Kamba Ramayana: Translated from Tamizh by P S Sundaram

"How many things conspired to crown and reward Indra's penance! The beauty of that gem among women; her chastity; my husband's consuming lust; Surpanakha's severed nose; and most of all Dasaratha's promise to his queen that drove those princes to the forest."

-- Mandodari's lament at the fall of her valiant husband Ravana.

"Her breasts, always a burden to her slender waist, swelled. Drunk with joy, she thought one thing but babbled another. Joy surged in her heart and her shoulders suddenly felt her jewels too tight. Her breasts grew damp with dewy drops of sweat and garment loosened and slid low. That stainless model of what a wedded wife should be, gazed at Hanuman, long and dumb, not knowing what to say."

--The sensuous description of Sita when Hanuman, the archetypal Brahmachari, arrives with the news of Ravana's death.

Kamba Ramayana is not too very different from its original acknowledged source: Valmiki Ramayana. But such ornamentation and tongue firmly in cheek-singles put it in a league of its own.

Honestly, it is no match to the austere beauty and tone of Valmiki. While he wrote as Rama's contemporary, firmly keeping the mythical prince human, Kamban, already a bhakta, is half-way into the process of Rama's deification (I guess the process was completed by Tulsidas's time).

Although based on Valmiki, Kamban brings in his own mild twists and turns in the tale. However, what makes his version firmly distinct is the overdose of athishayokti.

Yet, the underlying point is that as a work of fiction, Ramayana is unparalleled, deeply moving and overwhelming. Problem arises when it is sought to be read as history, or worse, god's history.

I get a feeling that the real reason for the enduring charm of Rama and the overarching devotion to him is the sense of vicarious guilt or deep sympathy the tale evokes in its readers. The story of the travails that an essentially good-at-heart prince goes through at a young age due to no fault of his, so evocatively told has soaked the collective psyche (I dare not say "conscience"!) of generations in guilt -- so what if none else but his family was at fault. 

The guilt theme perhaps is also the same in the Jesus narrative. Perhaps Chitrabhanu or Sevanand can hold forth on this better. Malayalees will recognize this enduring but helpless "Oh, what can I do to reduce your suffering?" feeling vis-a-vis Ramapuram Sethumadhavan.

PS: Snap to the climax of  Malayalam movie "Bharatam". Protagonist "Gopi", accused by others of getting his brother killed, breaks into tears  after being consoled by his just-widowed sister-in-law herself. The scene is based on the Bharata-Kaushalya exchanges in Kamba Ramayana following Rama's departure during Bharata's absence

Swamiye Dufferappa...

I had just begun to read "Hindutva and National Renaissance" by the joker Subramanian Swamy, to understand what his problem in life is.

Major blunders (or examples of ignorance or stupidity) and at least one instance of ego-mania in the first 43 of the 300-odd page book put paid to my effort.

He begins selling himself and his organization straight away in the preface. Then, entire paragraphs that he used for self-propagation -- about his sacrifices and single-minded pursuit of his goals -- from the preface are copy pasted into the introduction.

I forgave him for that and continued.

Then, as any Hindutva ruffian worth his salt is wont to do nowadays, he appropriates Gandhi. But how? In one instance he claims that Gandhi's biggest contribution to freedom struggle was that he attracted professionals into it, particularly the legal eagles. Pray someone remind this jerk Gandhi actually opened up the freedom struggle from the clutches of a few urban professionals to the Indian masses in the village and moffusils.

Anyway, I let it go.

He then starts comparing Hindutva (not Hinduism, note the term) to other religions. But of course?! And to prove its superiority, he cites the example of a catholic priest who went in search of the "Ultimate Truth" and ended up at the gates of ... Hold your breath... Satya Sai Baba...

I shrank in embarrassment.

And just when I thought I'll push myself a little more, he dropped a bomb by translating my all-time favorite shloka: Asato ma, sat gamaya.

On page 42, he give his translation. It was likely a typo. But that had me. "...move from untruth to truth, from darkness to light, from MORALITY TO IMMORALITY."

(Dummmmm.... Faints!!!)

Either this A-hole was drunk when he wrote this book, or he has just lost his head, or he is one of the biggest frauds using my religion to meet his ends.

Where's the bloody fireplace? 700 bucks for this decaying lump of Hindutva faeces?

Magnificent Delusions: by Husain Haqqani

An epic tale of lies, unbelievably stupid strategic investments and, of course, deceptions.

Pakistan and the US have been waltzing since 1947, despite lack of harmony or rhythm, based on completely false assumptions and understanding. This is pretty much known. The former Pak ambassador to the US, who was branded traitor by the ISI recently, documents this tale chronologically. And like most subcontinental strategic affairs writers, he just about manages to make the book interesting. Purely because of the subject itself, and definitely not because of his own insights or inputs.

Good read for those into the Indo-US-Pak triangle.

PS: Strangely, the US-Pak dialogue of over six decades came across as more like the Arnab-Rahul interview. The same set of concerns, the same set of evasive answers, the same ludicrous conclusions, and no forward movement.

Sahir, The Romantic Rebel

Sahir Ludhianvi: The People's Poet

-- by Akshay Manwani

"Hindi songs lost their virility after Sahir left." This is what composer Ravi of "Chaudahvin Ka Chand" and "Ae Meri Zohrajabein" fame (Bombay Ravi for Malayalees) told me long back. He was bang on. And, as the author of the book says, there will never be another Sahir Ludhianvi.

Manwani's biography of the poet-lyricist amply backs that stand. It traces his childhood trauma and agonies of the youth, which moulded the egoist and self-made man who would then take on the high & mighty -- in his poetry as well as in real life.

Imagine his gall to lock horns with the sublime S D Burman, when the composer had hit his peak with "Pyaasa". Or breaking ties with Lata. Or

the equally egoistic O P Nayyar. And yet emerging unscathed as the greatest lyricist of all time.

Manwani's research is impressive. And most of the times his grasp of film songs too. For instance, the chapter on Sahir's songs that were diametrically opposite in tone, texture and mood even when they belonged to the same year, really opens up one's eyes. For example, in1957, he wrote the 'anti-patriotic' "Jinhe Naaz Hai Hind Par" for the cynical "Pyasa" and also the vivacious "Ye Desh Hai Veer Jawanon Ka" for "Naya Daur".

Even though a lot of what he has written about Sahir is well known, Manwani embellishes it with some clean writing and an insight or two. At least, he's better than that ridiculous pun-machine Raju Bharathan.

Yet, sometimes Manwani shocks you with his statements and observations.

He says Roshan was a B-grade composer. Utter utter rubbish. Period.

He thinks S D Burman's contribution was minimal in "Pyaasa". Highly debatable. And, for Manwani, lose-able.

He virtually rates "Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se" above "Aap Aaye To Khayal-e-Dil-Nashad Aaya". Disappointing.

Nevertheless, these don't take much away from his effort. And for a vintage Hindi film song enthusiast and Sahir fanatic like me, the book is thoroughly enjoyable.

Reading the Qur’an: By Ziauddin Sardar

Reading religious texts can be cumbersome. Particularly if the religion is not that which one is brought up in. Plan B. Interpretations, translations, excerpts. Reading the Qur’an is a mix of all these, with underpinnings that attempt to tear the revered text away from obscurantist clutches and misinterpretations.

Reading the Qur’an is a wonderful trip. Even if one does not agree – or is not convinced -- with some of its bits and pieces. A whole lot of miasma hovering over Islam’s holy book gets cleared. Especially when one feels the love for the book that the author shows.

Like for many south Asians, Qur’an is not just a holy text for Sardar. It is a whole tradition, inculcated into a child who sits on the mother’s lap while she reads it out and interprets it for the child. I can easily replace the Qur’an with the Ramayana in this happy and peaceful imagery and see myself in Sardar’s place – the meaning and context remaining intact.

The systematic “learing” of the Qur’an in the tradition way has not stopped Sardar from interpreting the book on his own dynamic terms and rendering a tight slap on the “collective conscience” (I have begun to hate this term now, thank you SC) of obscurantist ‘authorities’ of Islam.

The underlying feel one gets out of the book is that Quran is not a set of laws, but a set of principles to live through a dynamic world.

A must read for Muslims and non-Muslims.

A few words for a real hero...

The dust is slowly settling down. The Delhi braveheart's funeral pyre is now ash, her last remains by now perhaps one with the Ganga's already overburdened waters. The sordid year has just breathed its last.

Now, I believe is the time to spare a thought for the one shining example that may have saved Indian chivalry from complete degradation. One man, who, when we were all expressing our anguish, silently felt the worst. The man who saw it all in all its gruesomeness. While the graphic descriptions of the gangrape have shocked us, only he was scarred for life.

Stoic silence may mean anything -- a deeply disturbed mind, or plain fortitude. Because what he lost two weeks back, and again following her death, was much more than a relationship or perceived self-respect. What he lost was perhaps all that he was made up of.

As the six brutes took turns to snuff out the torch of manhood, one man lit a candle -- a candle much more brighter than those held by all of us angry souls.

So, here's to THE man. To, perhaps, 'Nirbhaya/Amanat's' only friend in need.

A tribute to his courage, silent suffering and sheer tenacity.

Salute, sir!

Escape to No-Where - By Amar Bhushan (A Review)

It is a story which, when it erupted some 10 years back in the national media, had us sitting on the edges of our seats and biting nails. Till then, folks of my generation had only heard of RA&W and its clandestine and espionage activities. We had heard even less about counter-espionage, except in a few glamourized versions in James bond movies. Of course, we always had Le Carre and his “safe houses”. But rarely anything in the Indian context.

The even now faceless Rabinder Singh caught our collective imagination as the quintessential “traitor”. A man who ducked our internal and external intelligence agencies, siphoned off tonnes of information and also managed to give Indians sleuths the slip, before disappearing somewhere in the US of A under layers of fake identities and security rings.

Amar Bhushan, a former bureaucrat (I assume he worked with RAW), finally gives us a clear picture, though fictionalized, of what really happened in the episode.

In many ways far more realistic than even Le Carre’s rendering of the murky world of espionage and counter espionage, "Escape To No-Where" is a surprise package. The very first page grabs you by the collar, demanding attention. It is a thoroughly deglamourized portrayal of the Indian external intelligence agency’s workings, replete with red-tape, procedural dreariness and operational lethargy. No blood. No fancy sequences. No smart-ass repartees. Yet, that is what makes this whole tale all the more nerve-wracking.  

Amar Bhushan, the author, trips several times in the writing style department. The copy-editors and proof readers have done a job that would put even the south block babus to shame. Yet the glaring mistakes, jarring typos and a surfeit of clichés do not take a wee bit away from the mystery of one of the biggest espionage scandals that hit India in recent memory.

I’m sure Rabinder Singh, perched comfortably – or even not so comfortably, going by the book – in the hinterlands of America, would thoroughly enjoy this systematic peeling away of his life as a US mole in the heart of India’s premier spy organization. 

A great book.