I so wished to pontificate and be viewed by the ecclesiastical authority as the indomitable challenge. One that could not be conveniently bogged down. The iconoclast has always been a quick success. Standing on a parallel pulpit, he is someone who has had an easy audience. While placating the enraged religious sensibilities, the heathen in him makes him appear as the hero of the age. The profane Crucifixion widen his halo and each time that he utters an idea, his worship spreads far and wide.
It isn’t God that the true believers of my age adore and shower faith on. They do so to his semblance whose necks they wreathe each time they enter the temples, mosques and the synagogues. Tethered to that finite universe of futility, the semblance keeps perambulating in a wilderness where believing in all that is available to the senses is the rigid norm.
What does then false religion mean in any given age? The false religion of all ages is true religion itself. Hence the attack on a living faith or the historiography of another that vanished long ago should be careful enough. What is being attacked or documented isn’t a system but a belief that preexisted and will always precede these attempts. This belief is one that is continuing. It makes us believe in either believing or not believing. One can analyse a faith only to be aware of all that lies beneath one’s own being. Writing this, I am vindicated of my faith in the right to believe that belief is nothing except a very important decision we take each passing moment of our lives. Believe in believing -you are pious in the eyes of the believer. Refuse to believe- you are a star!
Can then one dream of being a star and adorn the skies? I say yes..always. The example of the pontificating iconoclasts in there before us. Pulpits wait. They should not be left waiting for long!
The world of languages fascinates me. Given a chance to fulfil a wish, I would jump at mastering as many languages as possible. It is one of my earnest desires. Thankfully my career as a student of Sociology and Social Anthropology does not come in the way. For having a way with languages is considered to be an added qualification in this branch of social science. The level of fascination is so high that on meeting new people, I make all direct and indirect attempts to find out the number of languages they know. People with multilingual abilities impress me so much. I must confess of a sense of envy that crops up in the subconscious.
So far I have been a slightly decent sample of the ‘rolling stone’ variety with a little moss gathered here and there in my brain. My efforts directed towards learning languages have met a mixed fate. Some were disasters, some weren’t as disappointing.
While in college, I enrolled for a year-long part-time certificate programme in French. I passed easily. Basking in the little glories of ‘bonjour’, ‘comment ca va?’, ‘je suis desolee’ and several verb-forms, I enrolled for a diploma in the following year. Things had changed by that time. My attendance at the lectures declined because of my participation in everything else that college and hostel life had to offer.The French syllabus suddenly appeared monstrous to me as the number of lessons had shot up. I remember that my examiner at the viva voce examination asked me to describe to her ‘an imaginary stay at a hotel in France’. I would definitely not like to talk about the look that dawned on her face as soon as I shook my lips. It was clear that she tried her best to find some meaning in the nonsense that I had tried faffing up. Thanks to her strict marking that the French train I rode for those two years came to a screeching hault. It still stands at the same station and waits for a green signal from my side. It has been over ten years now and I have no idea of when and how will my ‘rendezvous’ avec ‘le langue Francais’ resume?
Urdu and Arabic
The experiences of learning French kept me mum for another few years till I finished my masters. The fieldwork for my Ph.D. research
began in 2006 where it was essential for me to learn the language that my respondents used. During the course of my interactions with the members of the Jamaat in Delhi and in Uttar Pradesh, I had to take up learning Urdu with a fresh zeal. This time I was sincere with the classes and made the best out of my year-long association with the masters. Thanks to this attentive phase as it enabled me to comfortably read, write and speak Urdu. I did a large part of my year long fieldwork at a madrasa in Azamgarh where I made many friends. One of the senior Maulanas here was extremely kind and generously helped me polish my Urdu. Satisfied with the progress I made, he gave me around a dozen intensive classes in preliminary Arabic. I could finish a primer with him in those classes. Sincere gratitude to his support and guidance. He made the subject so engaging and I was the most influenced by the method of his teaching. He continuously worked with me to dispel the notion that the language of the holy Quran is tough to understand and learn. He did make it clear by the end of my fieldwork that Arabic could be learnt as easily as any other foreign language.
Having finished fieldwork, I came back to the university. I could now fluently read Urdu newspapers and could use the literature that I had collected for my thesis. I got enrolled for a course in Arabic which was hugely helpful in advancing the basic knowledge I had received from the Maulana. I found Arabic to be quite like Sanskrit in its structure and syntax. The rules of person, tense and number are very similar in both the languages . There are similar verb forms and combinations to be memorised. Arabic surely isn’t that difficult a language to learn as it might initially sound.
One of the most fascinating aspects of university life is that it is a platform where people from diverse cultural and linguistic backgrounds get a chance to intermingle. Numerous ideas, varieties of knowledge systems interact and are discussed and shared. Each time that I listen to my friends using their own language, the linguistic lust gets ignited in me. I quickly add to my kitty some of the interesting sounds from their conversation with a hope that there would be a day when this kitty shall be useful. 😛
Another occasion that triggers the madness is when I watch a film in any of these languages. The wish to learn Bangla was at its peak when a friend gave me a DVD of Ritwik Ghatak’s classic films. While admiring his genius in films like Meghe Dhaake Taara, Naagrik, Baari Theke Paaliye and Jukti Gappo Tarko, I noticed that I was for a brief while intent on learning the Bengali language. Thankfully I did not enrol anywhere and continued paying attention to the work I was supposed to be doing. A similar week-long Marathi phase passed not so long ago. That week was all about the Lavani and Nautanki videos on Youtube.
The latest one to have smitten me is Tamil. The craving began a couple of days back when I watched Mani Ratnam‘s Iruvar once again. Iruvar is a brilliant film that presents a fictionalised account of the friendship and the political rivalry between the cine-political personalities from the south Indian state of Tamil Nadu- MG Ramachandran and KM Karunanidhi. Snippets from the Dravidian movement find interesting space in the film. It bespeaks of the power that cinema and poetry can play in electoral politics. The characters of the playwright politician (played by Prakash Raj) and that of the Tamil cine star (played by Mohanlal) are amazingly portrayed. Powerful poetry rules the film from its’ beginning till the end. This unending appreciation for Iruvar is only to slyly mention to the reader that Tamil has made it to my list too!
For this mega project of mine (clearly I haven’t done enough for it) inspiration isn’t lacking. The Indian Prime Minister Mr P V Narasimharao’s mother tongue was Telugu and he had an excellent grasp on Marathi. In addition to eight other Indian languages, he spoke English, German, Persian, Arabic, French, Spanish, Greek and Latin. Thinking of him and the others of his stature thrills me no end!
This is to end by saying that dreams and aspirations are integral life processes. They lead mostly into the domain of the impossible. They at times stand for the best and the worst in us. It can be fruitful to ponder over the dreams that recur. And yes! dreams alone do not and cannot mean much until and unless intelligently pursued!
The corridor of my life welcomes this unsung tune every now and then. The playful child calls on when invited, plays and runs around. Her giggles slip in my room through the closed door. She peeps at my naked being often through the window and vanishes even before I begin to think of the pleasant intrusion. Clad in lives I have never lived, I swiftly run for the door. The glitch of the latch alerts the world and the child runs away. A vacuous alley then stares at me. Latching the door back, I shut myself in and begin to undress. The giggles resume. My hat goes off and the games ensue. With the shirt off, a complete orchestra begins to play. By the time I am nude, the crescendo is reached.
I quietly wear a life again. To catch a glimpse of the camaraderie, I tread carefully to the door. The orchestra pauses, the running around slows down. I oil the latches, twist them open without making the slightest sound and look out. Nothing ever happened. Grumbling and swearing in disgust, I take a walk till one end of the corridor only to be drowned in a fragrance that has never repeated itself. The floral sensual treat is her only trace that I have ever been able to hunt down. Unbuttoning myself on the way back, I come running to the room, pick up a pen to make a note of the nostalgic, pleasant smell. Alas! all of it evaporates by the time I turn a fresh leaf in my red notebook.
In the depths of the dreamy slumbers I remain and the games in the corridor go on. Dolls are caressed, opponents are chased, races are won. Instruments are played and whistles are blown. The mini tournament decorates the canvas of my being. I so desire to be a part of it. Avenues that I own refuse to invite me. Like obedient slaves who have no sense of any endearing attachment for their master, I am always kept at bay. “You will be served in time Sir!” they tell me sternly. The moments of our festivities never coincide. Singing to myself and dancing to tunes others have composed, my days pass by. Wish I could dance to tunes themselves. Tunes which are neither mine nor your nor his nor her. The privileges of my corridors make me jealous.
May be it is the nakedness I wear all the time as the basic minimum that scares and shies her away. Have no sense then, of how to successfully peel this nudity off the materiality of my being.
Aren’t we unique as humans in being able to irritate and annoy our fellow beings? Well. Let’s think of the other beings residing this planet. Won’t you quickly conclude that none of them can accomplish the task as perfectly as we do. Almost on an everyday basis, we grab all the opportunities to hone this prized skill. How ardent a follower of the idiom “Practice makes a man perfect” all of us seem to be.
Don’t be scared though. I am just an average performer. Not a greatly annoying person, I think. Some others I know are definitely way ahead and can be called chart busters. In spite of this semi correct self assessment of my self, I do at times suffer from a feeling of being wronged. Let me take you through a quick detour of my skill set. On a personal level, I am sure that the top slot can very well be mine. One impediment in the path of my celebrity hood is that I have not garnered enough public attention so far. The day I succeed in having that, the top slot can very well be mine.
Anyway, for the time being you be the judge. Let me know if I am the one who has what it takes to win the race? Would be nice to have a sincere thought from you about this.Any suggestions about how to be a chart buster are most welcome. I would seriously include that in my ‘to do’ list.
1. In the Driver’s Seat-
Be it a friendly conversation, a debate or an online chat, if you have committed the misdemeanor of pinging me, please beware. At times it might happen that for every ten words you speak or type, I respond with thirty from my side. Unless strongly rebuked or politely pointed to, I can go on till the point you either run away saying “Ok..we will meet again” or walk away quietly saying “Gotta go…see you!!”. In fact, I have seen some panting and heaving a sigh of relief once they have walked a certain distance after the torture.
2. Majnu’s Dress-
I know so well about dressing correctly for an occasion. Have been to a missionary school which was extremely particular about our uniform, the tie and the polished shoes. I used to be perfectly dressed all the time and was never reprimanded for it. Once out of school, I never looked back. I choose all the nonsense for my clothes. Looking at myself, I have realized very well that I am a failure in as far as inculcating a proper dressing sense is concerned. I have actually done wonders at some parties and formal functions. I also know that I have traversed a path from where I can’t go back unless I attend some stupid capsule course that combines body language/ personality development classes. The best part – I am often the best dressed when I spend the entire day alone in my room. Can you beat this?
3. Plans that never work-
My friends (some of them definitely know it so well) I think are done with me about this. None of the plans I ever make were to succeed if I was the one to execute them. I have gone for trips, movies and local excursions with friends and most of them begin with a typical scene where all of them curse me for being late, being unsure, being over/under prepared, being stupid or better still being ill-dressed!
4. Been there done that–
I have not been anywhere and have not done anything. Yet I listen to people and friends with that obviously fake expression on my face. So much so that the narrator often is left thoroughly sorry to have raised a matter for conversation with me. I cannot recall any story that any of my ‘not so close’ friends have narrated to me. I have paid sincere attention to….well… hardly any of them. When it comes to the smallest detail of any vague thing that I have done or an absolutely meager feat that I have achieved, I act too smart and make friends listen to it all.
Artists I love, authors I have read, songs I listen to, films I have seen, stories I know of are the best ones. Period..Everything else that has not made it to my list is mediocre. Quick to judge, write off (and depending on the closeness with the friend) quick to make fun of is my trait. I sparingly do this, but when I do so, I really can do so. Thanks to my friends who have always ignored this madness I am so capable of unleashing. It is a hard-earned expertise and had to make to the top five.
Well there are a few more. I hope this should suffice for the day. Before you begin to abhor this loud and proud exhibition, I should say “its OK…its a part of being human”.