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Tuesday, 12 July 2016

Curious cats and the virtues of anti-intellectualism

[Ser Pounce-a-lot is a British shorthair cat who earned his Knighthood defending his dim-witted sister, Cat-a-tonia from a bunch of ruffianly dogs. A feline of rare wit and sharp insight, he often condescends to share his wisdom with his human slave, Percy the Slacker (the man behind this blog). In an ongoing series, Ser Pounce's wisdom shall be presented in the form of conversations between him and his scribe, the aforementioned Percy. Below, is one such...]
(c) Kmye Chan
[While I was planning to write on this subject for a long time, I had been procrastinating, as so often happens. Then Ajesh Sharma (better known as Slo-Man) posted this in a place where Ser Pounce could read it, and this blog-post came into being.]

“Oy, you! Yes you, what you up to?”

“Oh, nothing, Ser Pounce, nothing.”

“You’ve been staring out of that window for the last ten minutes when you should have been scratching my ears.”

“I can stare outside the window while scratching your ears. Was just looking at that crow hopping from branch to branch on the tree outside. He seems to have a plan, though a very random one. I wonder what he’s up to.”




“Ooh, a bird. Let me at him, let me at him, I say!”

“Calm down, we’re three floors up, you can’t pounce on him. You’ll break your neck falling.”

“True. Curiosity and cats don’t mix well, you know.”

“Yes, like in the adage.”

“Like, as you say, in the adage. How is it for humans, though?”

“I dare say curiosity must be bad for us too, so few humans seem to have it.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t you always complain about nosy relatives asking too many questions?”

“Well, that’s different. I meant true curiosity – a desire to know how things work, where things came from, why things happened.”

“You’re talking about intellectual curiosity now, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am. If ‘intellectual’ wasn’t such a bad word nowadays…stop scratching my arm, Ser Pounce!”

“Eh sorry, I thought it was the arm of the chair.”

“We are sitting on a ledge, not on a chair!”

“Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, between those who are dumb as bricks and pretend to be intellectual, and those who pride themselves on being dumb as bricks, the ability to think, the desire to learn is being lost.”

“You know, human, you do have a point. It is part of what makes cats the superior race. Despite the ever-hanging threat of curiosity killing us, we retain the desire to explore and learn.”

“During the 4 hours of the day when you’re neither sleeping nor eating, you mean?”




“I prefer to express it as a range between two hours and six.”

“Do you have a point?”

“Yes. You see, humans – and there are some decent sorts amongst you – have a formal education system. So you go to school and then to University, learn, give exams, and then join an office or start a business or something.”

“That about sums up human existence, yes.”

“Now some of you treat the classrooms and cubicles as closed spaces.”

“They are closed spaces, Ser Pounce, as you would know if you were an office cat.”

“Mentally, human, mentally. If you think about it, what your teachers tell you is a starting point. It should make you want to know more, to understand, rather than just absorb.”

“Even if the teacher is bad or boring?”




“Especially if the teacher is bad or boring. The good ones anyway expose you to a broad spectrum of learning. Think of it like this - a good pet, like a cat, enriches your life by sitting silently and judging you, filling you with existential questions, while a bad pet – like a dog – makes your life revolve around it, providing mindless entertainment in the form of tricks and chasing sticks.”

“I think you lost the analogy a bit there, but I think I understand what you mean. We should aspire to know more, rather than just see learning as a compulsion, or as a means to an end.”

“Yes, just as I see killing rats not so much as being for food but as a mental exercise.”

“Killing rats is a mental exercise?”

“Indeed it is. You see, the rat knows – and the cat does too – the battle is over before it really happens. We size each other up, and we know how it ends. Everything else – the chasing, the stalking, the leap – is but an expression of an art. The art itself is within us. Within me.”

“Have you overdosed on catnip again?”

“Nothing of the sort. Well, maybe a little. You need to keep it more securely locked up. Anyway, take how you consume art, for example. Music, movies or literature.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Now there’s one sort of person who would listen to a song he likes and then try and find out who the singer is, what other songs she has sung, and if all her repertoire is good, find out what artistes she was influenced by and so on – basically maximise both knowledge and enjoyment.”

“And similarly for authors, composers and painters…”

“Or photographers, movie-makers and chefs.”

“And so on, yes, I get the point.”

“While there is another sort of person who would listen to a song, like it, maybe listen to it a few more times, but never even know the name of the singer, and definitely not the name of the album.”

“And you see this as a bad thing?”

“I think a person who fails to ask questions has failed at life.”

“You know, Ser Pounce, those people – those who do not ask the questions, or indulge in curiosity, as you put it – tend to be happier.”




“They are more certain in life, I’ll grant you that, because they do not think beyond the apparent. They work because they must, never asking why they are tied to their jobs, and whether they really need to be. It is the great virtue of anti-intellectualism, Percy – the happiness of not knowing what you do not know.”

“I say, Ser Pounce, now you are attacking the foundations of modern society!”

“Am I? Take my sister, Catatonia. She sees lunch and she eats it. No reflection on where it comes from, who provides it, or why she is provided lunch while other cats have to hunt for a meal.”

“As far as I can tell, you do the same thing.”

“Shows how little you know. I recognise that my inherent, excellent qualities led you to adopt me and treat me with the respect that I deserve. Therefore I strive to always remain worthy of that respect.”

“I thought you saw yourself as a Cat Overlord of a superior species.”

“Well, of course, but being an Overlord is a status that has to be earned and maintained. Like now, I am shedding fur all over your towel to remind you that it’s high time you washed it.”

“Ugh, get off it, you beast!”

“A fearsome beast I am, indeed. Anyway, while you gnash your teeth and curse at the world, I shall go off to explore the staircase and learn more and more about the habits of your subordinate species, for understanding is key to subjugation.”


“Yes, go, you odious cat, and if curiosity kills you, I’ll write her a thank-you note!”



Sunday, 3 July 2016

Book Review: The Prince of Pataliputra, by Shreyas Bhave

Book Review: The Prince of Pataliputra, by Shreyas Bhave



Publisher: Frog Books
Buying Link: Amazon (Kindle version available)
Pages: 382 (approx 90,000 words)

I have written at length about the unfortunate tendency of writers to pander to genre. The harvest of light romances spawned by the success of Chetan Bhagat and Durjoy Dutta is the most obvious example, and I delved into it earlier on this blog.

Almost as pernicious has been the rise of mythological / historical novels set in Vedic of pre-Islamic India, a trend that might owe something to the stupendous success of Amish Tripathi. Now it is easy to lump all these imitations the same way one might do for the works of the wannabe CeeBee’s, but perhaps that is a little unfair. Perhaps it is the literary merits of Indian mythology or the fact that history is often fascinating on its own, but even mediocre writing is sometimes uplifted by the subject. In a way this was true of Amish’s Shiva Trilogy as well, which I reviewed here.

But it is always refreshing to find a book that does actually stand out amidst the clutter, especially when the author is a debutant, as is the case with Shreyas Bhave and The Prince of Pataliputra, the first of a planned Asoka Trilogy.


Plot
The Prince of Pataliputra covers two parallel plots – the rise to power of Asoka in the declining years of Samrat Bindusar circa. 270 BCE, and the rise to power of Chandragupta Maurya about 50 years earlier. Narrated partly in third person and partly in first person through Chanakya, the author gives us glimpses of the Greco-Indian wars, Chanakya’s quest to consolidate the princes of India into a single entity and of the machinations of Radhagupta to put Asoka on the throne, as well as the young Prince’s own campaigns.

Also woven into the narrative is a burgeoning conflict between the established religion – Brahminical Hinduism and Buddishm, reflected in the ideological and practical differences between the ruling class and many of the merchants.

Characters
The primary characters are Asoka, Radhagupta and Chanakya, along with other tertiary figures like Raja Ambhi, Alexander, Porus, Kanadutta the arms dealer and Devi the Vaidya (the female lead).

This is a plot-driven story, which means that character portrayal takes a back seat to some extent. Mr. Bhave does a decent job with the main characters, whose motivation and nature we do get a glimpse of, though the secondary characters can be a little one-dimensional.

Writing
The style is very fluid and the writing fast-paced, making the book sprint forward with the pace of a well-written thriller rather than a dreary historical. As the historical context and events are reasonably well-known to an Indian audience (or should be), Mr. Bhave focuses on events and people.

His skill in writing action is admirable, and he is able to bring a fight to life in the matter of a few words without faltering or overdoing it, a great asset in a book where there is no dearth of action scenes.

There are a lot of conversations, the dialogue is quick and snappy, and the author is able to pack the book with incidents even when the plot may not be moving forward quite as quickly as it appears to be. I’d say this is actually a good thing, by the way!

There are enough call-backs and foreshadowing to indicate that the plotting has been done carefully, and the writer can claim to bring shades of James Patterson-esque writing to this genre, making it quite exciting.

The little things
As far as language goes, there are errors of commission that the author needs to look at. Usage of certain words like ‘biased’ is incorrect. At times, one wishes for more detailing or a more elaborate turn of phrase, but I suppose it’s a wishlist item that Mr. Bhave can look at in his own time. It is better the way it is – sort of a quicker, better version of Amish – than becoming a half-way hybrid.

Conclusion
The Prince of Pataliputra is an excellent debut work, bringing the spirit of a thriller to the genre of historical fiction. A relatively quick read, it can be equally recommended to fans of Amish and Dan Brown.

Disclaimer
The book was received as a review copy. The reviewer has no personal relationship with the author. 

Saturday, 2 July 2016

Blondie, Union City, and me.

This post was originally written under a different name in 2013. Am re-posting it with minor edits to celebrate Deborah Harry's 71st birthday. Of course, 71 is just a number. She's really immortal. 



If you were watching sports in India in 2013, you probably saw, at some point of time, an advertisement for Mango (the fashion line, not the fruit), featuring Miranda Kerr. The soundtrack to the ad was strangely familiar to me when I saw it. It took a few repeat hearings to nail it. And that was when it hit me, riding on a tidal wave of nostalgia and emotion, that I was listening to a garbled version of Blondie’s Union City Blue.



The video of Union City Blue itself opens with a long shot of what looks like an Industrial port (Union City, NJ, one presumes, across the river from NYC).  The camera pans around the docked ships before eventually zooming in to what looks like a docking bay, where Clem Burke, dressed in a sharp suit, plays his drums on the higher level, while the other four members of the band stand below, wielding guitars.

And then there is Debbie Harry. She wears an orange full-body suit complete with a utility belt, of the style commonly associated with factory labour.

The song's beat has been building up, the sublime Burke ratcheting up the tempo to the first words from Debbie's mouth - "Oh ho, Oh ho, What are we gonna do?"
Debbie and the boys

The line is typical, the opening mundane - an 'Oh-ho' start being so standard for songs with a female vocalist that one tends to discount the start altogether - and yet, in "Union City Blue", it's the note that tells you you're listening to Debbie - effing - Harry.

Madonna could not have sung the line without sounding plasticky. Britney could not, without sounding like she was faking an orgasm. Taylor Swift would've made it sound cute. Even Adele would have over-sung it.

Debbie Harry sings it with the kind of self-contradictory combination of longing and detachment that makes you wonder if you heard it right the first time.

Words are precious, don't bawl them like a child, unless of course you mean to

As the video continues, the camera zooms onto Debbie's face, dominated as it is by the sunglasses (this is an outdoors shoot, people - back when no one really knew how to make a music video) and the glare of the sun on her face makes the visual a mess. It takes nothing away from her unmistakable beauty - high cheekbones, arched lips, two-toned dyed hair.

Debbie's effortless vocal delivery careens over the words expressing her longing for her Union City boyfriend as the camera shows us the flip side of the opening - the view from, rather than of Union City - New York's majestic skyline and the Lady of Liberty, before moving to a shot of the moon. It's now night, the boys are without their instruments and clapping while Debbie, even in the androgynous orange overalls, still manages to look impossibly seductive while dancing in a manner that combines equal parts exuberance and 70's-style crazy.  As the video closes to a shot of her marching playfully away from the camera as the boys continue to pirouette, the songs notes close almost abruptly and you're left wishing there was one more verse, one more time she caresses the words "Union, Union, Union City men" with her magical voice...

Play it again, Clem

I first heard Blonde in the late 90's. Like, I suppose, a lot of young people growing up in 1980's Mumbai, my exposure to English music was restricted to nursery rhymes until the advent of FM radio, MTV and a chap in college who had a brother who knew someone who worked in Singapore and could get a cassette of Pink Floyd from there.  Of course, FM Radio and MTV only showed/played Backstreet Boys (for those of you who are too young to know them, they made One Direction sound talented). Guys in college generally listened only to the hoary legends of stadium rock – Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, The Doors and so on. 

To my limited musical consciousness, "women in music" were represented by Madonna, Britney Spears and the Spice Girls.

Then MTV (or was it Channel V?) played an old live performance of "Heart of Glass", and I had to tune in to the repeat later that evening to confirm that what I had seen and heard was not my imagination.

It wasn't.

There she was, petite, elfin, hair that looked like they hadn't seen a comb in weeks, very likely stoned, wearing what should have been a cute-sy yellow-and-pink dress, hitting a note that was essentially "Woo-ooh, o-o , Woo-ooh ah-a".



It should've looked and sounded ridiculous.

Her beauty should have distracted from her vocals.

Instead, it was pure magic, and she sounded superb. Debbie Harry owned that stage with no less legitimacy than the long-haired Rock Gods I had grown to admire and as for her beauty, it was something she seemed almost distastefully aware of.

"Yes, I look like this," she seemed to say. "What are you gonna do about it?"

No, really, what?
Musical discovery is a long process when hindered by considerations such as exams, college and the associated huckstering that passes for an education. This was before YouTube, satellite radio and iTunes made finding music so easy it barely seems worth the effort. I had to ask around, find old issues of music magazines and look around record shops to discover the free spirit that was Janis Joplin and the remarkable ensemble cast that was Fleetwood Mac. Dolores O'Riordan's clear Celtic voice would haunt me, but it was Shirley Manson in whom the closest successor to Debbie Harry could be found - the Debbie of the 90's, perhaps.

Janis Joplin, taken away too soon.
(c) PBS
Fleetwood Mac, still rocking
(c) Rolling Stone
Dolores and the Cranberries, Irish rock FTW!
Shirley Manson from Garbage. Check out their new album!
(c) Getty Images
Then, almost as if to remind us that the original was still around, Blondie released their comeback album, "No Exit", and gave us the opportunity to see that, even at close to 60 and looking it, Deborah Harry still had the voice, and Clem Burke, for all the brilliant work he had done on his own over the years, rocked with the band like with no other. After all, this was the band that gave us the brilliant lyrics of Dreaming, the morbidly uptempo beat of Atomic, the first mainstream rap song with Rapture, the disguised-lesbian love song Denis and too many more to list. 

Of course they were still good. And even if they were not, it did not matter. Blondie was already immortal.

The unions of Union City may soon become a thing of the past, if they haven't already, and the New Jersey of today is as much a stranger to me as it was when I first heard the song, 15 years ago. (When Debbie filmed the video, I wasn't even born). And for all Miranda Kerr’s vaunted beauty and the HD clarity of the advertisement's video, it is not a patch – not even in the same ballpark – as the grainy, overexposed film of the original video.

For the magic, the control, the sheer mastery over the musical, vocal and visual medium that this song encapsulates; that moment when Debbie breathes magic into the mundane; that cannot be replicated…

I suppose we'll always have Union City, Debbie.

Salute!

Now's also a good time to check out Blondie's single from their album 'Pollinator', titled 'Fun',