The Painting

The brush squeezing my hands

Dripping in first blood of green;

Even a deft stroke of intent

Imbues but a pale sheen

Is this the beginning of my end?

The confounded meekly wonders

Or has my beginning ended

in the multitude of natural plunders

But I squeeze the brush now;

Take a step back from the wall

And the entirety is suddenly there

As my painting stands tall

The Experienced

“But you don’t understand. We have seen life.”

The perennial argument was frustrating to the least. And in an ephemeral tide of emotions generated by the bluntness of the statement, I experienced what I presume is a frequent exasperation felt by a million minds in search of logical annihilation of the more experienced opponent. But what accounts for experience: is it the length of your stay here, is it the scale of things you have witnessed that affected your life or is it just an indescribable air of superiority that is a shield against any attempt to question you. Being set in beliefs is a frequently used term for the physically older people; but is it fair? So if I shape my own views based on experience of arguing with the experienced, does it make me more set in my beliefs? There was always that elusiveness in the answers.

“But none of the statistical study, if it has been done, suggests any such thing.” I retorted in a last ditch attempt to salvage my point. But the problem with statistical arguments is simple: they don’t work, especially with the experienced. It is a license for them to brush off all our conclusions as naïve attempts to understand life, done with the classic disapproving shaking of the head and a faint smile.

”You really think statistics can predict human behaviour.”

“But apparently you can.” The reply was sharp and knee jerk. There was a flicker of offense taken on his face, but was quickly replaced by the snub laced smile that had been subtly displaying itself on his face all evening. Somewhere stupid I had heard that the young in their fights with the elders are constantly craving for conflict and aggressive reactions: a thought so patronizing in its presumption that any sensible person would dismiss it. But my reaction to his calmness was surprisingly subscribing to this theory, even though it has its narrow applicability limits to some teenagers. It was somehow annoying and disappointing to me that no visible offense was taken in my sharp retort. It was in that strange realisation that I knew the argument was slipping away as always.

“We are not contradicting what we taught you. All men are created equal. But what I am trying to say that there is something called group behaviour that hugely influences a person’s judgements. You may view these things as stereotypes; we view them as significant observations.” Classifying one’s natural prejudices as careful observation was a master-stroke. Can an observation that strengthens a bias be even considered an observation? Isn’t the notion self-contradictory? But I knew this battle could not be won on grounds of logic 101 fundamentals, if this was a battle. I considered this a battle, passionate about it, but somewhere in the deepest recesses of the neural fibres, there was an ignited doubt: was this even an argument for them? Do they consider me worthy of a battle of wits, or all this was playful probing of my ideas? A string of examples had been regularly laid in front of me to verify their experience. As a student of mathematics, I was tempted to say that verification by a few examples in close proximity was hardly a sound proof, but a sane voice in me stopped it.

“You mean to say that just because in India you know someone’s surname, you are supposed to know whether he is reliable or not. I have friends who completely defy your logic.” I was emphatic at the examples, trying to counter a flawed argument in its own twisted way. There was so much more I could not articulate. The fundamental flaw in the classification of human beings into groups is the undervaluation of the inherent diversity in human beings. Human beings have too less in common to group them into pseudo communities based on the ancestor glory illusion. If in statistics, there is a system with more than three variables, even if independent, it becomes increasingly difficult to predict the system’s behaviour. And human beings are complex adaptive systems, with numerous variables interacting with each other in a different way in different situations. Thus the idea of predicting human behaviour based on a flawed group behaviour theory is preposterous by scientific standards. This would have been a nailing argument anywhere, but not here.

“I am not suggesting feeling superior to some lower castes. All I am saying is that we as a community are just different from some others. This system works in India.”

“That suggests you and I ought to be very similar.”

“Yes.”

I had lost.          

   

  

Bade Bhai Sahab (Elder Brother): Part I

My revered elder brother had the privilege of being five years ahead by birth, but the same did not extend when it came to the standard hierarchy of grades in our school, as he was only three grades ahead. Not that he had begun his illustrious career any later than me; I was told that in matters of such grievous importance as primary education, he was a firm believer in consolidation, not reckless haste. He never moved forward in the system unless the ever-so-important base was satisfactorily consolidated, even if it meant two or three years in the same grade: a small price to pay for a rigid foundation.

I was the younger one, which naturally meant that the word of the elder brother was law and the essential regulation of my interests fell under his purview. It was also implicit that I was to follow his habits and actions that were the unquestionable path to glory. For me, his enormous will to study for extended periods of time was part scary and part intriguing. Following my curiosity, I had more than once poured into his notebooks that were his principal companions during his unending study hours. In the blank recesses of the notebooks I had often noticed peculiar drawings of birds, animals, humans and what not. It also had its fair share of gibberish along the drawings that my naïve fifth grade brain could hardly comprehend.

Contrary to following my elder’s footsteps, I was the proverbial negligent when it came to academics. Sensing the smallest window of opportunity I always managed to sneak out of the hostel premises and engage in all sorts of inconsequential activities like flying paper butterflies, gauging our rock throwing strengths. The terror and neglect of studies was such that any stupid act that did not involve the annoying flutter of book pages was aesthetic in its appeal. This was perhaps the only explanation I can think of when I vaguely remember riding on hinged gates swinging in quarter circles, jumping off not so high boundary walls and endless gazing of the passing vehicles. The inevitable return to the hostel from the wonderland always resulted in an equally inevitable and dreaded confrontation with the elder brother. His question, as I vividly remember, was concise and always the same: “Where have you been the whole day?” My reaction, again the same always, was to freeze in silence. Now that I think of it, a short reply that I had just been playing outside with my friends would have been true and with minimum self-implication. But, either in the dilemma of the answer diplomacy or just pure fear, all I did was just freeze. My hung head avoiding his questioning yet all-knowing eyes was the most comfortably acquired admission of guilt for him and in the celebration of his mature triumph, I was dosed with a well-structured discourse on wide range of topics, both relevant and irrelevant to academics.

“Is this the way you will be learning English? We in the higher grades have to burn our eyes in lamp oil, only to be just vaguely familiar with the language. Even the towering scholars of this language have not still been able to grasp its perplexity. Do you know that many of the British, who are supposed to converse normally in this language, are still not versed in speaking grammatically flawless English? You seem to be taking this study business all too easy. Do you learn nothing from me? I study virtually all day, avoiding any distractions like sports, fun fairs and all sorts of appealing time wasters. There are hockey and cricket matches nearly every day. Do you think I don’t want to enjoy all these? But still I have to remain in the same grade for two to three years every time: that’s how hard it is. And you candidly believe that you can pass with this attitude? You might probably end up in the same grade for the whole life. Better than ruining your own life and father’s hard earned money here, you should go back home and enjoy gully-danda.”

The effect being twice more stingy when directed at you in close proximity, my eyes instantly let go of the tear dam, as I had no plausible answers to such scathing verbal castigation. I was a defaulter, no doubt but a nine year old hardly has the skin for such calculated attacks. Now that I think of it, he was uncannily skilled in the art of “the talks”. His words laced with naturally occurring acids were quite effective in their desired outcome. The first stage of my healing process was always dark despair, where I used to think: why not go back, why waste my life in a task that is clearly beyond me. I was satisfied to remain a rural ignorant but to suffer with such diligent studies was unfathomable. But in an hour or so, the black clouds of hopelessness gave way for strong willed determination of studies from the moment itself. But a task so significant also required adequate planning, thus a detailed timetable was carefully prepared. The whole evening after the talk was dedicated to the timetable in which the only timings that did not involve study were sleep, a healthy walk and realistic times allotted for the non-significant chores like eating, bathing, etc. But the formulation of a knee-jerk timetable and scrupulous adherence are not very similar things. The deviations would start on a small scale, with everything that was not mentioned in the timetable appearing so aesthetic. The greenery and breeze of the open playing grounds, the appeal of completely losing yourself to the build-up play of football were too charming for someone like me to resist. And to compound this desire, taking the higher road meant a painstaking process of studying mathematics from eight to nine in the morning, followed by the endless abyss of history, geography and most importantly English throughout the day. However, this pleasure of defiance by avoidance was accompanied by the knowledge of its short life span, as the elder brother’s trigger happy attitude towards defaulters was always lurking back somewhere in the mind. Nevertheless, as a human clings on to the worldly attachments even in the face of death or difficulty, it gradually became impossible to let go of fun despite the inevitability of the talk.       

A Necessary Prelude For Auspicious Beginnings

Contradictory to mostly non-ambitious and somewhat disinterested approach to nearly all aspects of life, when it comes to writing, I tend to overcompensate with too much ambition and dread of mediocrity, perhaps an inadvertent precipitate of classic literature reading. I am truly intrigued with the confidence of so many modern Indian English novelists cranking out love stories like parathas in our canteen (what? I can't use sausages in Indian context). This might be an ill-disguised attempt to display my hatred of this love story mass production machinery as a whole, but I have to admire the tenacity with which, for example a mixed double of love story vendors (names are irrelevant), they come up with the same story-lines on what I believe is monthly basis. The sheer audacity and belief that the potential readers will read the same thing again and again is not only inspiring in some sense to some people but is also repaid by our readers. But judging and criticizing pot-boilers just because one has read classics is hardly a real contribution to literature. But the reason I do it is a desperate attempt to distance myself from the brand I dread that seems to be enveloping all popular Indian literature.

To be honest, the writing part has hardly been difficult. What has been really a real dilemma ridden phase is the time I spent deciding to do something about my urge for writing. Writing is the truly the only thing I sincerely do and immaturely enjoy, but the apprehension of being the part of inconsequential crowd has always been overwhelming. But then I came up with a solution: that why start with an original story! All I had to do was to pick up a Hindi story, translate it for readers unfamiliar with Hindi Literature while trying the hardest to preserve its essence.

And boy, preserving the essence of a Premchand story has been a Herculean task and midway through the process I began to question whether I am even equipped to do this. Having been familiar with English classics as a part of my passion for literature, Premchand’s stories have taught me that not every style of prose needs to be Joyce or Hemingway-like in its approach. Not every emotion has to be turned inside out to reveal the complexity of human feelings, as he candidly assumes that most of our emotions are just there and don’t need dramatic questioning. For instance, in this story titled Bade Bhai Sahab the younger brother in the story is not a Stephen Dedalus wondering through Dublin lamenting the lack of understanding and respect of intellect of a budding artist by inferiors around him, but rather a simple minded boy in a colonial era sleepy town who finds heavenly delights in nuanced rebellions against an elder brother who he has been taught to respect. The innocence of the Premchand style prose is so dramatically lost in the translation that it makes me wonder that either I am a horrible writer or Premchand is seriously underrated in International literature. I am guessing the true reason is a healthy mixture of both the factors.

        

I have not read any of the prior translations which would have undoubtedly been attempted before, as it would have adulterated my own experience of the story. And most importantly I would like to think that I have grown as a writer and hope that this translation does not turn out to be a KP Thakur one (Biharis will understand!). With that I would like to conclude my rant that included an ill disguised hatred of ‘you know what’ and a sob story of an aspiring writer. Although, to be fair even Nathaniel Hawthorne was known to….I should shut up now.