (moneyed and shady—like many such leaders in Asia and Africa) who lives in exile and controls a rebellion that supports election, democracy and is against the military backed ruler Abhisit—who is supported by the yellow-shirts, a group of wealthy Thais who support the king, aristocracy, opulence and economic liberalism.
Thailand is a kingdom—a monarchy. Its kings are named after the Hindu mythical god Rama. In fact, the ancient kingdom is called Ayuththya—a name that reminds one of Ayoddhya.
One must not miss the Grand Palace while one is in Bangkok. We made it in a couple of attempts. And, with protests brewing and a flight to catch we did the entire thing in a couple of hours. But, it is a marvelous palace. The galleries are spectacular with the stories of Ramayana painted on walls, the garuda is carved on the panels of the palace, the Emerald Buddha—whose clothes vary in length with the seasons and only the king has the right to dress the god—is one of the finest sights of the palace. The architecture of the palace temples combines—Kampuchean, Thai, and Sinhalese style.
I find people more interesting than places and hence I apologize for the hurried description of the palace. (Tip: do not change money inside the palace—the rates are pretty bad and do not take a guide. If you are in a group one of the members can take the audio guide and talk to the rest. If you are alone, the guide is a sheer waste. Most Thais can’t speak half-decent English and trying to understand them in scorching heat can be very irritating). Though, I must admit that the Wat Arun (Wat is Thai for ‘temple’) by the Chao Praya river is more impressive and the Maha Bodhi temple near the palce more serene. The Wat Arun looks over the sky-train and sky-scraper graced city. Its garudas stand guard as ships and boats sail on the river, as coups unfold and shoppers gather. To me it embodied power and serenity, grandeur and spirituality. The souvenir shops are quite nice and worth a visit.
The cruise on a motor-boat on the Chao-Praya may not be as romantic as cruising in Venetian canals, but where else would you find alligators, coffee shops and floating markets in one go. Where else would you see ordinary lives intersecting with high-rises and Buddhist temples? The river is the proverbial melting-pot. Ordinary people prefer it to avoid the traffic jam in the city and tourists travel on colourful canoes. A couple of hours ride would cost you around thirty dollars.
In the evenings we sauntered into the Soan Lum night market. It is a great place for ‘dining out’. Tables are laid out in the open and over glasses of beer (or whatever is your poison) you can see t-shirts, jeans, bags selling out. It is less crowded than Gariahat or Sarojini Nagar and the stuff has more quality. But, there are cheaper places to shop: the weekend market is one. The real thing to do here is to enjoy a drink, chat for long-hours, let the evening breeze seep into your senses…. A T-shirt read: "God made grass and man made booze. Who do you trust?"
A nation that worships its king practices extreme consumerist irreverence. And, its revolutions are as much about partying, dancing and smoking pot as they are about things like democracy and elections! Viva Bakhtin, viva!!
My friends could not but get into the milieu. Bengalis after all. They danced, smoked, made friends and earned souvenirs. It was fun. It was at the shopping district of Pratunam. It was after shopping was done. The lady-boys stood and watched, someone made quick money selling fruits. People made calls from their phones and found our way for us. Nice people. We closed the day with street food and foot massage.
The Suvarnabhumi airport is nothing like what you have seen in India. There are walking corridors, incredibly cheap liquor shops, and you are hardly frisked. In fact you do not even need a tag for your hand-baggage! As usual, the Jet Airways staff hardly spoke English. A couple of friends missed their flight: checking-in LCD TVs took too long!
As we arrived in India, news travelled that twenty-odd protestors had been killed in Bangkok.