In Tolerance with Intolerance

“Sedition case filed against Aamir Khan over intolerance remark, claims he tried to divide India.”

“Intolerance Row: Fans To Boycott Shah Rukh Khan and Aamir Khan Films!”

“Snapdeal disassociates itself from Aamir Khan's comments on intolerance.”

For the past two days, these headlines have been cramming my TV screen, and honestly, I’m kind of sick of it. Aamir Khan is wrong. India, in fact, is the most tolerant country. It tolerates corruption, ridicule, bullshit, debauchery and frivolity. However, the only thing India is intolerant of, is logic and rationality.

I’m not someone who likes to share my so-called opinion just because the rest of the population is doing so. But this issue has really gone out of control. Let’s rewind to the initiation point of this 

controversy, shall we?

“When I chat with Kiran at home, she says, ‘Should we move out of India?’ That’s a disastrous and big statement for Kiran to make. She fears for her child. She fears what the atmosphere around us will be. She feels scared to open the newspapers every day.”

First of all, read the whole statement properly. If the rational side of your brain has been corroded by ignorance, then let me break it down to you in a simple way: all Aamir Khan meant was that his wife, who, by the way, is one of the most sensible filmmakers of our country, is worried about their child, and feels that maybe they should move out of India to provide a more secure future to their little boy. But, BUT, Aamir himself found this thought of Kiran’s appalling; which totally negates all the criticism being splashed at him.

Secondly, what gives the media or anyone else the right to protest against a decision made by two parents? What gives them the right to poke their long, jobless noses into a matter that is totally private? If tomorrow they do decide to move out of the country, nobody has the authority to stop them.

Thirdly, maybe it was a mistake on Aamir’s part to make such a comment without realizing how viral it would get considering his stature as a star, and our country’s preoccupation with blowing things out of proportion. But did the media just have to dwindle this to the level of cheap journalism?

Aamir Khan’s statement relating to his wife’s concerns towards their child was turned into a ridiculous game of Chinese Whisper. This simply proves that the world basically needs something, just anything, to talk about. A few days back it was people changing their Facebook profile pictures to show “support” towards those killed and massacred in Paris, Syria, Beirut, Japan, and so many more countries whose name didn’t make it to the headlines. Now it’s the whole Khan being anti-national hoopla; and tomorrow it will be something else. The media needs its fodder, and unfortunately we provide it with the exact amount, with a cherry on top.

Aamir Khan is one of the most socially aware actors of Bollywood. He not only makes movies that voice out social issues, but has also been associated with shows and campaigns that try to make our country a better place to live in. Yes, he charges bucket-loads of money for it. Why shouldn’t he? It’s his name and face that drives the audience to listen to him. He’s doing his job, and getting paid for it. I see nothing wrong in that. Please stop ostracizing someone for absolutely no reason.

Let’s wait till the next petty headline hits the internet and we all paint our walls red (pun indeed intended). 

Rantings of an English Major

A few days back, as I was appeasing a deranged friend of mine while he thought the equations of physics were going to eat him up, and sharing my own agony of the upcoming finals, he snidely remarked, “What are you getting worried about? You’re a student of English Honours. All you guys have to do is study a few poems. That’s so easy!” Knowing better than to argue with a silly, little boy’s ignorance, I laughed and said, “Yes, it’s easy indeed.”

Of course it’s easy. Being a student of English Literature is the easiest thing in the world.

Delving into Beowulf, Paradise Lost, Inferno and Odyssey only to find that they are either 12,000 lines long or are skillfully divided into a dozen books. Oh, and they’re written in dactylic hexameter and iambic pentameter and God-knows-what-efftameter. Your pick.

What’s the difference between a synecdoche and a metonymy, you ask me? I’ll answer that from beyond my grave.

Explain Rhetoric and Prosody? Maybe a few lifetimes later, when I’m reborn as Dryden’s great-great-super great granddaughter.

Enduring hours and mega-hours of lectures on the apparently acute yet crucial difference between Colonialism and Postcolonialism, Modernism and Postmodernism, Classicism and Neoclassicism.

Remembering which plays do Ophelia, Portia, Emilia and Hippolyta belong to. Keeping in mind that Cesario is actually Viola in disguise, who, by the way, is Sebastian’s twin sister. Not to forget people constantly referring to Shakespeare as a ‘novelist’, and claiming that Romeo and Juliet is the best love story they’ve ever read. Try reading his sonnets cryptically dedicated to The Dark Lady and The Fair Youth. Easy breezy.

Deciphering the stubborn mess initiated by Plato and Aristotle, and carried forward by the rebellious Byron and Shelley. Did you think Keats’ romantic poems bear any similarity with Lang Leav’s limericks? Think again.

Rowling’s Harry and John Green’s Hazel are brave, yes. And so were Shaw’s Eliza and Salinger’s Holden.

No, feminism wasn’t portrayed only in Queen and Kahaani; it’s engraved in Plath’s bold revelations and Austen’s subtle sarcasm.  

Fitzgerald knew we’re all drunk on love, Hemingway knew better than to glorify war, and Eliot knew this world is a big waste land.  

Epics, dramas, classics, contemporaries.

Poets, writers, prophets, idealists.

Mark Twain’s American Dream, Chinua Achebe’s African Literature, Toni Morisson’s Slave Narrative.

Salman Rushdie’s Magical Realism, Amitav Ghosh’s Partition Literature, Vijay Tendulkar’s political satires.

Literature is vast. Literature is an ocean. Literature is decades and galaxies of stories and imagination and reality and possibilities compressed and wrapped in the form of a subject; an institution. And another thing Literature is? It’s easy. Easy for those who love it. Easy for those who treasure it and nourish it and worship it and live it.

And the easiest thing of them all? To smile and pretend it’s easy.

I Remember You

Hello, world.

So, my blog has basically been behaving like an angry friend, who is mad at me for being too lazy and ignorant. Honestly, I can’t blame it. Apologies for the long hiatus. SO much has happened, and so much has been happening. I’ve been on the run for so long that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to stay still. Pack, travel, unpack, repeat: this has been my schedule for over 2 months now. I don’t remember the last time I sat down to just mindlessly stare at the ceiling. Here’s a recap of a few of the zillion episodes of my recent daily soap of a life:

Added to my embellished list of travel diaries is now another name: Banaras; a place I’d wanted to visit ever since the love for vintage grew in me. It was glorious. Every bit of it. The ghats, the Banarasi Pan, the kaanch ki choodiyaan, the early morning sunrise, the dingy Banaras ki galiyaan… the hype is worth it, guys. Totally worth it. It was a trip of my soul dipped in jalebi’s syrup and rinsed with sunshine.

I officially got bestowed with the title of a post graduate; of a Masters in English Literature. Yes, the day me and my batchmates had been looking forward to since the summer of 2013 finally grazed us with its presence, and set us free. Convocation ’15 was as surreal as the whole journey preceding and leading up to it. Still can’t believe it happened, but it did, and I'm a mixture of happy and relieved and nostalgic and happy again. 

So much more to talk about, so much more to write about; but my jet-lagged body is preventing my droopy eyes from letting my tired fingers to type any further. I promise to write more, and better, and soon. Promise.

Till we meet again and I write again,

Creative Insanity.

Sillage

And when you finally call,

Moments or seasons or years from now,

And you ask me how I’ve been,

I’ll say I've been fine.

There were nights so dark,

I couldn't see through the maze

To find my way to breathe again.

I was fine.

I remember my voiceless screams,

So that I wouldn’t wake up the nightmares

I had so much difficulty putting to sleep.

I was fine.

The glass on the floor, blurred

With the scars on my wrists

While lying upside down. 

I was fine.

The sweat on my forehead,

The salt from my sunken cheeks,

The taste of blood in my mouth.

I was fine.

Reaching for air and grabbing

The hollow bubble of your memories,

Stinging my pink flakes.

I was fine.  

Choking on my own cough, 

My throat clenching with

The memory of your laughter.

I was fine.

The blames, the fights, the marks,

The letters, the vows, the stars,

The incomplete bucket-list.

I was fine.

Our songs, the broken snow globe,

Our places, the cracked lampshade,

Our secrets, the empty couch.

I was fine.

A child, a man, a shadow,

The person, my person,

Lost, betrayed, gone.

I was fine.

When you ask, I’ll say,

With love and fire in my eyes,

“Thank you for asking,

I've been fine.”

 - Sayantani Sarkar. 

Ashes and Glass

I’m going to keep this pain.

Relish it, rewind it, remember it.

In cold, sweaty nights,

In long, lonely rides.

In rainy, muddy days,

In slippery, twisted ways.

Through the creaks in my eyes,

Drain it, dread it, dream it.

In music lost and stale,

In notes wrinkled and pale.

In ink, black, blue and red,

In the broken corners of my bed.

So, yes, I’m going to keep this pain.

Breathe it, blend it, bleed it.

-         

 -      -             Sayantani Sarkar. 

When I'm Gone

When I’m gone

And long calls don’t invade your phone,

Run to our terrace and sleep under the stars;

I’ll count them with you.

When I’m gone

And the songs we sang

Remind you of me,

Replay the lyrics we fell in love with.

When I’m gone

And there’s no stolen food from your plate,

Keep one dark chocolate aside,

And an extra bottle of Cade.

When I’m gone

And you have awkward conversations,

Fill the silences with your smile,

Like you did when the night was high.

When I’m gone,

Read the yellow letters on the empty bench,

Read the words I could never say,

Read the half-spoken vows and the unfinished promises.

When I’m gone,

And it gets too much for you,

I’ll pray you find new memories,

I’ll pray you find me in you.  

-         When I’m gone,

And the days get black,

I’ll meet you in another world,

And we’ll start from the last goodbye. 

-            

             

                        -   Sayantani Sarkar.

Haunted

Daggers dig

My eyes, my nails, my skin,

Piercing through

The smell you left on me.

Memories bounce

From the scars you had touched,

Gifting marks

Never to leave the empty spaces.

Bleak nights

Your voice echoes from the silent corners,

Dark alleys

Trace your warm breath on my cold sweat.

Stars fall

On the creases of the deserted bed,

Glass shatters

As my lips quiver and whisper your name.

-         -  Sayantani Sarkar.