Voices

Take this as a declaration of intent: I love voices, and have been fond of them since I was about ten. My academic pursuit of phonology, my great love for rhetorical poetry and my obsessive affair with Received Pronunciation (in English) have all been arguably triggered by my attachment to voices, in all their plain and subtle musicality. This attachment itself might be attributed to my sensitive nature: what better way to perceive, and respond to, people's emotions than by listening to them!

Each voice, I believe, carries its own inimitable signature like a finger print - a fact that becomes rather more obvious during telephonic conversations where you cannot see the other person's face. My own mind constantly echoes with all the voices - their texture ranging from magisterial to hesitant to haunting to  exquisite - whose imprint it bears.

Angels may be mythical creatures, but whenever I listen to someone like P I am positive that her syllables are an angel's. (And I have bored her to near death by stating the observation after most of our telephonic conversations). A's voice reflects the man - majestic in appearance, warm and candid in word, firm in his convictions and forthright in his deeds. When V talks, one would think culture has found a perfect verbal vessel (although her careful cadence can often become an affectionate  staccato, laughter and all, suddenly. The climate change is delightful especially for those who know her well).  The deceptive deliciousness that pervades S' modulations often makes it difficult for her interlocutors to determine whether she has packed sarcasm in her sweetness or sweetness in her sarcasm.

If playfulness and self-deprecating humour fill the voice and verse of one of my current teachers, patience - to prevent and predict murmurs - characterises a former teacher's cultivated speech. My father's voice, especially in Tamil debates, picks battles and responds in kind; elsewhere the man's tongue is a loyal agent of world peace. When Sid speaks I often get the impression that he's singing, tempo in balance and emotions kept at bay, of his own life. When D-- sir taught us British poetry even students, generally captured by his strictness, were captivated by his clipped eloquence, scholarly humour and mastery of subject matter.

Moving from the personal world into the global, many "celebrity" voices continue to hold me in thrall. Jeremy Irons, Liam Neesosn and Morgan Freeman have voices, I believe, in which gods and goddesses dance. Among Brits, I love hearing Rowan Atkinson, CBE: the gent reportedly belongs to a dwindling group of people who speak RP in everyday conversation. I love the way Britain's former Prime Minister Tony Blair delivers the English diphthongs in particular, and used to listen to him a lot on BBC with the intention of coaching myself to speak the right way (before I got into linguistics, which is neither here nor there on the issue of prescription). Among Englishmen in films Sir Anthony Hopkins has the most tantalising (see Fracture), reassuring (see The Mask of Zorro), energising (see Proof)  and terrorising (Silence of the Lambs) voice in my opinion. My greatest respect is, however, reserved for Sir Michael Caine's whimsical Cockney, which has remained sincere to the man after years in English theatre and Hollywood; ironic given my once blind devotion to Prof. Higgins from Bernard Shaw's play My Fair Lady.

Watching cricket has also brought with it voices which compel an increase in TV volume (as well as those  which help me locate the mute button even without looking. Non-Indians call them SHASTRI these days). In David Gower's commentary, much like his glorious off-side play, I sense gay abandon and love without the worries of life or the warts of possession. Mark Nicholas' voice has qualities, shared by his vivid prose and strikingly handsome visage which time has left untouched: it is civil polish in normal time without being cheap, charming at ceremonies and adjusts tune to the prevailing mood at critical moments of "crackerjack" contests. Speaking of "crackerjack" contests, you would want that-is-ay-ripper man Bill Lawry commentating on them.

Lawry's work in the commentary box, a cricinfo article observes, is an exciting contrast to his work on the field as a dogged and defiant defensive Australian batsman. Like Lawry, the late and, in life, vociferous Tony Greig - a man, who it seemed, had an invisible  hand on the spectators' pulse - provided exciting descriptions of both solid and thrill-a-minute innings played by great Australian batsmen at lively WACA, a fully-packed G and a picturesque Adelaide. (Indians obviously think he was born to say "whadaaplayaa" at Sharjah in 1998 when Tendulkar flat-batted Tom Moody for a six straight down the ground). Unlike Lawry and Tony Greig's commentary, Michael Holding's soft, almost apologetically benevolent, verbal stroll through another mediocre performance by the West Indies team at Sabina Park or Kensington Oval - or during another grey afternoon at Headingley or Trent Bridge - are a far cry from the days when he whispered death to batsmen, including the sturdy Mr. Boycott, with ball in hand. Tony Cozier, one of the last links between the radio and TV ages, speaks respectfully of a sport, played under blue skies in beautiful islands by men who smiled, had flair and were fair: the Calypso tunes still endure in some cricket grounds in the West Indies, and reminds romantics about the Caribean of Cozier's early years. 

If not for these voices, as well as many others not talked about here, my ruminations would have been deprived of things in people that I have come to understand, accept, adore, admire, love and, occasionally, not like. Often, even when people have moved or passed on, memories of their voices fill me with delight and gratitude with the times and moods that were, while reminding me of bridges burned by scalding words, and new roads being built in eager but hesitant hellos. Each voice, I believe, carries its own inimitable signature, like a finger print. But I suspect it is acknowledgement of that uniqueness that matters most; the acknowledgement that uniqueness unites as much as divides.

Proof

"Prove who you are to...," a familiar voice trailed off. I don't currently remember whose voice it was, but it must have been an very patient friend who had seen enough. I tried to act all miffed and masculine in response. In the weeks that followed, I even tried to educate myself in - what I shall call for the purposes of this post - the proof way, working up an atmosphere of anger whence I could launch myself for greater things (in what, I have no clue). This was in 2010 (or perhaps the end of 2009). Three years have passed. I have had many more glimpses of the proof way - hearing well-meaning friends recommending the same to other friends - and benefited from it. I think a hard-to-suppress titter every time someone starts a sentence with the words "Prove who you are" counts as a benefit.

I am not against the desire - or, in some cases, the downright obsession - to seek validations of various kinds as proof of one's worth; never mind that the concept - Worth of X - is not philosophically definitive in the first place. Nor do I have an issue against such a transmission of proof that it reaches the person(s) intended (estranged spouse, ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, former best friend, etc)*. On a related note, I have heard people say that the anger to prove oneself, particularly the variant that emanates from (perceived) betrayal or loss, when channeled well works wonders. My friend probably belongs to the group of people who believe in the inspiring powers of such anger, or who have actually been inspired by it. Personally, the proof way has only brought me some wonderful amusement.

It is perhaps the case that the proof way has to do with faith. In an intensely competitive world, it is not at all difficult to believe that earning a professional distinction, achieving a rare feat, or proving one's talent in some way can be a tangible corroboration of an intangible called personal worth. Alternatively, one can laugh about the absurdity of it all over a chilled beer. I do that, and make wisecrack jokes about how my atheism and my (psychological) issues with faith in general are related.



*What is often ignored is that most of them have their own lives, and would ask you to get a life!

Thanks from the memory lane

Travelling down the memory lane has always delighted me. I have realised in the last couple of hours, however, that if the said memory lane is heralded by my own blog, the travel is not such a good idea. I have had to plod through typos that have caused traumatising ambiguities, syntactic aberrations, - which I must admit with a sheepish smile were habits not long ago - incongruous marriages between word/phrase and context and long-winded horrors that sit as single sentences in my writing. Still, with the gallows humour experienced as an Indian cricket fan - when the English and Australian cricket teams roundly thumped India 8-0 - fresh in memory, I have been able to laugh my way through much of it. 

Reading the comments on some of the posts, which was the trigger for the virtual journey in the first place, has been a more edifying experience. I, therefore, thought of expressing my gratitude to the following people who have shared their thoughts on this space over the years, and who have made my inner world a better place.

Appa: You had indicated recently in an email to the ilakkiya group that your children, who once wrote long emails to you, do not do so more. I should like to think that our exchanges here, and less frequently on your space, somewhat make up for the lack. Thank you for taking the time off to write substantial comments even if much of what I write is quasi-autobiographical rubbish.

GB: Thank you for your candid and insightful comments, particularly on the travel posts and the lengthy (yawn-inducing) scribbles on relationships. The former are compliments I shall always treasure, and the latter lessons which are relevant for all seasons (including the present one). 

Govind Paliath: Saar, though few and far in between, your comments are always valued. As is your delicious sarcasm!

Iyshwarya: I have not seen you around here for a while, but thanks for being a regular not long ago. It meant quite a lot.

Jeevan: You are an inspiration, in and far beyond your written word. I do not know what makes you return here regularly, but I am very grateful for your visits.

Karthik: I am just immensely happy that a real storyteller comments on my sporadic - and sloppy - attempts, which I label as stories.

Rinzu: I apologise for not reading your poetry with the same regularity with which you read - and comment on -  mine. I hope to make it up to you soon. And I am glad my poetry has become more accessible with time.

Sam: Your comments have almost always been standalone posts in their own right - and that's not an indirect criticism of their length. I wish I could replicate the sincerity and the raw beauty abundant in all your comments (and your writings elsewhere). Although we may be beyond formalities, I'd like to thank you for "inking" these shores.

Venk: Here and elsewhere: "You and I'zz born to argue, and I'zz extremely haappy with thaa'." Even in non-"G" jargon, I found our debates engaging;  with it, the entertainment value of the discussions have gone up a notch these days.

Vishesh: You have the uncanny knack (or skill) of digging up the essence of my poems and/or lines which convey that, something I myself find difficult. Thank you for the encouragement, and for your own (photographic and photogenic) verses!

Matters of the head, heart and ears

It has been an interesting forty days. I travelled home, and that was excellent. Check. I attended my cousin's wedding, a fascinating Gujju-Tam affair, and it gave me an opportunity to be in Bombay again. Check. Then I visited Bangalore - that city which has held out to me much good, and much equally bad - and returned to Chennai bearing mixed emotions. The inward vortex of interrogations persisted as I waited for my return flight to Hong Kong a week later, and continues to pester me, albeit at less frequent intervals. Work has been ultra slow, feeding and feeding off my current mindset.

As always chaos sent me to enlist help, which has come in the form of readings, contrasting in genre and substance. Before my return to Hong Kong, appa had given me a copy of Balakumaran's merkkuri puukkaL. For reasons I cannot quite put my finger on, I avoided reading it on the flight - and did not look at the cover until a week later. However, when I opened to read it last Sunday, I did not know I would complete it in less than two days (albeit this was only the third Tamil novel I was reading, and I do not read half as fast in the language as I do in English). So good was the book, particularly for a mind seeking direction and a heart seeking balm, that I felt calmer after reading it. After one reading of the book, and I will return to it more times as appa has done, I consider as the main takeaways the strong distinction between understanding and judgment, and the subtler distinction between love and possessiveness (anbu and aaLumai sound better than their English counterparts); themes which echo throughout the novel.

From the varied perspectives on human relationships offered by Balakumaran's characters, I cast my mind to J. Krishnamurti's short but powerful work called On Relationships, given to me by a friend four years ago. One of the major themes in the book, as well as J. Krishnamurti's Thought in general, is the liberation of the mind from all conditioning, a subject on which I have ordered two more books by the same author. The irony was almost palpable for me: here were Balakumaran's characters, an apology for (and an apogee of) understanding. And, yet, I wonder if it is possible to understand without letting comprehension cloud the mind?

I don't know. Perhaps the two books will set me on the path to finding out. Until next time, baah baaye (in Andy Zaltzman's accent) and do watch Now You See Me. It could have been better, but it is good. The heist scenes are stylish, and Thaadaeus Bradley's (Morgan Freeman) condescending counselling of FBI agent Dylan Rhodes (Mark Ruffalo) quite delicious: if Freeman's voice carries the cheekiness that sets gods apart from mortals, Ruffalo's is like that of the adorable kid who has lost something valuable but he does not know what. Oh, yes, Brian Tyler's original soundtrack is a crackerjack. Here's a sample:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zypcnjlhCNU&feature=slpl

Ciao. 

Jack Schitt

Now, when someone says you don't know Jack Schitt, you can correct them.

"Yes I do, he's Awe Schitt and O. Schitt's son."

More here.

Hiatus... continued

I see the date of the last post on this space, and it has been two and half months. Not that anyone minds, I know, but I cannot recall the last time I took a blogging break as long as this. What is more, the hiatus is set to continue for a while (I can hear the collective sighs of relief of the 4.5 people who used to frequent this blog more out of politeness, I suppose, than anything else).

***

 I am going home in May on the eve of my nephew's first birthday, and am thereafter visiting Mumbai for a cousin's wedding, and then Bangalore to catch up with a couple of very special friends. I hope the trip to India will push me to write something here once again. Until next time, buh bye!

City

During another of my purposeless nights-out downtown, I realised that what we call city could be considered a confluence of literary genres. It emits prose by its urban facade and holds poetry in the conversations between the animate and the artifice beyond it. Even the incongruous landmark - a badly shaped bridge, a dilapidated fort, or a walkway in an area that sees automobile transport once an hour - seems to, like an ingeniously 'misplaced' punctuation mark, heighten the irony encapsulated in the opus, and speak of the human spirit behind it.

Cities are probably not meant to be read, but it is intriguing to read them anyway, especially since they have something to offer for the trendy and the throwback as well as the patient and the fleet of attention span. In unexplored suburban streets sprinkled with small shops, vegetation and even silence from a different era lies the singular suspense of masterfully conceived short stories until one has traversed them once. In the bits of conversations that winds (fail to) transport to ears in crowded buses, trains and public transport exchanges, there are flavours of familiarity and unfamiliarity as well as comedy and tragedy which make up the everyday drama that we call life. In the stylishly sculpted official complexes where reputed business organisations hold fort (sometimes literally) and in fine malls or hotels where transient being translates as proud belonging, there is the architectural equivalent of an eloquent essay - and a city's bragging rights!


There are novels too, twisted plots and all, in the most complex intercourse called human society. Nowhere is the complexity more evident than in the ever taller - and nebulously opulent - apartment complexes (no relation I suspect), the views in, from and into which could be rendered across several chapters dripping with every conceivable human emotion. Independent houses, as verses styled by personal restraint, are typically shelved in town-like corners where clocks in clock towers are besides the point, mail still means (snail) mail and the odds of "g8" being read as "great" are one in a million! Back downtown, where the last of the self-contained "hotals" are being transformed into first-rate pubs and multi-cuisine restaurants with menus crosschecked by gourmets, one wonders if symptoms of economy and symmetry in free verse celebrate an illustrious ancestor or acknowledge a peer with a different skill set.


Then there are the gardens which no-one thought to impose an entry fee on and the still-green parks where children play, supervising elders rest and the transitory middle-aged pause for breath: they keep the peace, as it were, by being hinterlands through whose woods echo many of our naked voices, which have an internal rhythm that can neither be taught nor learned. And yet, rather painfully, borders endure past boundaries undone and differences are treated as blots rather than possibilities on a sheet of paper. Consequently, it may serve one well to remember what our cities tell us: that we seek our joys and feel our sorrows in the subjective field of nuance though the word behind it, like the world, is one.

And, yes, we need our bridges to play the role that hypens, semi-colons and commas play in a cohesive narrative.