IDOLISING THE INDOLOGISTS - Published The Statesman

‘Dialogue of Civilizations – William Jones and the Orientalists’, Mohandas Moses and Achala Moulik
Aryan Books International, 2009

‘Dialogue of Civilizations – William Jones and the Orientalists’ by Mohandas Moses and Achala Moulik documents the development of Indology under the Raj. Moulik / Moses give a well researched account of this fascinating and fertile period of intellectual discovery, touching upon the great paradox that the Indologists, while colonialists at heart, awakened India to its rich cultural heritage. Unfortunately, the authors shy away from in-depth engagement with their subject matter, contenting themselves with a form of biography that limits itself fatally by imposing its own moral framework on the period.

Mohandas Moses, a distinguished civil servant in his time, had laboured on ‘Dialogue of Civilizations…’ for 20 years until his death in 2003 whereupon his wife, Achala Moulik, completed the work. This is not to cast Moulik as the passive spouse, fulfilling her husband’s death wish: far from it. Moulik is in fact the more prolific author, with twenty-one non-fiction works to her name, and had previously aided Mohan in his research for ‘Dialogue of Civilizations…’. Touchingly, in the book’s preface, she describes the hours spent by herself and her husband researching the work as ‘some of the most happiest in our lives’.

It is a shame, then, that there is little to praise in this tribute to the Indology movement – so obviously a labour of love, on more than one count.

Picture an era when the likes of William Jones, Max Muller and Warren Hastings were unlocking what they saw as ‘the secrets of the east’, while at the same time brushing shoulders at opulent parties with Robert Clive and his cronies – men who had come to India only to “wring the natives dry” and return in pomp to Britain. The Indologists are compelling as moral and intellectual trapeze artists: treading the line between their growing knowledge of India as a cultural colossus and their duty to rule and “re-form” the Indian people.

Unfortunately, Moulik / Moses refuse to engage with these unorthodox, idiosyncratic thinkers on their own terms. Given only dry, superficially speculative accounts of the Indologists’ “lives and works”, we are forced to conclude that each man was a baffling hypocrite. We read of the Marquess of Wellesley, for example, who discouraged ‘social or matrimonial relationships with Indians’, while significantly furthering the cause of Indology through the setting up of the College of Fort William for the purpose of educating civil servants in ‘Indian history, law, religions, languages etc.’.

This seeming contradiction is noted by Moses / Moulik, but not explored. Similarly, the authors express little more than bemusement at the apparent clash between Max Muller’s advancements in the cause of Sanskrit, and his staunch dismissal of India’s history as ‘static’ and its people as ‘passive’. Warren Hastings, the Governor-General who arguably sealed Britain’s imperial destiny, is alternately reviled and admired by the authors as an ‘intellectual schizophrenic’.

The colour and fascination of the period is all but lost on Moulik / Moses, along with the realization that Muller, Hastings and their tribe each developed his own intensely personal system of belief through which to view his role within the Raj. In avoiding the complexities and paradoxes of the movement, the authors fall into the deepest trap open to such an historical work: they impose a moral trajectory on the period.

Behind the veil of neutral biography, ‘Dialogue of Civilizations…’ works on the premise that while military conflict is necessarily destructive, cultural exchange is always beneficial. Within this framework, men like Clive and Lord Cornwallis – the latter introduced the infamous Permanent Settlement - are on the side of military power, culpable of enforcing their rule on the Indian people and looting the nation’s treasures. William Jones, meanwhile, (with Warren Hastings as a kind of right-hand man) becomes a symbol for the benevolent, blameless interchange of cultures.

This naïve distinction between destructive ‘hard’ power and benevolent ‘soft’ power explains Moulik / Moses’ reluctance to delve too deeply into the individual perspectives of the Indologists. Where are we to situate the likes of Hastings, Muller and Wellesley in this framework: men who routinely justified acts of force through cultural argument?

No wonder that ‘Dialogue of Civilizations…’ homes in on the founder of the Asiatic Society, William Jones - a man who’s been memorialized in countless historical works as being above the vestiges of power. There is no doubt that Jones was an erudite academic and sincere “Indophile”: his discovery of the common roots between Latin and Sanskrit, and groundbreaking translation of the poet Kalidasa, are momentous tributes to this fact. However, Moulik / Moses conveniently sideline the scholar’s less laudable alter ego: that of Judge Jones of the Supreme Court, a man who had sailed to India in order to “fill his coffers” as a well-oiled cog in the British regime.

‘Dialogue of Civilizations…’ refuses to brave the storms of this heady intellectual movement, avoiding the proposition of military conquest and cultural invigoration as troubled bedfellows. Instead, it attempts, and fails, to place the Indologists neatly into two camps - military aggressor, and cultural ‘ally’ - leaving its prose high, but painfully dry.

21st CENTURY DHARMA - Awaiting publication in The Statesman

The Difficulty of Being Good – On the Subtle Art of Dharma
By Gurcharan Das
Penguin Books
Hardback Rs 699

Das’ highly modern re-think of the Mahabharata is a risky journey that’s well worth taking
A review by Niki Seth-Smith

Gurcharan Das has woven himself the most exquisite of traps. His invigorating, highly contemporary take on the Mahabharata, ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’, shows its readers how to view everyday life through the many-angled prism of the classic epic. In doing so, he leaves himself open to the fate of Drona – whose pupils, the Pandavas, grow to turn their skills against their master. The temptation to analyse Das and his book through ‘the subtle art of dharma’ is too great for a good pupil to resist.

The first dharma Das discusses in his book is sya-dharma, which he describes as arising from ‘good deeds’ approved by society, and conforming to one’s caste or societal position. Is Das abiding by sya-dharma in taking on this foundational text of Indian culture? Taking our cue from the author in updating ideas about dharma, let’s look beyond the issue of caste to Das’ broader status in society.

Das does not come from an academic or religious background. The majority of his career was spent in multinational companies, before he adopted his current role as an author and celebrated columnist. Not only is Das no Sanskrit scholar, he admits to having not studied any Indian classical texts before a stint of study at The University of Chicago eventually gave birth to ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’. One could argue, on these grounds, that Das ‘acted outside his rightful place in society’ by single-handedly taking on the Mahabharata, thus violating sya-dharma. However, the humility with which Das approaches the epic may well absolve him of such a harsh verdict.

Das is acutely aware of the labyrinthine nature of this momentous text, which draws the reader towards one conclusion, before revealing the many faces of the problem in hand. In fact, despite the judiciously cautious nature of the ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’, Das still ends the work with the fear that he has imposed himself too much: “Even by asking the question ‘What is the epic trying to say?’… I may have been culpable of expecting too much logical coherence in the epic when its real position may well be agnostic…”

The very structure of ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’ deters the author from attempting to pin a ‘final meaning’ to the Mahabharata. The book is divided into ten chapters, the first nine of which deal with nine of the main players in the epic through what can be called their ‘ruling natures’: we discuss Duryodhana’s envy, Draupadi’s courage, Arjuna’s despair etc. Through focusing in on each of these themes, Das avoids sweeping statements and is able to bring the epic’s lessons to bear on everyday life in the twenty-first century.

In ‘Bhishma’s Selflessness’, the position of the great karma yogi is brought home to us through a touching story concerning the author’s own father. As a civil engineer, Das’ father had disagreed with his boss in public. Despite being subsequently fired, he remained content to have spoken the truth. Thus the concept of nishkama karma – being ‘intent on the act, not its fruit’ – is called down from the realms of the abstract into a world we can easily understand. The book’s contemporising impulse throws up many ingenious examples. Duryodhana’s envy is paralleled with the rivalry between the millionaire Ambani brothers; Yudhishthira’s concept of duty is presented as having aided Nazi Germany, while Ashwatthama’s musings on revenge are employed as justification for the US death penalty.

If Das just about escapes from the judgment of sya-dharma, can he join the ranks of his father and Bhishma as an upholder of nishkama karma? As far as being ‘intent on the act’, the clarity and resonance of Das’ prose, coupled with the beautifully-wrought structure of the book, speaks for ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’ as an ‘end in itself’. Yet Das is clear that he wrote the work in order to overcome his self-proclaimed ‘third-stage melancholy’: the third stage within the classical Indian way of life being marked by an urge to disengage from worldly pursuits. Perhaps, then, the author is concerned as much with the project’s benefit to his psyche as with the book itself. It seems hardly a goal we can grudge him, however, given the infinitely more banal desire for money and acclaim that drive so many authors in the business.

Lastly, Das must stand up to perhaps the most inscrutable notion of dharma: that associated with Yudhishthira, the eldest of the Pandavas. Yudhisthira’s sadharana-dharma is universal and its foremost duties are to compassion and truth. Here, if anywhere, ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’ hits a quagmire. While Das’ efforts to contemporise the Mahabharata’s ideas on dharma births some truly cutting-edge discussions, some of his assertions about the current political and cultural climate are unsubstantiated, and therefore questionable. Among other contentions, the book states that Indians today respect Arjuna more than Yudhishthira, that hatred of the ‘American Empire’ almost killed the Indo-US nuclear deal and that the Lehman Brothers might have been saved were it not for the envy of Hank Paulson, formerly of Goldman Sachs. While these assertions may well all be true, they appear as unsupported statements in the book, and hence fail to rise above the level of seemingly hubristic opinion.

The Mahabharata has enjoyed such profound and lasting influence due to its powerful argumentation and refusal to provide any black and white conclusions. Das may have exposed himself to attack by encouraging his readers to view the world through the lens of this epic text. Yet, in so doing, he has ensured that ‘The Difficulty of Being Good’ escapes the judge’s verdict. All we can do is argue it out, and thus reach a more enlightened perspective. At least, that’s my personal take on the work. I’m sure – in fact, I hope - that future readers will agree to disagree.

LOW SEASON HIGHS, IN MANALI - Published The Statesman

Travellers in India move in herds, according to the season. In winter, the southern coastline and Goa’s intoxicating party scene beckons; come summer, the hill stations of Himachal Pradesh and Raj-style Darjeeling are the snow-capped gems in the subcontinental crown. This winter, however, I decided to brave the role of the black sheep and head to Manali in late November, well into its low season.

6,400 feet above sea level and cradled by the Himalayan foothills, Manali is celebrated as Himachal’s adventure sports capital (and – more reservedly - for its bountiful supply of charas, or local-grown hash). Come November, however, Manali’s population drops as fast as its average temperature, leaving the hill station’s action-packed programme sadly depleted. While sports like rock climbing and rafting are still available in the low season, the prospect of hanging by my numb pinky from a cliff face or plunging into a glacial river set my teeth on edge. To be honest, I’m not much of a thrill seeker and was glad of the excuse. Peaceful hikes and breath-taking scenery are more my style. I wasn’t to be disappointed.

Arriving on a private deluxe (but still bone-shaking) night bus from Chandigarh, the 5˚C dawn air proved a more powerful pick-me-up than the espresso waiting for me at my hotel. Manali Heights, a self-described ‘fairytale luxury hotel’ perched above Old Manali and framed against towering pine forests, proved an ideal refuge from the rigours of the landscape. This ‘fairytale’, however, was a little on the chilly side. I hadn’t bargained for the fact that most hotels in Manali, even upmarket resorts, have a policy of switching on their central heating only when their occupancy hits around sixty per cent. I’d learned my first ‘low season’ lesson. You can pay to be pampered in Manali, but you still need to pack long underwear.

The best way to get the blood pumping is, of course, to explore. Central Manali, Old Manali and Vashisht – a village around three kilometres north of Manali – are all tourist hotspots in their own right. Old Manali and Vashisht have been hippy-magnets ever since the hill station was first discovered as a global destination back in the sixties. While I had a great time cruising the mellow cafes and hobnobbing with blissed-out old-timers, here’s a whispered warning: don’t take your gran. Central Manali, on the other hand, is larger, more modern and definitely more appropriate for families and comfort-seekers. That being said, it is beginning to suffer from over-development, with concrete eyesores now marring the mountain views.

The Lonely Planet and various tourist websites had ‘informed’ me that Old Manali and Vashisht were closed from October to May. While I should be lambasting the so-called traveller’s bible for this piece of pessimistic hyperbole, in fact I’m immensely grateful. While the hordes of skiers and stoners were warned off the trip, I enjoyed my very own tranquil hill station where the locals were more likely to chat about the chance of snowfall than to holler at me from their crowded shop doorways.

This said, given that more than half of the Manali hospitality sector had followed the tourist herd down to the warmer climes of Goa, the semi-deserted feel of the villages could be a tad depressing. In high season, Old Manali boasts neck-to-neck restaurants cooking up everything from fajitas to homemade tagliatelli and I spent a good few hours salivating over the signs of these boarded up joints. However, once I’d pulled my eyes away I found a fair few multicuisine restuarants still open, as well as numerous dhabas (there’s nothing like a bowl of steaming thukpa after a mountain hike). In fact, the lack of choice was a mixed blessing as the more popular restaurants, hotels and hostels tend to open over all year round, leaving me with what I like best: a short list of quality options.

Hard-core trekkers would no doubt turn their nose up at Manali’s winter season. Firstly, the Rohtang and Kunzum passes are almost always snow-bound by November, so the popular multi-day treks to Lahaul and Spiti are a no-go. Casual walkers like me, however, could spend weeks mapping the labyrinth of paths up into the dizzying foothills, ducking into the many temples and gompas along the way. While I hired a guide to drive me up to the shifting snowline, the more adventurous can rent bikes or cars and make their own way up to such soul-stirring views as afforded by Rohtang Pass or Ladakhi Peak.

Animals move in herds for protection and you could say the same about travellers. Straying off the path, I had to face the bitter cold and forage around for tasty, quality cuisine. My reward was a hill station unsullied by harried hoteliers or the stench of chain-smoked spliffs – an invitation to set my own pace and revel in the landscape as it revealed itself to me alone. Manali in the low season is high on my list of recommendations. Just don’t all come at once. Only black sheep allowed.

SEARCHING FOR A POET - Published The Statesman

Niki Seth-Smith takes us on a hunt for new literary talent in London and Kolkata.

As an editor of a literary publication, as soon as I stepped off the plane from London my hunt for Kolkatan poets began. Before arriving, I’d heard Tagore’s city praised as the cultural capital of India. But now I’d landed, where to begin my search?

My expertise, I should explain, lies in ferreting out authors from London’s labyrinthine literary scene. I know the smoke-stained pub corners where they bury themselves; the boutique cafes where they munch organic flapjacks. Not all poets conform to type, of course, but I can sniff them out, even through a well-tailored suit. In London, the first place I head in search for authors is the Poetry Café, off Tottenham Court Road. The hub of the National Poetry Society is a cosy one-room boho-feel café hidden down a back alley. In the day, coffee drinkers hunch over their poetry volumes and talk in intense, unhurried tones. By night, a widely diverse programme of readings is held in the basement, from evenings with the poet laureate to open-mike slam sessions where the beats rock and the beer flows. Was there a Kolkatan equivalent? My neighbour pointed me to the Little Magazine Library on Tamer Lane, tucked away off the vast book market radiating out from College Street.

I’d heard about the legacy of the Little Magazine and its strong roots in Bengal. From daily volumes to bi-annual tomes, Little Magazines are vital to the Indian literary scene as alternative vehicles of expression not bound to conform to the double pressures of commerce and politics. The Little Magazine’s hey day in West Bengal was undoubtedly the 1960s, when the Hungry Generation sought to birth a mode of avant-garde expression free from the shackles of the colonial canon. Sandeep Dutta, the guardian of the Little Magazine library, judges that there are 150 Little Magazines currently published in Kolkata alone and more than a 1,000 based in the state – but as the publications tend not to be registered, there is no sure way to tell how many have mushroomed over the decades.

Sandeep Dutta set up the Little Magazine library in 1978 on finding that there was no institution willing to keep a comprehensive record of the publications. Today, volumes upon volumes are stacked to the roof of Sandeep’s two-room library - rare editions from the ‘40s jostling for space with issues still in their envelopes, newly posted to the collection not only from Bengal but from all over India and the wider diaspora. While Sandeep showed me a Bengali language LM sent to him from Sweden, a stream of authors, editors, researchers and literary lovers squeezed in and out of the cramped, dimly lit rooms.

Thinking back, the calm retreat of the Poetry Café seemed suddenly staid and inhibiting in comparison to the bustling, chatty atmosphere of Sandeep’s library. It just isn’t the ‘done thing’ to address the café on the impact of politics on literature today or pass verdict on the latest emerging talent, as at Tamer Lane. Personally, I’d be too frightened that one of those dedicated scribblers was busy composing the next Waste Land and I’d put them off their masterpiece forever.

Don’t get me wrong. London’s literary scene is not all rosehip tea and reticence. The capital’s Spoken Word scene is buzzing and incredibly diverse. Poetry tends to be served with a twist: screamed from the rooftops (that’s literal); painted on the walls; accompanied (or delivered) by comics, burlesque dancers and avant-garde bands. But as for everyday literary dens – places where you might hang out and hook up with other writers – they’re almost always cloaked in reverential silence. It seems we Brits assume our ‘difficult’ poets like things peaceful, ordered and disciplined.

Take the capital’s Saison poetry library – my time-honoured plan B on any search for London poets. Situated on the fourth floor of the South Bank Centre, looking over the Thames and the Millennium Bridge, this incredibly well-stocked library is housed on stacked shelves with no spaces between. A browser simply pulls on a shelf which wheels out to reveal its treasures: the epitome of space-saving self-sufficiency. Any Sandeep-like guardian of the collection is made redundant by such a well-oiled machine. As an editor, I simply browse for upcoming poets, find their email address (the publication’s index or Google will do the trick) and shoot off a commissioning email. Easy as a slice of low-calorie pie.


Whereas, to find a Little Magazine poet, your best to consult those in the know - preferably the great librarian himself. I note the slight heaviness under Sandeep’s eyes as he tells me of the time he’s dedicated to the collection. For Dutta is much more than a living index of publications and authors. He is also connoisseur, critic, guardian and match-maker of this ever-changing alternative scene. Although constantly scouring the book stalls for rare and overlooked publications, today most material comes to him directly. In 1989 he set up a Writer’s Bank File, where authors submit their work to the library and editors from across the country can drop in and check out the new material. While I was visiting, the editor of a Durgapur-based political magazine ‘Socrates’ had traveled four hours to come have a rifle through.

Couldn’t the library misuse its power as an axis of the Little Magazine scene? After all, Sandeep only accepts into the Bank File what he deems to be ‘quality’ work. Doesn’t that judgment necessitate a certain amount of personal bias? My friend and editor of Kolkata-based comedy magazine ‘Self Employment’ is shocked that I should propose such an abuse. “He’s powerful, by circumstance,” he assures me. “It’s not about power, it’s about love.” Last year’s boycott of the state-run Little Magazine fair was a testament to the library’s ability to unite, not control, the LM scene. Taking a stand against the state government - its land acquisition policy in particular - the library had organized an alternative fair, attracting roughly 200 Little Magazine sellers. But Sandeep was adamant that this political intervention would not play a divisive role: “It wasn’t about ‘this is my group, that’s yours, and if you’re on their side you can’t be on mine’. Lots of editors came to both fairs.”

The strong ties that bind Bengal’s Little Magazine community, with the library seemingly centre of the web, ensured the success of my hunt for poets. Aside from the obvious road-block - my desperately poor Bengali – I’d been expecting Kolkata to confront me with many more difficulties than my native London. I soon learnt the benefit of the personal touch. After spilling my woes to Sandeep (and the dozens of authors and literati who happened to be passing through the library) I now have a list of Bengalis whose work can be found in translation as well as those who write in English. Now, I just have to muster my pitiful Bangla and dial their numbers.

Many London-based editors I know would balk at the prospect of consulting a figure such as Sandeep on the latest publications, or having to travel hours to a hidden back alley in order to scout out new talent. An institution like the Little Magazine library isn’t necessary in the Big Smoke. In fact, with UK publications and authors busy spreading feelers into the e-world, editors can increasingly do their work from the comfort of their home. But necessity aside, perhaps London would benefit from an establishment such as Sandeep’s library: an all-welcome base, where anyone and everyone can air views and share work – from the teenage lyricist to the seasoned editor.

Soon, I’ll be back in the Poetry Café, sipping my Earl Grey and pouring over a journal of prose poetry. After the crazed hubbub of Kolkata, I’m sure that I’ll savour the calm ambience of the café and the knowledge that my neighbour is unlikely to interrupt me with a passionate critique of my reading matter. That said, I’ll miss the free association and disciplined chaos of Tamer Lane. At least I’ll be flying back home with some impressive poetry tucked away in my backpack.

Niki Seth-Smith is a British journalist with The Statesman. ‘Searching for a Poet’ is the second in a series viewing Kolkata through a Londoner’s eyes.

Niki Seth-Smith edits the e-zine www.fingerdancefestival.org.uk. Poetry and art submissions are welcome at submissions@fingerdancefestival.org.uk.

STARS FOR THE PINK PARADE - Published The Statesman 09

Looking back on this year’s Kolkata Pride, Niki Seth-Smith considers how celebrity support could benefit the gay community.

On the seventeenth of September, the Centre is to take a stand on the decriminalization of consensual gay sex in India. That is, if the government abides by the Supreme Court order. It appears unlikely that the ruling on Section 377 will be reversed, but the fear is palpable and prompts an urgent question: Who will support the LGBT community and its newfound and much-belated ‘right to exist’?

In Bengal, Kolkata Pride has been uniting the gay and transsexual community with its supporters since its inception in 2003. As a straight British woman, I was part of the celebration of new hope that marked this year’s Pride, falling just days after the ruling on Section 377. While buoyed up by the victorious spirit of the march, I was struck by the near-complete lack of supporters from outside the LGBT community and its network of help groups and organizations. Surely now, with the gay rights debate finally in the limelight, the community is in more need than ever of advocates and champions from outside the fold.

Kolkata Pride 2009 fell on a typically rain-drenched fifth of July. Cowering under our umbrellas, my friends and I watched a rag-tag group slowly filtering into College Square. I peered out at the Leapord skin-clad figure before me. As she talked excited Bengali to my friend, I tried not to stare at her adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“She doesn’t know when the march will begin. It should have started by now,” my friend translated.

As we waited out the downpour, I swatted up on my ‘LGBT India’ terminology. There were the hijras, I was told - a strong community often referred to as the ‘third sex’ but who normally identify as female. Right, I thought, that was Miss Leopard Skin covered. But apparently, it’s not that easy. “It’s difficult to know,” my friend explained, “who are hijras and who are khotis, who also take the feminine role in sex. Some associate themselves with a more global notion of transsexuality - it’s a highly complex scene.”

What I did know, looking around me that day, was that my friends and I seemed to be the only ‘conventional’ independent women at the march (I chuckled to myself; I’d never described myself like that before). I’ll clarify: We’re straight and had come of our own accord – not as part of an organization or as a friend of any-one belonging to the gay or trans community. Where were the other straight men and women of Kolkata come out to celebrate this historic moment? Where were the celebrities who could have drawn the crowds? An obviously upper class, smartly dressed lady was heading towards me. A fellow supporter? But before I could smile, a camera was thrust in my face.

“Why are you here?” she barked.

“Because of Section 377 being repealed. Because India’s decriminalized gay sex… sort of, well, hopefully…”

The woman glared at me. She’d wanted a snappy sound-bite from a Western woman, not the ditherings of an idiot.

“Tell me why you’re here. There must be a reason.”

I looked into the camera blankly. Surely it was obvious? Because I’m in favour of gay rights. Because it’s an occasion I want to celebrate.

Now, nearly two months on, I’m proud of my cack-handed TV moment. The overturning of Section 377 was never a clear-cut ‘thumbs up’ to gay sex and identity. As soon as the ruling went through, it was challenged by the Centre; the debate is still brewing and may well carry on getting itself into tangles long after the seventeenth of September deadline.

As for my ‘reason’ for being at the march, the question angered me. Not least because the reporter seemed to have a point. Looking around me at our colourful, crazy band of 400 marching down College Street, my friends and I seemed to be the only ones that didn’t have a definite ‘purpose’ in being there. All the way to Chowringhee, the spirit of the march blazed in sparkling technicolour - outrageous lycra dresses, tongue-in-cheek banners and mad-cap dancing defying the incessant drizzle. But somehow my heart wasn’t in it. Those several hundred had a cause to rejoice all right, but where was the average Kolkatan citizen rejoicing for and with them?

Compare Kolkata Pride to my native London Pride and you’ll better understand my surprise at the absence of ‘casual’ supporters. On the fifth of July, just as Kolkata Pride was setting off in the rain, the fortnight-long London Pride was staging its glorious finale. One million people had marched from Baker Street to Trafalgar Square, with Sarah Brown (the Prime Minister’s wife) heading the motley tribe. After-parties had raged at the clubs every night, while live theatre and comedy jam-packed the streets with rainbow-coloured revelers. By focusing on entertainment, London Pride 2009 was able to attract hundreds of thousands of straight men and women - some of whom might not otherwise have stopped to reflect on gay rights and identity.

Could celeb power have drawn the masses to Kolkata’s Pride? When I put this to Pawan Dhall of Saathii (Solitary Action Against The HIV infection in India) he readily agreed. However, he was quick to point out the difficulties in persuading celebrities in India to risk association with the gay community. An increasingly vocal group of A-list celebs have chosen to bear this cross: notably actresses Shabana Azmi and Celina Jaitley. But shouldering the cause is vastly different from identifying oneself with the community. For example, while Sanjay Suri played the gay title role in the landmark feature My Brother Nikhil, he was quick to refuse playing another sexual minority for fear of being typecast. And roping in a celebrity, according to Pawan, is just the beginning of the trouble. “A lot of stars here aren’t familiar with the issue,” he says with a cheeky glint in his eye. “They get themselves into a trap and suddenly realise what they’re saying. NGOs need more skills in celebrity management.”

While Mumbai and Delhi do their best to suck up India’s small reserve of sympathetic celebs, Kolkata’s LGBT scene has enjoyed its own time in the limelight. Pawan fondly remembers the crowds at Saathii’s 2007 art exhibition, Dohri Peeda ('Twice the Pain'), inaugurated by theatre and film actor Koushik Sen. Of course, another Sen, Bengal’s own Armatya, has addressed the subject in several public lectures. And though not all have approved, many Kolkatans will have seen Sapphire Creations’ The Alien Flower - the homosexual-themed ballet which weathered the public outrage provoked by its 1996 debut to become an accepted part of Kolkata’s cultural history.

But while spectacle and star factor may up the head-count, will audiences engage with the debate or merely watch their idols’ (no doubt mesmerizing) lips? The fact is, the Armatya Sens and Sanjay Suris of this world lead completely alien lives in the eyes of your average Kolkatan. While we may worship celebrities, we can only relate to them up to a point. It’s easy to accept the actions and beliefs of such demi-gods while damning our neighbors on the very same grounds.

This is the argument that has since plagued London Pride 2009. The statistics may speak of unreserved success, but the fortnight has been slammed as “a huge party without politics” (as LGBT magazine On Top phrased it). Gay rights activist Peter Tatchell made headlines with his comment that ‘most of the content was about entertainment and partying’ - so ‘ignoring’ and ‘downplaying’ the political weight of the occasion. While an unprecedented number of straight men and women attended the Pride, no doubt a fair few were too busy pratting around in Dolly Parton wigs to engage with the causes at stake (equal marriage rights for gay couples being the headline issue).

Clearly, Kolkata Pride could benefit from a dash more Masala. The Delhi Court ruling on Section 377, whether it’s repealed or invoked nationwide, has made huge strides in drawing public figures into the debate. In the ensuing tug of war, the more stars on ‘our side’ the better. But while nothing persuades the masses like celeb endorsement, such shortcuts to awareness can easily backfire. The dream would be to attend Kolkata Pride 2010, look around me, and not know who is straight and who is gay. But such a turnout would have to stem from genuine concern, not from the urge to glimpse Celina Jaitley’s thighs.

Niki Seth-Smith is a British journalist with The Statesman. ‘Stars for the Pink Parade’ is the first in a series viewing Kolkata through a Londoner’s eyes.

MAKING THE CALL - Published The Statesman

Niki Seth-Smith conducts a face-off between a British call center operator and her rivals in India.

My friend in the UK has what can only be called the Holy Grail of call center jobs. Amy’s company (which will remain anonymous) fund-raises on behalf of schools and universities in the private sector. By contacting alumni and conjuring up memories of their sunny schooldays, Amy and her colleagues raise around 10 to 15 grand a month (around Rs 7 -12 lakh) and earn nine pounds (around Rs 700) an hour for their pains. Amy is British, decidedly middle-class and university educated. Tele fund-raising is not a permanent career for her but a cushy side-earner she can pick up and drop as easily as a phone receiver. She’s aware of the 1.6 million-strong Indian call center industry on the other side of the globe but is confident that, even in the face of recession, her job is too elite to fall into the hands of offshore operators.

Is Amy's confidence in the safety of her job justified? Aspirants looking to bag Amy’s position must have “good self-motivation, a personable phone manner, excellent communication skills” - and, to read between the lines, a voice fit to cut glass and dine with Princess Anne. I put this description to Rajat Kothary, whose decades-long career in the Indian call center industry with Convergys and E-Excel Services – two of the leading players in India offering “offshore customer services” - makes him something of a guru in the field.

Rajat homed in first on “personable phone manners’: “Today, the big call centers train their agents to really get into the psyche of the client country. In a typical month-long training programme, the agent has to absorb the country's culture. He learns about their transportation, religion, holidays - that way, he’s able to be much more friendly and understanding.”

This nightmare vision of a ‘more British than the Brits’ workforce who know their Harrods from their Harvey Nicks and can recite a recipe for Yorkshire pud has long been a subject of horrified fascination for the British public. Slumdog Millionaire, in having its protagonist attend just such a ‘cultural immersion’ class (albeit as a chai wallah) was merely probing an already sore spot. However, such professional ‘Anglicization’ hardly threatens Amy. While Indian operators may be able to chat about Kate Moss and real ale, they lack the real life experience that could give their persuasive banter the ring of authenticity. Amy’s ability to prompt alumni into donating to their old schools is reliant, to a large extent, on genuine shared ground.

If Amy wins on ‘personable manners’, what about ‘communication skills?’ According to Rajat, when the industry was in its infancy in the early 2000s, the dominant focus was on accent. Now emphasis is placed on what he calls the ‘neutral voice’: “Companies are no longer going for mimicry of a given accent. They’re concerned solely with clear communication – the agent has to be understood.” While I wonder exactly what such a voice might sound like, the prioritization of neutrality seems fitting for a multicultural Britain in which so-called 'Queen’s English' has definitely toppled from the throne. It's no longer acceptable to presume that even Amy’s public-school alumni possess Received Pronunciation across the board. While the irony is striking, Indian agents may be more adept at communicating with clients who speak in a variety of regional accents. Although school-taught English in the subcontinent is still definitely RP, several Indian call center companies have incorporated regional accent tutoring into their rigorous training schedule.

What about “good motivation”: the third criteria given by Amy’s company? The boom centers in the three main 'communication' metros – Mumbai, Delhi and Bangalore – house agents in their tens of thousands. Such work conditions notoriously breed faceless, unmotivated, and therefore inefficient workers. Then there’s the time difference, meaning many operators face night shifts, disrupting both their body clock and their social and family life. The ensuing low morale, I hazard, must affect call success rate. As a quality analyst, Rajat’s duty was not only to listen in on calls for deviation or bad practice, but also to intervene if agent’s cracked up or broke down while on call: “I used to get 20 or 30 people a day, a lot of girls, who would just start crying while on the line because of client abuse. The guy on the other end probably resented being called from ‘somewhere in the East’ and just let rip. And the night shifts aren’t meant for everybody. There are lots of people who quit after just one or two shifts.”

Yet Rajat is quick to explode my dreary vision of plugged in drones: “The Indian industry has seriously bought into the concept of R&R (Rest and Recuperation). There’s competitions, various fun activities in the office – people can’t wait to go to work the next day. Lots of the larger companies have introduced events outside of work time to encourage employees to socialize within themselves.” The clincher, of course, is the high wages provided by such multinational or outsourced companies. The wages in turn add glamour and social status to the position. Rajat remembers with a chuckle how his relatives were less than impressed with his new job as an agent at the start of the call center boom: "They said ‘You’re answering the phone. What’s so good about that? And you’re working at night. Thieves work at night." The company advertisement hadn’t even offered a job description as such, but mentioned a ‘5 star hotel-like position’. Nearly a decade on, with millions of educated career-orientated young Indians gagging for their slice of the ever-expanding call center pie, this once-cheeky ad is not far from the truth.

It seems, then, that the biggest threat to Amy’s job is her own nonchalant attitude. Her company, of course, is expert in fostering the competitive spirit. I remember Amy flushed with excitement, returning home with sackloads of freebies, once even a bottle of foul-tasting champagne. But despite due attention to employee morale, British call centers will never be able to foster the kind of motivational atmosphere found in their Indian counterparts. This is because the equivalent jobs are profoundly less desirable in the UK. Most call centers in Britain would not even dream of skimming the cream of the degree-holding crop to fill their full-time agent positions.

Amy might be able to talk to her heart's content about quads, 'prep' and tapioca pudding with an authenticity which an Indian-educated operator could never possess (no matter how many Hardy Boys books he'd read). But her minimal training in comparison to her India counterparts puts her at a disadvantage in terms of general communication skills. The jewel in her crown, her flawless Received Pronunciation, is no longer the ultimate weapon in Britain that it was only decades ago. Weighing the balance, Amy's side-earner is probably safe, at least until she ceases to need the extra cash. What the comparison shows, however, is the growing might of the Indian call center and its ability to threaten even the most coveted niches of the industry.

Niki Seth-Smith is a British journalist with The Statesman. ‘Making the Call’ is the fourth in a series viewing Kolkata through a Londoner’s eyes.

BATTLING FOR SOULS - Published The Statesman

Niki Seth-Smith thinks the Missions of Charity have some lessons to teach the UK about Christian evangelism.

The British Church is losing track of its sheep. That’s the word being whispered from Priest to Bishop, from the village chapel to the spires of St Paul’s Cathedral. While the ‘statistical proof’ for such a decline in British Christian belief may be suspect, the reaction of the Church is very real. Voices are being raised, urging the Christian community to don their holy armour in earnest, go out on the streets and seek souls.
There is a fear that while the dominant faith takes care not to tread on the toes of minority religions, many of these minority faiths – notably Islam and Hinduism – are gaining ground in Britain.

The Christians I’ve met in Kolkata have assumed that I, a British woman, am a Christian. They’re surprised to hear that not only am I not a believer, neither are my parents or the majority of my friends. Take a look at the stats, and this won’t seem so surprising. Britain’s last national census (in 2001) pointed to a secular nation, with over a third of Brits (36 per cent) identifying themselves as having a “Humanist outlook on life”. In May of last year, just as the shock waves from the census were dying down, Christian Research published a study predicting that within a generation active Muslims would outnumber Sunday church-goers in Britain by 3:1.

Needless to say, such attempts to quantify belief are deeply suspect. For the majority, ticking any box on forms aimed at dissecting the demographic entails a half-lie. Although church attendance figures may be more concrete than those gleaned by surveys, they take no account of the variety of ways in which Christians are now choosing to worship. But while the slippery statistics may have limited use, the Church’s reaction to the apparent weakening of the Bible’s influence is certainly revealing.

There is a growing feeling within the Church that Christianity in Britain is too occupied with the perceived demands of political correctness and community cohesion to take a strong stance and reach out to new converts. Rev. Nezlin Sterling of the New Testament Assembly in London made headlines earlier this year by calling on Christians not to “walk on eggshells” when other faiths were “unrelentingly” spreading their message. Rev. Andrew Dow is another strong advocate of a more pro-active Church: “We need to recover our nerve,” the rector, based in Cheltenham, declaimed. “We need to refute the lie that to be evangelistic is to be a bigot or a fundamental fanatic.”

Living in Kolkata, Mother Theresa’s city, I’m in a unique position to witness the work of one of the most renowned Christian evangelical networks in the world: The Missions of Charity. There are currently 19 mission centres in the city, working under the motto: “Wholehearted and free service to the poorest of the poor”. There are missions dedicated to vulnerable women and children, to the sick and dying, and to those simply in need of shelter and care. However, while the Missions of Charity can be held up as the evangelical ideal made flesh through their ability to reach across caste, race and religious boundaries, their history in the community clearly demonstrates the problems surrounding such unambiguous evangelism.

The Hindu Right has a long history of opposing the Missions on the grounds that they are threatening the majority and ‘true’ faith of India by conducting forced or ‘interested’ conversions. The BJP has accused the Missions of targeting Dalits and tribals, using their traditionally underprivileged status as a point of leverage. The Vishwa Hindu Parishad (an extremist organization dedicated to Hindutva) has been more strident in its critique of the Missions, even opposing the government’s decision to give Mother Teresa a state funeral in 1997. While the Missions may have found a refuge from violence in their home city, there have been times when Sisters and Brothers in other states have lived in fear – most recently in neighbouring Orissa, where the murder of Swami Laxmanananda, a staunch opponent of conversion, triggered off a wave of ‘retaliatory’ attacks on Christian organizations, including the Missions, in August of last year.

Why should the British Church heed antagonism in India against Mother Teresa – arguably the saint of modern Christian evangelism? Surely the issue of coercive conversion takes a backseat in Britain, where those lacking the minimal essentials of life constitute a tiny fraction of the population. It’s true that Christian bodies offering basic aid such as the Salvation Army have an extremely limited sphere of influence in comparison to their Indian counterparts. But the “poorest of the poor”, as the Church recognizes, are not only the financially weak but also those in need of emotional support.

The Evangelical Alliance - the largest body serving evangelical organizations in the UK – believes that the number of Brits searching for emotional or ‘spiritual’ guidance is on the rise in the wake of the global recession. Dr Justin Thacker, a doctor of Theology, spoke on behalf of the EA: “With the global financial crisis, it has become obvious that many people are searching for answers to life’s deep questions. Western materialism has not provided the answer, and therefore there are many who are currently searching.” According to Dr Thacker, the EA is firmly with vocal figures such as Rev. Sterling and Rev. Dow in their belief that the time is ripe for spreading Jesus’ word to non-believers.

The invitation to seek converts without shame and offer ‘spiritual’ succor to those cast adrift by post-recession upheaval could be seen as a carte blanche for emotional exploitation. While there is no formidable Hindu Right in Britain to fight tooth and nail against such ‘illegitimate proselytizing’, there is a strong argument that the UK is becoming increasingly hostile to any perceived intrusion of religion into public life. It was a Brit, after all, who wrote the controversial polemic ‘The Missionary Position’, depicting Mother Teresa as a political opportunist who adopted the guise of a saint in order to fulfill her primary aim of harvesting money and souls for the Pope. The author, Christopher Hitchens, came not from a religious background but from within a strong tradition of British atheism, championed by the likes of Richard Dawkins.

The National Secular Society is the leading British campaigning organization against the ‘undue influence of religion in public affairs and education’. Not only does the society view faith-based welfare as coercive, positioning itself against what it calls the ‘soup for prayers’ phenomenon within public services, the NSS has recently taken a controversial stance towards baptism as conversion without consent. Terry Sanderson, the President of the NSS, sees the popularity of the society’s ‘debaptism’ forms (more than 10,000 have been downloaded so far) as evidence that: ‘(British) people are not just indifferent to religion…. …but are actually becoming quite hostile to it’.

A more pro-active approach to spreading the word of God may bring unbelievers in Britain flocking back to the faith. Yet such a push for greater evangelism within the Church must be tempered by consideration of the issues at stake. Talk of ‘not treading on eggshells’ and refusing to bow down to the P.C. ogre grossly underestimates the probable tensions arising from such a trend. Examining attitudes towards one of the most powerful and influential Christian evangelical networks in the world, the Missions of Charity, highlights the problems associated with the evangelical position. The majority of Brits today are no longer church-going Christians. Those calling for a strong, evangelical Church must accept this fact and take the current climate in Britain into consideration.

- - Niki Seth-Smith is a British journalist with The Statesman. ‘Battling for Souls’ is the third in a series viewing Kolkata through a Londoner’s eyes. - -

SHRUNK TO SIZE - Published The Statesman

Over the last decade, the prequel has hit Hollywood. Niki Seth-Smith takes a look at how our cinematic icons have fared in the “counsellor’s chair”.

Does anyone else feel that Hollywood is spending too much time at the shrinks’? Over the last decade, the master-puppeteers of the silver screen have been busy leading our movie icons to the counsellor’s chair. “We want to understand you,” they purr, notebook at the ready, “tell us about your past.”

The first patient was Darth Vader – chief exec of the Dark Side. The Vader of George Lucas’ original Star Wars trilogy is a fearsome, inscrutable human-cyborg and ruthless right hand of the Galactic Empire. When he enters the scene (black cape swishing behind him) to the strains of the now infamous The Imperial March, our blood runs cold in delicious apprehension. Then, in 1999, came the first installment of the prequel trilogy, Episode I - The Phantom Menace, amidst much media fan-fare and the breathless babble of Lucas groupies. The prequels reintroduce us to Vader as Anakin Skywalker - a young, headstrong slave boy who ascends to glory as a Jedi knight, only to succumb to the Dark Side in order to save the life of his pregnant wife. “So misunderstood,” we reflected, stumbling out of the cinema hall in 2005 after the great denouement of Episode III. “They should give the guy a break. We all make the wrong choice sometimes.”

Vader was just the beginning. We were given a month’s respite after the release of Episode III before Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins delved deep into Bruce Wayne’s psychology as he finds his… well… wings. Who next for the councellor’s chair, I wondered. The answer took me by surprise. For who would attempt to interpret a man who has locked himself away in a fantastical sweet emporium with a workforce of weird, morally stringent dwarfs? A remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005) could only have been taken on by Tim Burton - connoisseur of all characters queer and curious. Unfortunately, while cavorting through the land of kitsch, this tasteless joy-ride licks off the outer layer of Roald Dahl’s mysterious sweet-maker by giving Willie Wonka a traumatic childhood at the hands of an orthodontic, candy-hating father. It’s got so bad that even mindless blockbusters like this year’s X-men Origins: Wolverine feel obliged to hop on the back-story bandwagon. While snugly fitting the CGI-action-with-a-splash-of-gore formula, Gavin Hood’s flick couldn’t resist having a stab at the wolf man’s tortured beginnings.

Hollywood exists to satisfy desires, albeit in the exalted world of the silver screen. Now it’s busy homing in on our latest compulsion. We want to know the man behind the mask. Strip him down. Make him talk. Show that he’s just like us, really. I’m not saying that the average audience member fights crime under the symbol of a small furry mammal, or spends their life tasting chocolate (well, that might be closer to the truth). But we do expect our heroes and villains to be more human, more knowable. We’re aware that, according to their legends, many in fact were “once like us”. Very much at the heart of Batman mythology is the death of the philanthropic Waynes at the hands of Gotham criminals when Bruce was just a normal, if sickeningly rich, little boy – sowing the seeds for his transformation. Anakin Sykwalker’s life history had already been sketched out by the various books, films and animation series that constitute the grandly titled Star Wars Expanded Universe. Wolverine’s beginnings had previewed in the comics, leaving Burton as a stand-alone inventor in fabricating Willie Wonka’s childhood. But knowing a back-story is very different from seeing it unveiled before our eyes. We may be aware of how Batman lost his parents, but seeing a kiddy Bruce blubbing in the deserted Wayne mansion feeds a very different appetite.

As today’s movie audience is so captivated by psycho-analysis, maybe it’s time we place them in the chair. From where does this fascination arise? A kindly, less cynical analyst might point to man’s need to empathise with his fellow man. We’re not satisfied anymore with action-packed block-busters (Pow! Thwap! Kaboom!) or head-in-the-clouds fantasy trips. Modern cinema-goers are interested in people, and feel uncomfortable dismissing anyone - even cyborg-man Vader of the Galactic Empire - as ‘pure evil’. It’s a fitting theory for today’s age of prison reform, where criminals are presented as victims of circumstance and the tell-all confessor is the media’s no. 1 darling. But something tells me a shrink worth their salt would balk at such a neat explanation. “To unpack the symbol,” he might say, “is to neutralize its power.” In layman’s terms, we want to understand our most terrifying baddies and worshipped heroes only in order to “get one up” on them. The examples staring us in the face here are the Bond prequels: 2007’s Casino Royale and last year’s Quantum of Solace.

You can’t escape Bond’s influence as a man’s man. Austin Powers may have burped in the face of the 007 legacy, but the quintessentially British secret agent remains untouchable in his ability to excite envy. Watching Bond bed a girl simply by cocking an eyebrow, plenty of male viewers want to string him up and kick him where it really hurts. Which is exactly what Casino Royale did, quite literally. The prequels not only show us a troubled, love-lorn and vulnerable Bond, but the first of the duo includes a torture scene where De Chiffre ties our libidinous secret agent to a chair and gives his testicles a vigorous lashing. It’s an eye-wateringly gripping scene, and a glorious instance of cinematic fantasy fulfillment. Daniel Craig’s Bond in Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace completely refigures the 007s of Dalton, Moore, Connery and Brosnan (every-one forgets George Lazenby). He may seduce some of the sexiest women in the world but James Bond lacks what would really make him a man. He’s impotent. Or at least that’s the vicious suggestion.

Bond may have benefited from a dash more humanity – as the box office figures and critical plaudits for the prequels go some way to testify. But not all of our movie icons thrive under the therapist’s gaze. Some have positively withered. After all, as the great storytellers would attest, it’s as much about what you don’t as what you do reveal. Do we want to see Willy Wonka as a disturbed victim of warped experiences at the hands of his father? The answer, sadly, is yes. Millions of us are gagging to see it – curiosity is powerful – but the fulfillment leaves a bad taste in our mouths. Unfortunately, Hollywood has never been concerned with what’s “good for us”. We open our mouths and stuff gets spooned in. That’s the nature of the beast, as they say. Even so, I wish some-one would spell it out for those that hold the Hollywood strings: No-one needs to know what Batman eats for breakfast.

MORE THAN A HIP YOUNG GENRE - Published The Statesman 09

What is a graphic novel? Inevitably, this was the first question the British Council had to address on acquiring its spanking new collection of the genre. It’s generally agreed that a graphic novel is ‘weightier’ than a comic book – but that hardly narrows the field. They often literally weigh more (a novel has to pack a good page-count, after all). Some would argue that they deal with weightier or more ‘adult’ subject matter than comics. Then again, they’re usually heavier on your purse. The truth is that non-initiates often have very little idea of what a graphic novel is and does. And India, for her part, has been slow to embrace the phenomenon.

The British Council, then, is leading the field by inviting Kolkatans to choose from a considered range of works in which Sarnath Banerjee’s ‘Corridor’ rubs shoulders with British classics like Gaiman’s ‘Sandman’ and Talbot’s ‘Alice in Sunderland’. Not content to just dish up the books, the BC have also arranged reading groups to help newcomers grapple with the genre and allow enthusiasts to share their pleasure and insight.

The reading group I attended was on ‘Watchmen’ by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbs. First published in 1986-87, ‘Watchmen’ takes comic book stereotypes and bursts them asunder, depicting a parallel ‘80s New York in which a group of everyday citizens have become superheroes. Just flicking through ‘Watchmen’ makes your brain boggle. Forget the stock format of neatly framed pics and accompanying speech bubbles. Moore’s expertly lawless tangle of image and text is inter-spliced with faux-documents that range from mock psychology reports to diary excerpts. It also bubbles over with allusions to pop and underground culture - think Dylan, Iggy Pop and William Burroughs, to name but a few.

You can imagine my gratitude at not having to tackle the ‘Watchmen’ universe alone. The reading group I attended was admittedly small, but it mercifully included a bunch of fanatical Moore fans. As we read out the first chapter together, these guys couldn’t resist jumping in to point out a visual pun the group may have missed, explain the influence of the cold war climate, or revel in such memorable lines as: ‘The dust reeks of fornication and bad consciences.’

In short, the reading group was a godsend. That said, without attendance by these knowledgeable fans, it could have fallen flat on its face. This is because the convener from the British Council had not read the book, and appeared to be under the impression that it was a recent publication (perhaps misled by the release of Zack Snyder’s film adaptation last March).
The scenario of a small but hardcore contingent explaining the genre to their ‘elders and betters’ reflects the peculiar position now occupied by the graphic novel. The last three decades have seen the genre win acceptance as a literary form in its own right. ‘Watchmen’ has been key to this process, having received a Hugo award and appeared in Time Magazine's list of the ‘100 best English-language novels’. Yet there is still reluctance among literati worldwide to allow graphic novels into the canon proper. This closed mindset definitely reigns in Kolkata, as evidenced by the absence of graphic novels on English Literature syllabi here in the city.

The British Council has taken a pioneering step in introducing this collection. However, they may be in danger of falling back on a perception of the graphic novel as a ‘hip young form’. It’s safe to say, for example, that they wouldn’t have held such an ill prepared event on a conventional classic novel such as ‘Midnight’s Children’. While this collection could make crucial headway in terms of introducing the genre to Kolkatans, the British Council must first accept the graphic novel as a fully legitimate literary genre with an already long and distinguished history.

FROM TIP TO TOE, NANDAN'S SPANISH FILM FESTIVAL - Published The Statesman

Nandan’s Spanish film festival kicked off with two South American films. Aside from the soil from which they sprang, Eduardo Mignogna’s ‘Cleopatra’ and Sergio Cabrera’s ‘The Art of Losing’ could not have been more disparate creations. While Cabrera offers a raunchy, wry expose of Columbian corruption, ‘Cleopatra’ - with its Thelma and Louise-style narrative - wishes only to reveal the innate freedom of the human soul.

Sergio Cabrera is famed for falling in with guerillas in his native Colombia - to fall out several years later in order to pursue his directorial ambitions. With this in mind, you can’t help sensing a worldly gaze behind ‘The Art of Losing’s portrait of a Colombia infested with casual violence and underworld connections.

Victor Silampa (Daniel Gimenez Cacho) is your textbook journalist: world-weary, booze-sozzled, recently dumped by the love of his life. But when Victor is given the case of an impaled man left by the side of a scenic lake, we’re introduced to a not-so-predictable whirlwind of prostitutes, nudists, adulterous lawyers and corrupt oligarchs. ‘The Art of Losing’ proceeds to unveil how all are involved in the scramble for 400 acres gruesomely flagged by the afore-mentioned corpse.

Cabrera is noted for his playful handling of weighty material, and ‘The Art of Losing’ takes some beautifully off-the-wall stabs at Colombia’s institutionalized hypocrisy. Unfortunately, too much of the film’s comedic energy is channeled into Victor’s block-headed sidekick, leaving others playing second fiddle with decidedly lack-lustre dialogue.

Overall, ‘The Art of Losing’ takes a satisfyingly quirky look at Colombia’s seedy underbelly. Weighed down by a weakness for cut-and-paste characters, ‘The Art of Losing’ is at least packed with plenty of race and pace. And if nothing else grabs you, the film’s brazen sexiness (championed by Victor’s love-interest, played by the nubile Martina Garcia) is likely to keep you glued to your seat.

Mignogna’s ‘Cleopatra’ couldn’t be further in tone from Cabrera’s flick, where every woman character is a prostitute. In fact, ‘Cleopatra’ could fit snugly in the feminist canon, focusing as it does on the unlikely two-some of a young soap star and a retired teacher as they swap their men and commitments for a frivolous weekend jaunt. But before you spend the film anticipating cliff-edge disaster, Cleopatra (Norma Aleandro) and Sandra (Natalia Oreiro) are no gun-toting Thelma and Louise. With the Argentinian countryside as breath-taking backdrop, their mother-daughter relationship is tenderly drawn out in a narrative characterized by insight and poignancy, not dramatics.

While ‘The Art of Losing’s vision of Colombia is clearly set for an ending where all good apples turn rotten, ‘Cleopatra’s twists and tangents keep us on our toes. Finally, here’s a roadtrip flick that resists the lure of fantasy. It’s a little convenient, sure, that the two are picked up by the gorgeous but troubled cowboy Carlos (Leonardo Sbaraglia) – another ‘T and L’ echo - but Sandra’s new love interest is refreshingly fallable. And to its credit, Mignogna resists the lure of the winsome couple and remains firmly centred on Cleo, the disillusioned but optimistic aging mother, played with infectious gaiety by Norma Aleandro.

Cambrera and Mignogna’s native Colombia and Argentina are a continent apart, and so are these films in both subject and spirit. With only a limited line-up, it seems Nandan was wise to have chosen such polar works for its inaugural day. Though the task of representing South American film in an evening is undoubtedly impossible, ‘The Art of Losing’ and ‘Cleopatra’ did their best to breach the expanse.

INDIA ON THE MOVE - Published The Statesman

Sanjeev Sanyal’s The Indian Renaissance charts the decline of India over the past ten centuries, and suggests that India now faces the opportunity to reclaim its status as both a cultural and economic superpower.

The Indian Renaissance seems to suggest that ‘cultural openness’ is the main predicate to a country’s economic success.

Actually, I’m proposing that cultural openness and economic success are the same thing. We witness the same pattern of rise and decline around the world.

In Europe, for example, we had a civilization that had been in decline for a thousand years. Then suddenly, in the mid-1400s, something really changes. Within a few generations we had Galileo, Vasco Da Gama, Columbus, the Medicis, Leonardo Da Vinci. What happened in this very short period of time? Europe developed a culture of innovation and risk-taking.
India in 1 AD accounted for 33 per cent of the world’s economy, surpassing Western Europe and China. The country declined after 11 AD due its rejection of foreign influence and homegrown entrepreneurialism. It became a closed civilization.

Does the title Indian Renaissance refer to a contemporary India that is reinstating this ‘cultural of openness’?

That’s right. For the first time in a thousand years we are once again embracing innovation. India has always been terrible at sports. Now we’re winning Olympic medals. We’re winning the Oscars. The Tata Nano was released recently. The fact that the Nano is a major topic in the newspapers shows that people think it’s an issue.

Why are all these changes happening in such a tiny period of history? Because we are once again taking risks.

What reaction has The Indian Renaissance provoked within economic circles in India?

I’ve had plenty of criticism. You’d be surprised at how much opposition people have to the idea of change. Change is uncomfortable. Innovation is uncomfortable. Many are still praising the old Nehruvian model of strictly regulated economics.

How would you respond to critics who feel the global economic crisis has vindicated India’s decision not to embrace economic liberalization wholesale?

I’d argue entirely to the contrary. The only reason why we’re still standing is that in the past 17 years we’ve been through enormous reform. In 1991 our economy collapsed when the oil price went up. Our economy doesn’t collapse today when oil prices rise, because we are now a totally different animal.

In times of stress, it’s even more crucial to understand the importance of risk-taking, as it’s easy to become introverted at such times. Some risks will come to roost and you will have breakdowns, but how you deal with these crises is what separates the men from the boys.

So we will watch America. Will they react to the crisis by saying that the rest of the world is dangerous? Protectionism may save them for five years, but that decision is the end of America as a civilization. It’s bad news for us for a few years ~ it’s bad for them forever.

You end the book with a response to Thomas Friedman’s The World is Flat. Are you taking issue here with the concept of globalization as ‘the great leveler’?

I think Friedman misses the point. Yes, Bangalore is what it is because of the Internet. But Zimbabwe has the Internet too. What mattered was that India had the right attitude and was able to use the opportunity.

What are the factors that could impede India from following the pattern of Asian ‘miracle growth’ as seen in China, Singapore, Japan and Taiwan?

The conditions are in place for economic growth on a huge scale in India. But the conditions are not sufficient. You can use this energy and go in the wrong direction. Places can go backwards, as India did after 11 AD. Within my own lifetime, Kolkata ~ once the cultural and economic centre of the country ~ has quite clearly gone backwards.

Do you see the book as a wake-up call to those who stand for cultural conservatism and economic protectionism?

India has a long history of conservatism. Today, there’s the influence of the Left and the extreme Right, there are obscurantist groups in Bangalore who oppose women drinking in pubs ~ it’s all part of the same resistance against change. There’s a poem by Tagore called Mind Without Fear where he writes of ‘narrow domestic walls’ and advocates ‘ever-widening thought and action’. Tagore is saying: don’t shut my system down.

Cultural openness is not only about economic liberalization. It’s an attitude that affects every aspect of civilization.

(The Indian Renaissance: India’s rise after a thousand years in decline by Sanjeev Sanyal has been published by Penguin/Viking.)

AN EYE FOR DETAILS - Published The Statesman

Safiuddin Ahmed is a renowned Bangladeshi artist, noted for his oil paintings and pioneering work in printmaking. The artist played an important role in the foundation of the Institute of Fine Arts under Dhaka University.

Why has eighty-six-year-old Safiuddin Ahmed used his third solo exhibition ~ perhaps the last he will see with his own eyes ~ to focus solely on his drawings? While it may seem strange that the acclaimed Bangladeshi artist has left aside his body of work in oil and graphics, ‘The Limitless Luminosity of Lines’ enthralls precisely because it jettisons colour, drawing the viewer into an essentialist world of tone, contour and edge.

Housed in twin exhibition rooms (The Jamini Roy Gallery and Nanadalal Bose Gallery) Ahmed’s charcoal, mixed-media, ink and pencil drawings speak to each-other across the gallery space. The shared medium leads us to compare the light, suggestive pencil lines of the Nude Drawings, with surrealist masterpieces such as ‘Remembering Ekushey’ (1 and 2), where hands, cities, fingers and eyes hang suspended in the void of the canvas. Abstract works such as the ‘Black Series’ lean towards bold, stark cubism, while the several figurative sketches on display of clothes merchants, peanut sellers and street fiddlers, invite us to enjoy the artist’s attentive and empathetic eye.

Safiuddin Ahmed’s latest exhibition is remarkable for its maturity of vision and sensitivity of craft ~ the product of 70 years engaged in his vocation. The fact that one of the drawings displayed was finished only last year gives the viewer pause for thought. Art lovers in the city will be thankful that Ahmed has chosen Kolkata, his birthplace, to host this historically important exhibition.

BEAUTY IN EMPATHY - Published The Statesman

During the Seagull Foundation for the Arts’ retrospective of Somnath Hore’s works three of his art books and journals, including the previously unpublished The Tea Garden Journal, caught Niki Seth-Smith’s attention


The late Somnath Hore is revered as an artist and committed humanist whose print-work, drawing and sculpture is born out of a sensibility highly tuned to the social plight of Bengal. The Seagull Foundation for the Arts’ new exhibition invites us to view Hore’s oeuvre alongside his art books and journals, allowing a deeper insight into the life and work of one of the great figures of twentieth century Bengal.

The Seagull Foundation for the Arts’ new exhibition directs us towards a fuller knowledge of the artist, by accompanying its retrospective of Hore’s watercolours, sculptures and pen and ink drawings with three of his art books and journals: Tebhaga, My Concept of Art, and the previously unpublished The Tea Garden Journal.

Hore’s watercolours and pen and ink drawings occupy the first floor of the exhibition. These pieces evade traditional concepts of the ‘polished work’. Instead, Hore’s pen flies at his subjects with a searing empathy that sets its sights beyond studied realism. Whether an ink and watercolour of a village family, or a 30-second sketch of a farmer with his back towards us, these are works conveying such engagement of feeling that its easy to entertain the belief that Hore had met his subjects - ate the same food, breathed the same air.

While such musings on the artist at work could be easily dismissed as idle speculation, Tebhaga and the previously unpublished The Tea Garden Journal allow us to engage with Hore’s formative artistic experiences. The journals reveal sympathy with his subjects as essential to the development of Hore’s uniquely humanist vision.

Both journals document the young artist’s experience of Tebhaga ~ the workers’ movement of the mid-1940s.
The movement saw sharecroppers demanding that they be allowed to retain a two-thirds share of their produce, instead of the 50/50 system between the workers and the jotedars ~ a class of rich farmers who held superior rights to the land. In the winter of 1946, Hore had been assigned by the Communist Party to document what has been described as the first consciously attempted revolution by the peasantry in India. The two journals are Hore’s personal records of those days, and show the young artist going through an initiation by fire ~ developing, by necessity, the keen and empathic eye for depicting the common man for which he is now renowned.

The diaries themselves are earnest, factual accounts of the movement. Stirring portraits of key figures in the Union are interspersed with sketches and woodcuts of villagers going about their everyday pursuits before staging covert meetings by moonlight.

The Seagull Foundation for the Arts has reprinted a version of the original 1989 Tebhaga edition for the exhibition. The Tea Garden Journal, meanwhile, is being made available for the first time to the public. While a portion of its art works are marred by water stains and mould marks, this journal is perhaps the most evocative of the two, as it takes a freer form than the strict diary mode of Tebhaga, and ends with a poignant series of portraits ~ both textual and artistic ~ of the sharecroppers involved in the movement.

While Tebhaga and The Tea Garden Journal cast light on Hore’s formative years as a young artist, My Concept of Art ~ also available from the Seagull Foundation for the Arts ~ provides an over-arching account of the artist’s life and attitude towards his work.

An autobiographical and philosophical work written in 1991, My Concept of Art is illustrated and enlivened with pen sketches from throughout Hore’s working life.

The book takes us from the time when, at six-years-old, Hore ‘forgets to eat and loses all track of time’ while making his first work of art ~ a model of a seaplane ~ to the picture of the elderly artist living a simple life in Shantiniketan. By this time, Hore has formulated his concept of ‘wounds’, and his art is preoccupied with, in his words: ‘an endless investigation of this same subject’. He writes in My Concept of Art: “The ruts left on the road by wheels, the cut from the axe on the side of the tree, the injuries on the human body left by weapons ~ to my eyes, they all appeared to be wounds.”

The exhibition’s ground floor is alive with Hore’s sculptures, created during this later period of his life. The bronzes displayed are rarely larger than a couple of hand-spans in length and height. Scraps of metal seem to have been hammered, contorted, and twisted into the likeness of dogs, goats, hunched-over old men and children caught mid-play.

Ribs protrude while skeletal faces implore the viewer to stop and become transfixed. These forms, for their lack of realism, could be called crude, and yet in Hore’s hands they prove arresting in their brute expressionism. Hore’s concept of ‘wounds’ is manifest in these sculptures ~ not in the literal form, but as injuries, both emotional and physical, dealt out by poverty, hunger and malnutrition.

By bringing out these new and old editions of Hore’s journals alongside an exhibition of his work, The Seagull Foundation for the Arts has given both lovers of Hore’s work and new initiates the chance to delve deeper into the mind and work of one of twentieth century Bengal’s great artists and humanists. While it is more than possible to gain a profound appreciation of the artist’s work without knowledge of the surrounding political context, or of the artist’s struggle with his own artistic and social commitments, there is perhaps an added level of empathy to be gained through a wider knowledge of Hore’s subject matter. If so, Hore’s journals and books become essential reading, for as Hore says himself in My Concept of Art: “The ulterior goal of a work of art may well be the creation of beauty, but what defines beauty? It is empathy that elevates the vessel by adding beauty.”