Month: January 2017

Fan Fiction vs Canon

This is my review of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child by JK Rowling. Well, the script at least, I haven’t had the good fortune of seeing the play live yet. Someday…

I’ll start off with a spoiler-free review first:

This is a next-gen story, focusing on Harry & Ginny’s youngest son, Albus Severus Potter. If you recall, the epilogue of Deathly Hallows saw young Albus was worrying that he’d be sorted into Slytherin. Well, he is! This, of course, is not a good thing to happen in the Potter-Weasley clan. Cue family drama and rebellious escapades.

What I found exceptionally interesting was the short length and lack of narrative. Instead of a ginormous 900-page tome, we get a one hour long script. Dumbledore can no longer ‘twinkle wisely’; for a writer like JKR, who relies on the generous use of adverbs (sometimes entirely too many!), this had to have been a huge limitation. The result is a deftly paced self-contained plot, with much more prosaic themes.

She can’t resist her usual comedy though, and we get some entertaining lines from Ron and Scorpius Malfoy. In all, this would make for a very interesting TV show. The relationship between Harry and Albus is realistic and (luckily) free of the overdone teenage angst that made The Order of the Phoenix such a drag.

Funnily enough, JKR has stuck to many plot points that are widely accepted amongst the fanfiction community- thus making them canon!

I’d give this a 4.5/5, because it is a bite-size chunk of nostalgia with a satisfying plot.

Now for some minor spoilers:

Once again, an important theme is that one’s choices are more important than anything else. Albus and Scorpius are Slytherins, and they’re undoubtedly the heroes of the story.

There is a generous amount of time travel in the story, enough to remind me of the wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey approach of Doctor Who. Some of the jumps are not very convincingly explained, but, hey, it’s fantasy.

 

Another shoutout to fan fiction is the Scorpius+Rose pairing that is much beloved by the HPFF community.

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Between the epic and the everyday

The book, Theatres of Democracy, by Shiv Visvanathan, edited by Chandan Gowda, is an anthology of the best articles written by the giant among sociologists in India today. Shiv Visvanathan is a much sought after writer for Dailies and Magazines, commenting on sparrows, protest marches and what not. His penmanship is well known, what with his observations of the mundane and stellar evoking reaction from intellectuals, politicians, common citizens alike.

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The genius of the essays lay not in the essays themselves, but in the wholesome tapestry they make, of the world, and India in particular. Most of his essays mock at our realities, subtly, definitely, but without sting. For instance –

A stray dog running across the Republic Day parade seemed more symbolic of freedom than all the panoply of tanks and soldiers. (The Red For Ritual)

But, as a sociologist, he does not refrain from speaking the truth without dressing it up either. For instance –

Jayalalitha is the most Hobbesian figure in Indian politics, the sovereign as empress, the politician as a cult figure… As the cult of Jayalalitha engulfs Tamil Nadu, she exudes a power, contemptuous of citizenship. She reveals the way in which democracy as a cult becomes… dangerous. (The Cult of Jayalalitha)

..Political theory in India has lost its moorings and become utterly flat-footed vis-a-vis globalization… The real challenge before us is to invent a new lifeworld for politics to understand riots, disasters, droughts, waste, genocide and hospitality. (The Failure of Political Theory)

The essays are political, but unburdened by any need to be partisan. They border on the prophetic, but are bound by the limits set by the intellectual, researcher, and teacher.

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The range of subjects that the 91 essays touch is vast; individuals, political parties, public policy, our constitution, the federal system, dissent, nationalism, science, sports, media, are some of the stars that dot the galaxy of his essays, which provide one with an additional ray of light to capture the beauty and madness of contemporary times with.

But, the brilliance and wit are sometimes too short and too strong when he talks about the past, leaving the reader to fall back on false nostalgia, such as when he describes the Middle Class, currently abundantly corruptible. Surely he’s being overly romantic? Also, some of the essays did not look the reader in the eye, when they abandoned reasoned argument by subsiding instead under the weight of emotion (like when discussing Modi, who he has not forgotten or forgiven for whatever transpired in Gujarat, and whose ‘cult’ he finds inimical to democracy). Where did the academic go?

In a post-truth society, his academic and friendly voice is a salve to understand and analyze the dialectics of the world we live in. I had said in the beginning of the review that it’s not the essays themselves that make the book powerful, it is in the way they are bound together; for us to ultimately piece together the fact that we live in a mindless and ritualistic world that blossoms with life nevertheless.

Read it recklessly, as it may please you, leafing through the essays that you fancy. Or read it methodically, page to page, with a pencil to underline what fascinates and engages you. To a person who enjoys analyzing contemporary times with nuance, this book is a gift from a commentator par excellence.

3/5

Little England

This is a review of The Colour of Gold, by Gita Aravamudan, published by HarperCollins. It’s a work of fiction centered around the accidental death of an Anglo-Indian in a quiet little mining town.

I was motivated to read it solely because it features my hometown, Kolar Gold Fields. But I was met with disappointment. The descriptions of the town are remarkable but also uninspiring. Remarkable, because this is a first, uninspiring because I failed to relate to the literature even though I have lived in the places that are described.

The greed and human cost of gold mining is brought out in the first chapter. But soon, that is left behind for some mystical sights of the ghost of Ponni, from 1903, that Sheila sees in 2003 and that Arati sees in 1953. The plot of the novel surrounds Ponni, who was an Indian girl that a top British officer at the mines sires and has three children with. He dies in the mine and the children are cruelly separated from Ponni by the wife of the Englishman. The story (actually a set of disconnected stories) is about how his great-great-grand children trace their family trees back to the love affair between him and Ponni. The fiction is okay at best. It is more like a story meant for a tabloid. With a weak plot, and too many characters that remained undeveloped, it ultimately is but a damp squib mystery. The murder/accident of the Anglo-Indian is mentioned in the first couple of chapters, relegated to the backdrop after that and easily forgotten in the interest of other trivia, until the very end when we’re reminded of it again, only to be met with a laughably arbitrary climax. The saving grace was Ponni’s story, but even that was unexciting when it took shelter under clich√©d romances.

The literature is of a basic kind, rendering it to be a half day read. I read it because it was given by the writer to my father, an engineer at the mine when it was operating. My father’s markings on the margins of the book tell me that many of the details described in the book resemble the truth, such as the splendor of the clubs, libraries, parties, and the close knit community that was once called ‘Little England’. The open affection that the people in this township felt for the British, combined with the lingering British customs, has also been brought out in the book.

Part of the book is based on life in KGF in 2003, a year after mines in KGF were declared closed. There was a fair amount of thievery and crime in the place, owing to unenforced law and order and the vast amount of unguarded wealth of the mines. Colour of Gold, though, slips into being an exercise in drawing up a family tree, with scant amount of thrill and drama that a mystery novel ought to have. At least pictures from the bygone era could have saved the book. Why, I even think it would have fared better if had been a coffee table book with the well researched descriptions of the city from the book.

If you’ve lived in a mining town and enjoy tracing family trees, you might tolerate the book. Sadly, the colour of gold is all the book can be, not gold. 1.5/5.

Bhagat Singh, the atheist

This is a comment on the essay, Why I am an Atheist, originally written by Bhagat Singh in Gurmukhi. It was translated to Urdu/Persian script by Maqsood Sadiq, and from Urdu to English by Hasan. It can be read at marxists.org.

Bhagat Singh, a revolutionary socialist* in British India, was the man that Bose said was the symbol of the new awakening among the youth. He was a luminaire extraordinaire in the freedom struggle, and he was all of 24 years old when he gave his life to his muse, liberty.

In his book/essay, Why I am an Atheist, he argues that he’s not an atheist because he’s vain or proud, because he thinks he’s superior or equivalent to God, no. “I need no opiate to meet my end. I am a realistic man. I want to overpower this tendency in me with the help of Reason.” He believed and wrote, thus, that a mere belief in God must be tempered with reason or suffer criticism. Furthermore, he argues, as a Marxian, that religion is the opium of the masses, hope of the hopeless. He sees religion as a curse to the freedom struggle. He calls scriptures fairy tales and expresses irritation that they are considered sacred and factual. He concludes by saying that religion is a creation of the powerful, to continue to control and exploit a section of the society, for generations.

He was often told that as a proud and vain man, he will submit himself before the Almighty when his time comes to a close. Yet, in defiance of the naysayers and to once and for all argue against them, he wrote the essay while he was in jail, awaiting the noose (having been convicted and punished to death for the assassination of a British officer), for his country, with conviction that his life was well lived and with fervent desire to leave behind as much of the spirit of the struggle as he could.

He pours his anger and annoyance into the essay, bemused and simultaneously mad at the inexplicable acceptance and resignation of the Indian people in the face of exploitation, from other Indians and from the British. The urgency of his tone is palpable as he exhorts his countrymen to rise and claim what is rightfully theirs.

I tell you that the British rule is not there because God willed it but for the reason that we lack the will and courage to oppose it. Not that they are keeping us under subjugation with the consent of God, but it is with the force of guns and rifles, bombs and bullets, police and militia, and above all because of our apathy that they are successfully committing the most deplorable sin, that is, the exploitation of one nation by another. Where is God? What is He doing? Is He getting a diseased pleasure out of it? A Nero! A Genghis Khan! Down with Him!

The essay is relevant today and will remain so forever. Criticise, question, analyse, he said. (Today, if you don’t agree quickly enough, you’re slaughtered by self styled ‘nationalists’.)

You go against popular feelings; you criticise a hero, a great man who is generally believed to be above criticism. What happens? No one will answer your arguments in a rational way; rather you will be considered vainglorious. Its reason is mental insipidity. Merciless criticism and independent thinking are the two necessary traits of revolutionary thinking. As Mahatmaji is great, he is above criticism; as he has risen above, all that he says in the field of politics, religion, Ethics is right. You agree or not, it is binding upon you to take it as truth. This is not constructive thinking. We do not take a leap forward; we go many steps back.

This is a read that may be best enjoyed by the unprejudiced mind, one that is curious about the thoughts of the men that created the ground for debate and discourse in our polity. Try not to look for a confrontation with his arguments, and try not to profusely agree with him, and you might come away with something worthwhile. Reason.

Are we all the same in our differences?

This is my review of Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. SD already reviewed this one here, and clearly she did a brilliant job of selling it.

I chose to review it again because I saw it in a very different way (a view from the other side, maybe?). Anyway, I’ll keep this short.

This is the story of Ifemelu, a college student in Nigeria. Her peers, and society at large, is quite obsessed with emigration. They apply for visas, travel abroad, and immerse themselves in Western culture. But as the daughter of a middle-class family, Ifemelu has no opportunity to travel and feels left out. When her education is disrupted once too many times due to administrative troubles, she applies to college in the USA.

The rest of the book is about Ifemelu leaving her family and boyfriend Obinze in Nigeria to move West in search of a ‘better life’. Obinze himself moves to the UK a couple of years later. They have very different experiences, and grow closer (and apart) as a result.

To me, this was not a romance at all. Most of the story focuses on how Ifemelu builds a life for herself in the USA, beginning with illegal employment.¬†Eventually, she becomes a true ‘Americanah’. She writes a blog, a snarky account of the cultural differences between Africans, African-Americans, and white Americans.

Many parts of the story were relatable; maybe some aspects of foreignness are shared by anyone outside their home country. The panic and frustration when someone (Uber drivers, doctors, your landlord) cannot understand your accent. The realization that your skin colour will always be the main-sometimes only- talking point between you and Them. The infinite small differences that those sitcoms and novels never mentioned. The fragility of your connections with friends and family back home- so easily snapped when things get hard.

My only issue with this book is that it is pretentious. Everyone in the book is vaguely self absorbed, and Ifemelu is convinced of her superiority both in America and Nigeria. Despite all her independence and resourcefulness, she does need (and gets!) help from friends and family, but does not seem to acknowledge that. The emotions I listed in the previous paragraphs aren’t unique to those overseas, they can, and are, experienced by any adult in a heterogeneous society.

In conclusion, I (also) give this book a 4/5.