The Book of the Winds

Prologue:

The smoke always clears slowly. It does not hurry for the historian in haste who wishes to record what the moment after a great victory looked like; defeats of course do not matter - only the victors record their battles. And, on the fateful day when a hundred thousand and more perished on the Great Plain, the smoke loitered, picking its way daintily through holes sewed in the blue hearts of dead men, seeping out red and yellow and ugly grey. It smelled of gunpowder - not the nice, clean, fun smell that attends a fireworks celebration, that brings to mind picnic blankets and family outings; but the poor, dirty, grimy smell of a charwoman at a munitions factory waiting for the certain news of a lover's death, a most uncomfortable smell. But the smoke was comforting too in a sense - the survivors saw in its insane shapes the forms of departed friends; dying men saw their families bidding them goodbye or welcome; and, in irritating the eyes of those who were too ashamed to cry, it gave an excuse for tears on the field of manful toil. And it was almost tangible.

But, as with all things, the smoke passed too and bared a hundred thousand entrails and groans to the naked, hungry eye and ear, eager to record for posterity the particular deaths of an anonymous hundred thousand in the cause of great words and great men. How many pitiful lives have been lost in the name of all that is holy and uplifting in the human condition? How many men have toiled bitter sweat and tears for what is most sweet in man's thoughts? How many cries and groans and terrible deeds that laughter and happiness and goodness be more than mere words? But soft now, there groans a man in pain.

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Book 1
The Council Meets

Chapter 1
A Village in the Horizon

His cloak billowed out wildly behind him as he rode the horse hard into the wind. Evidently in a great hurry, the green colour of his cloak and the imperial diadem on the horse's forehead intimated that this was a royal messenger on an urgent errand. The few hardy men who still walked the dangerous forest road muttered harshly under their breath but gave way with a grudging salute. The man on the horse noticed the sullenness but he had been seeing it all these four days as he travelled out of the capital into the countryside. There seemed to be an increase in discontent with distance from the capital, he mused, an interesting observation worth some serious consideration; but he had his assignment now and it seemed to gain in importance as he approached his destination. The border forts were not too far off and it was imperative that he reach the capital of the province by nightfall - travelling through the outer regions, especially the wild forests, had become unsafe even for the king's messengers in these dangerous times.

But as luck would have it, just as he turned past a narrow bend giving both his thoughts and his horse free rein, his horse stumbled, stuttered and fell in a heap on the road. He was not hurt in the accident, thank god for the small blessings, but his horse had lost a shoe on his leg. He tried riding him without the shoe but the horse started limping after a while. With no choice now but to find the nearest village or hamlet, any place where he could get a horse or a ride to the capital of the province, he started walking down the road, in much more haste than would have helped the poor horse's unshod leg. An hour or so before dusk, would there be bandits around soon, he wondered, would he have to fight for his life or merely for the little gold and that precious scroll he had, so important to the fate of the kingdom, of so little meaning to petty thieves? I will find out soon enough, he decided, but this wretched luck that has been following me ever since that fateful day, when, instead of being selected to the General's guard, I was asked to become the Prime Minister's attendant, this whole foul fortune is still running its course in my life. I wonder if I'll ever be rid of it.

An hour's walk had not brought him much hope and it was almost dusk. The road was deserted and even the occassional straggler who seemed to him a bandit in his filthy rags, leading an old mare or leaning on his wretchedly crooked staff, even the hardiest of these were no more seen in the path that seemed to stretch deep into the forest with no end in sight. For the first time in his life, he saw the forest as an extension of the city or maybe the origin of it; a place men could live and work and walk in, and not merely a place one passed through and had to tolerate only because it was too difficult to destroy altogether. It was like a garden on a larger scale with the trees and bushes and the occassional bird and animal, untamed but not violent. It was also a shelter protecting him from the emptiness that would have dismayed his already depressed spirits. The road assured him that man had been here, and the forest, that there were things beyond and behind all this, that he was not alone. The forest was also particularly interesting that evening when he wanted a rather diaphanous solitude - he wanted to be left alone but not feel his loneliness; or, rather, he wanted a reason to be alert and ready for conversation but only on his own terms, when he wanted it. The rumours had made him edgy and he did not know what message he was carrying now, what it would mean to the country in what was rapidly becoming a fragile future; he knew, of course, that it was important but he did not know where he stood in the whole situation - he had set out to become a soldier and now he was a Minister's page.

Just as he was sinking into a deep reverie, the sound of a cart hobbling along the road behind him jolted him out of it and, soon enough he found himself facing a boisterous peasant taking his family home on a battered ruin of a cart driven by a miserable old nag. The man seemed to want to pass him in a hurry, having evidently seen and known him for who he was, but was forced to stop when the authority of the green cloak and the diadem on the horse asserted themselves in a rather rude gesture to halt. The wife seemed not to have noticed and started grumbling from the back of the cart while the girl, tired of her mother's company, hopped down to see what had caused the interruption. He was struck by her beauty immediately, not a wonderful pretty thing of gold and blue and flimsy lace, but a soft, radiant, healthy nature that was girl and woman at the same time. The cartman at once began apologizing and explaining his hurry, "Bandits around you see, so we were hurrying up. No offence, milord, at your service always". But he had no ears nor eyes for this man. "Phaeron," he said, "page to the Esteemed Prime Minister and member of the Royal Guard, at your service," and performed for the girl one of his most expansive court-bows. "Balric, milord, blacksmith and ...," the man started saying when the girl started laughing uncontrollably, causing great confusion to both the cartman and Phaeron. Balric was dismayed beyond words but his wife stepped in, and pinching the girl hard, introduced herself, "Meara, wife of Balric, milord and this is Amara, our daughter. She is young and bold, don't you mind her, sir, she hasn't seen noblemen except those that strut about on the stage for tuppence. Is there anything we could do for you, noble master?" Phaeron was mortified by the girl's laughter but it was rather musical and made her look even prettier, bringing the red to her cold cheeks and tears to her deep blue eyes. Hard for a man not to like even if he was the cause of the mirth. "Peasants of the outer provinces, I am on my way to Pandor on a royal mission. I was to get there before nightfall but my horse took a fall and has lost a shoe. Direct me to the nearest village where I can borrow a horse and proceed on my way and I will reward you well". The girl was about to burst out laughing again but the mother intervened and said, "Of course, master, we will take you to our village. It is not far from here and my husband is the blacksmith - he will do his best for you and get you going early tomorrow. If you don't mind, you can also stay at our humble inn and eat our bread this night". "Very well, lead on. And I promise your husband will be well-paid for his efforts".

They walked for the better part of an hour and the sun had almost set. Phaeron was getting impatient but there was nothing he could do. The sky was becoming a deep orange and the road was beginning to get wider. They started up a short climb where the woods seemed to part around the road when Amara exclaimed, "The village! the village!" and jumped out of the cart, running up the road. Phaeron watched as the orange danced off her hair and face and the happy smile that spread across her face as she got to the top and shouted, "The village, Father, we are home finally." Balric and Meara exchanged a look of happiness and Phaeron felt a little uncomfortable - they seemed to be too simple and too happy at things too small. Did they not know there were greater things than merely getting home? Were they still children to believe in such bromides as the 'sweet home'? Were they innocent or merely ignorant of the big world outside of their humdrum existence? But Amara was taking his breath away and he knew these people would not understand. The three of them slowly made their way up to Amara and stood silently with her, gazing at the small clearing in the woods where a small village was visible with smoke from the chimneys and little boys playing around. "There she lies," said Balric, "That is home and a lot more, sir". "Yes, a lot more indeed," muttered Phaeron but little did he know how much more.

KANK - Never Say Bye-Bye

I was planning to write a long review of Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna studded with long and funny-sounding words. I wanted to, really. Only the movie wasted more than 3 hours of my time and all I can say now, in appreciation of it, is that it sucks big time. For the benefit of posterity, however, I will attempt a short sketch of it, in the manner of the high school essay of old that so often is seen in the film review columns of the newspapers, and try to purge myself of all that the movie might have imbued me with.

Karan Johar is a marvellous director and I am sure he makes no bones about it either. I even distinctly remember reading that he has a personal philosophy and original opinions on love and marriage. An intellectual no doubt and it shows in his work. I also seem to have heard that he has a penchant for the dramatic and an exceptional skill wielding the megaphone. An artist of the highest order and it shows in this, his work. In fact so many things are evident on the most perfunctory viewing of the movie that it makes me wonder why he decided to show his abilities over a much longer timeframe. A conundrum but nothing compared to what is on offer from Dev and Maya and Ria(or is it Rhea or Riya) and Rishi and the rest of 'em all.

The movie starts off originally enough with SRK landing a $5million contract in the MLS and Rani trying her best not to spout out the title-line in an intricate dialogue sequence filled with the most sentimental nothings culminating in the title song. Dev(SRK) and Maya(Rani) part ways as friends, one loses his leg and the other her shot at holy Mohabbat and of course fate has to intervene but that is only 4 years and a short flashforward later. By then, the characters are well-etched - Rani likes vacuuming, AB Sr. likes some form of light bondage, AB Jr. does not shave often, Priety powders herself pale, Kiron Kher is very conscious of her big butt and SRK is a terrible football coach. Add fate now gently, taking care not to spill too much of it on AB Sr's garish attire, and there is confusion leading to reconcilement leading to friendship between SRK and Rani. By the way I did mention their names, right? It is so easy to get confused as there is too much name-calling and too many people around all the time.

A wise man once said a man and a woman can never be friends and Sooraj Barjatya stole it for Maine Pyar Kiya. No wonder Rani and SRK decide to rent a hotel room. As for me, I have no idea they have anything in common except a liking for the colour blue, which seems a random afterthought for a dialogue and song sequence - I never saw them wear blue in the movie till then - and a confused attitude towards their marriage - the other partners seem to want the respective marriages to survive but these two seem to be exclusively worried about saving it from themselves for the sake of the other two who do not understand that the marriages are failing but these two are concerned they might be causing it. If you are confused by now, time for the intermission but oh! that came before the hotel room was rented and after a few deliciously inane dialogues were spouted.

Anyway, the point KJ is trying to put across is something beyond such trivial concerns so we wont stick to the merely chronological either. So let us hurry ahead and see the marriages fail and then some. There are scenes added purely for completeness' sake - the idea seems to have been to make as stupid and unpalatable a movie possible and the product approaches its objectives closely. Witness the scene where Priety walks by Rani without seeing her only for Rani to get back by passing her without seeing her and then Rani turns back and neither see each other and all this of course while crossing a road in downtown New York. The subtle exchanges between the 2 AB's and the misunderstandings would do Iago proud, as roses are scattered and what-not. Suffice it to say it is all as well-done as the poor director's goose that gets cooked all this long while but don't tell him that!

And the ending is of course sublime and bold - Priety slaps SRK, AB dirties his house, the older guy dies, Rani leaves for Philly, 3 years pass, things change, old hurts mend, sacrifices are made and accepted as a matter of course, more dialogues that seem to have nothing really to do with the movie(like "Zindagi mein Mohabbat aur Maut dono bin bulaye mehmaan hote hain" - "Both Love and Death are uninvited guests in life") and then the grand finale where SRK hugs a Sardar on a park bench and goes to prison for 15 days for coming out too soon off of an Amtrak train when the Laws of Physics and Common Sense seem to remonstrate. Then, just so those who prefer the healthy, bracing dosage of the Hindi tele-serial to the frivolously rational whatever-else do not feel it all ended too soon, there is some more uninteresting stuff but to deal with it here is well nigh impossible.

And so the movie ends and those of us who were fortunate enough to learn the massage trick and the naughty tips to keep our spouses happy; those lucky few who did not miss the 'Sexy Sam' in the background; those who really, really understood the deep insights into love and marriage and parenthood and life and quantum physics; indeed all those who saw the movie for what it is, are left with that magnificent feeling that such an experience comes but once in a lifetime; that if one were left with nothing else but just this one would learn what manly toil is; that if KJ did nothing else in his life after this, still one would be grateful to him. All that and the rest.

But of course we need to end with THE line - so Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna!

Stuff

One fundamental question: If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when? Rabbi Hillel says it all and says it well.

If I am ambitious I want more and am not contented; if I am not ambitious I will never be the man I could be. Which is the more pathetic life - an unambitious drudgery or ambitious and eternal discontent?

Which is the more dangerous - power without responsibility or responsibility without power? The first brings the worst out of us while the other drives the best of us into despair.

If I do not discriminate based on colour am I blind? If I do not discriminate based on language am I deaf? If I do not discriminate based on religion am I godless? If I do not discriminate based on nationality am I poor in geography? If I do not discriminate am I not a fool? But what would I rather be - a fool who cannot discriminate or a clever knave of a fundamentalist?

What is the half-life of a modern secret? What is the half-life a modern truth? What is the meaning of a modern lie? What is the purpose of modern facts? Nobody seems to have a private life any more. Nobody seems sure of anything any more(except the Republicans and the fundamentalists). Everybody seems to be conspiring - for what they don't know. Everybody seems to own a dictionary and an encyclopedia.

Mysticism is not the answer; Formalism is not the answer; Idealism is not the answer; Realism is not the answer; Pessimism is not the answer; Empiricism is not the answer; Existentialism is not the answer; Philosophy is not the answer; Science is not the answer; Religion is not the answer; Contentment is not the answer; Ambition is not the answer; Happiness is not the answer; Despair is not the answer; Atleast nothing is answer enough; But what is the question, do we know that any more? Does it matter?

(Somewhere in between, always something in between, or maybe not that)

(I have elucidated for myself for now a principle of the almost arbitrary)

Tell me someday, if you can, what patriotism means; tell me also what affection is. What is love? What are those long words that we remember from the dictionary when we see a boatload of wretched black men transported whipped and bound across choppy seas by guys with handlebar moustaches? What is that lump of meat clogging the pipes when everyone rises to say "I am Spartacus"? What do the words that men give their lives for mean? What is the cold hand that drives men across continents to die in unfriendly shores for things they don't see, for men who don't care for them, for promises they haven't heard and are not meant for them anyway? And when you have explained all this to me, tell me why, if you would.

Pipe Dream

What is a pipe dream? Is it one of those that gives you a fright
Where you wake up and scream in the middle of the night
Because you felt too happy and something didn't feel right?
Or maybe it is a waking dream - the kind where you see
A well-remembered face in a place where you want to be
But know it is only someone else on TV.
Or the pestilential want that makes for having
When the having is too difficult and, too hard, the knowing.
Or the dreams of old men smoking stale pipes
And remembering all they didn't do and other silly gripes.
Or maybe it is just what the butterfly sees
When it has slept just long enough and flies out of its sheath
To face butterfly nets and hungry bees, pollen-less flowers and unbending trees
Just so it can a take a fresh, happy, free breath.