OF THE LAST MUGHAL AND GREATNESS

There are times when you encounter art, artisans, arti-ness and a subjugating feeling of acute dwarfness overpowers you?
Like when you are sitting a bloating, gloating Indian for all purposes on paper, and along comes a William Dalrymple, a Scottish enamoured by the great city of Delhi (he compares the history, the culture and the aura with that of Constantinople and Cairo) and more so, by the little remembered (No, the Taj Mahal doesn't count as Mughal-only memory) House of Timur and it's descendants.

The Last Mughal who Suraj thought was Aurangzeb, who you might not remember either, who my grandmum remembered as 'The Great Bahadur Shah'. Bahadur Shah Zafar - The Last Mughal. Great? As the ripe and feeble octagenerian, greatness of strategy and strenght of conviction and mind was the last thing that could be attributed to the old and fragile man. He remains buried with a less-than-monumental architectural excuse remembering his death and inhaling his forgotten, decaying life in Burma.

Of the greatness of the 1857 Mutiny that many remember as the first armed assault against the East India Company for freedom from colonisation and an implicit incarceration. But which for all its misconstrued greatness remained a religious revolt. An initial pre-dominant Hindu army making its way to the great city of Delhi, seeking the hollow blessings of a puppet Mohameddan king (Bahadur Shah Zafar), and rising in revolt to protest against the cartridges rubbed with cow and pig fat. The revolution that killed every British man, woman and child in sight, that resisted the British army for 4 months, that starved and strived and put up a worthy fight, that plundered the city of its riches and its dignity, that disrespected the very idea of a great Mughal king. The revolution that started swaying dangerously towards becoming an out-and-out Jihadi revolution.

But the one thing that was great about the Last Mughal was his ability to recognise and regard the Hindu-Muslim unity, and to persevere to retain that very unity to stand up against the kafirs - the British. An eighty year old man lost in the chaos about him, increasingly aware of the dying line of Timur, seeking solace in his poetry, his beautiful verse, struggling but only so feebly to restore the dynasty that ruled Hindoostan for more than three centuries.

But he failed. He could not stem the depradation, the plundering, the carnage about him. Great then? Broken and weak when the British finally conquered the city and reversed the tables. The depradation, plundering and carnage continued. But under a different army, a different colour. No, there was nothing great about the Last Mughal, the 1857 Mutiny or its rapacious and rambunctious armies.

The only greatness is displayed by Dalrymple himself. For falling in love with the city of Delhi, the story of the Mughals and their white counterparts. For investing time and effort, blood and sweat to go through dying accounts of the 1857 Mutiny and to reconstruct the horrors, the helplessness and the history. For being not an Indian and feeling like one, for being but a Scottish and proud as one, for being a true Sufi artist and only loving. Greatness? That is William Dalrymple.

BOOKWORMING

It's been long time post coming. And all relevance of movie-reviewing (refer last post) having been lost, I shall continue with opinionating (yes, yes I invent words) on the plethora of books I have read of late.

First I finished Cat and Mouse by Gunter Grass. He is an artist of detail, with something as seemingly inconsequential as a vulgar Adam's apple being likened to a sly, stealthy game of....Cat and Mouse! Unfocussed on the story-telling, Grass recounts events. And whether or not one is supposed to read between the lines can be removed to discretion because reading this work is all about translating. From powerful words to vivid pictures.

Then I started and finished not one, but two Harry Potters (I remain an unabashed fan). Yes, The Deathly Hallows and The Half-Blood Prince (again). In fact I have read those two so many times over the past month that my sibling and I have been reduced to discussing the loopholes (oh and they are a few!!) in the plot in excruciating detail. For one, why do the ruddy wizards mess up when donning muggle clothes when clearly that's what you are wearing often enough throughout your school life in Hogwarts? Or maybe I have succumbed to the bad habit of mixing books with movies. Maybe.
For two (SPOILER ALERT) why o why does Narcissa Malfoy lie to Voldemort that Harry is dead. I mean if it was the victory celebration that would have taken her to the Hogwarts grounds, that would have happened anyway had she betrayed his thumping heartbeat. Voldemort wouldn't have waited long to kill poor, defenseless Harry. Unless Narcissa knew the curse would rebound. Did she?

Ramblings apart, I continued with Snow by Orhan Pamuk. Before this I had read My Name is Red by the same author and the deviation from the ornate style that he adopts in that is strikingly obvious. But I liked Snow very, very much. They geometry the protagonist discovers in every unique snowflake is confirmed almost immediately to an emotion, a phase he himself is experiencing with a sensitive (yet often aggressive) description. And the story telling is convincing; based in Kars, Turkey inhabited by the much glamourised religious fanatics, the staunch liberals who disavow all such impulses, and the ones stuck in between.

Then the following week I completed The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan and The Squabble by Nikolai Gogol. The Bonesetter's Daughter was a decent read. Compelling and swift. I found the descriptions weak, yet the story of Chinese immigrants in The U.S. was again, cogent.

However, my favourite was Gogol. He is an indiscriminate artist of description. Vivid detailing that infuses electric life into the most inanimate objects. Lovely. Although I was detached from my enthusiastic attraction for a moment when Gogol (like Kundera and Pamuk) insisted on connecting the story to his self , by introducing networks with the characters or some such (Kundera does it in The Unbearable Lightness of Being and justifies it (most implicitly) by announcing kitsch as the foundation of any and every art.) But I grew to understand the cardinal nature of story-telling. Oh well, I suppose I will live.

But seriously, Gogol comes with a golden star and three smiley faces.
:):):)

TAGONOMICS

3 books

1. The adventures of Peter Pan, unabridged and illustrated.
Auyon claims it is very rare. ~!@##$%#&_)(!!
Cobainess – ambalika quotes:
‘When there's a smile in your heart,
There's no better time to start.’

2. Catch 22 – current read, ‘Yossarian wanted to live forever or die in the attempt.’
That kills me! – Gagan, you know exactly what I mean ;-)

3. My name is Red - intended read.
A Nobel Prize can do wonders to your readership…right Jhelum??

3 albums

Someone sagacious once said ‘Patience is a virtue.’ And those two startingly scarlet horns sticking out of my BIG hair ensure that I cosciously condemn such generalisations [Aaaaah generalisations…]
Can seldom get through an entire album unless it is assorted stuff.
If it’s one of those songs that ‘will pick up’ then you better have some pretty smooth advertising because if I do not like the beginning, I will probably not get to the end.
But 3 songs?? That I can answer…

1. ‘Let me take you down coz I’m going to strawberry fields…’
Sprinting through my head at breakneck speed. With the wind in my (BIG) hair…

2. The American baby intro[Dave Matthews] – murderous!

3. ‘This is goodbye.’
Porcelain[Moby] – journeying ;-)

3 movies

1. American Beauty – remember that polythene bag that catches the light breeze and just prances about?

2. Monsoon Wedding – I miss home ;-(

3. Lost in Translation – coming soon to a blog near you.

3 thoughts

1. I love reminiscing. EVERYTHING is funny in retrospect.

2. Google is simply brilliant. And sounds uncannily like ‘googly’.

3. Being tagged [highly, higly consciously FYI] lets me pretend that I’m rich and famous and combat those rapid fires. Give me what you got you paparazzi you!!


And I tag myself ;-)

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

I read The importance of being Earnest and made the fatal mistake of succumbing to stereotypes. Therefore when I picked up The picture of Dorian Gray, I was: a) not expecting a novel. b) not expecting a morbid novel. and c) not expecting to be blown away...so after I read the book, I got thinking...
Imagine a portrait which bears your conscience...which bears the consequences of every deed that warrants a judgment in your life. As long as it is relegated to the recesses of your soul, one can sleep relatively easy knowing that one does have another day to purge his soul...a temporary amnesia or abstinence even...
But a visual conscience?? When every action's reaction adds that extra wrinkle to your face, that superfluous tell-tale meandering line on your visage that screams of stolen money, or a nasty remark. I believe the impact on a person's character would be tremendous which is why the book is powerful. We feel a 'prick' in our conscience when we mentally analyse the morality of an unjust action, an unfair thought, a heretic idea. But maybe it is just that, a 'prick'. To physically feel the impact of our actions perhaps our conscience has to be removed from our self, and scrutinised with our own two eyes. In conclusion however, I do believe that very few of us actually have the strength to withstand the decay of our moral beings unfolding painfully before ourselves. which is why unfortunately, or fortunately, the book will, or should, always remain fiction.