People are always complaining about how politicians are so self-seeking. I’ve done it myself. Thinking about it though, it seems to me that this is the wrong criticism to be making. That in fact, politicians are supposed to be self-seeking, that’s why we have democracies in the first place.

Think about it this way – suppose we actually had a bunch of leaders who were entirely selfless – whose only aspiration was to dedicate themselves to serving the country, and then pass on power to others just like them. Assume for a moment that we could identify these leaders with complete certainty. Why would we need democracy then? Absent mala fide intent, we could just leave these benevolent leaders of ours to run the country for us, couldn’t we? Okay, so we’d still need to tell them what it was we wanted, but we could just do that through opinion polls – we wouldn’t need any actual power over these people – we’d just tell them what we wanted and if enough of us wanted it or were okay with it they’d go ahead and do it.

Well, not quite. Actually, they’d be able to do better. To the extent that the common people don’t know what’s good for them, these leaders could actually make decisions that would, in fact, be in the interest of the general good, even though the population in general couldn’t figure them out.

The problem is, I think, that we’ve got so used to celebrating democracy, that we’ve somehow convinced ourselves that it’s the best system of government in every way possible. That’s simply not true. The fact is that democracy is neither particularly efficient or effective as a system – it’s inefficient because democratic decision making is a far more time taking process than centralised decision making, it’s ineffective because decisions have to be reduced to the lowest common denominator. There’s fairly good reason to believe that, absent self-interest, a quorum of relevant experts could do as good, if not better, a job of running the country as a government by the people and of the people.

The rub is that self-interest is never absent. That’s why we need democracy. Not because it’s the super-optimal system of government, but because it’s the only system of government that will safeguard us from the misuse of power, that will ensure that we can keep the incentives of our leaders aligned with the our own interests, that will limit the harm that the government can do [1]. That’s why we’re willing to live with the inefficiencies and headaches of democracy – because it mitigates downside risk. If we could have a government that was for the people without being of the people or by the people, we would choose it in a heartbeat, it’s because that’s not possible, because it’s an all or nothing deal, that we choose democracy [2].

How then do we deal with value-destroying yet populist measures like reservations? Certainly not by appealing to the enlightened nobility of our politicians, because it doesn’t exist. The real need here is for voter education, not for pointless discussion with politicians. In the end, every democracy gets the government it deserves [3]. If it is really true that people are going to be stupid enough to vote for this government because they went ahead and gave them some entirely meaningless sops, putting in place measures that cost the government nothing (no matter what it may cost the country) and provided no benefit whatsoever to the truly underpriviliged, then all the Karan Thapar interviews in the world will not make the government change its mind. Why should they, if they can get votes so easily?

What we need then, is a way of communicating to the truly underpriviliged why this measure is meaningless for them, and why, if they really want to see their children do better, they need to reject this kind of populism and demand that the government take action where it’s really needed – in primary education. No politician in his right mind is going to go against the will of the people. What he can and will do is try to mould the will of the people so that he can get the maximum votes with the minimum effort. The point of public debate is not to change his mind about this – the point of public debate is to ensure that the people understand how he’s trying to dupe them and don’t let him get away with it. How that’s to be done, of course is beyond me [4] (you didn’t really think I was going to have a solution, did you?) but as we bemoan the stupidity of reservations, it’s a point that I think is worth keeping in mind.

P.S. Forgive me. It’s been that kind of a day.

[1] The obvious analogy is with shareholder rights. No one seriously believes that the shareholders can run the company better than managers, but limit the power of shareholders over managers and you end up with Enron.

[2] This, of course, is why all those silly debates in high school about whether India should have a dictatorship never got anywhere – because one side was arguing what dictatorships could do, and the other what they would do.

[3] That’s not strictly true, of course. Every country gets the best of the alternatives on offer that it deserves. You need to add a secondary assumption which says that if an issue is important enough to a sufficient number of people, there will be a political party representing that interest group, for the free market analogy to hold. But that’s not too drastic an assumption.

[4] Though one would imagine that the press has a big role to play. Which is why the decline of newspapers in India is such a blow – we bloggers can have all the intelligent discussions we want – it’s the mass media that matters.

Categories: CurrentAffairs, Universe

Okay, I’ve pretty much sworn not to blog any more about this reservation thing because I’ve pretty much said all I had to say on the topic already (see here and here) and I haven’t heard any arguments that lead me to think I need to reconsider my position.

Despite that, I can’t help linking to the blithering idiocy of this interview by Arjun Singh which I’m sure you’ve all seen already, but just in case. It would be hilarious that a cretin like this is the minister for education, if it weren’t so incredibly tragic.

Here’s the question I wish Karan Thapar had asked Singh: If there’s no point debating something after it’s been passed by the parliament because then it’s a given, and there’s no point discussing future actions of parliament because the issues are still being looked into and no final decision has been reached, then when exactly are public issues to be discussed? Or can we take it that public debate is no longer a luxury that the Government of India wishes to engage in?

Categories: Links, CurrentAffairs

You know how I said the Da Vinci Code wasn’t going to be entertaining? I was wrong. I haven’t watched the film, of course, but the reviews alone have handed me more laughs than all of Jim Carrey’s movies. Combined.

First there was A.O. Scott in the NY Times. And now, defending his title as the snarkiest of them all here’s Anthony Lane’s review in the New Yorker.

It’s not the funniest Lane review I’ve read. Or even necessarily the nastiest. It’s just that I love the way he doesn’t even pretend that this is a movie that may deserve to be taken seriously. It’s like he knows before he even buys the popcorn for the show that he’s going to take it to the cleaners and he spends the entire movie just thinking up the best one-liners that he can. And boy, does he come up with some good ones. Do not read this piece as a review. Read it as what it is – a rant. And a nasty and therefore entirely enjoyable rant at that.

Categories: Links

“So, where do you want to go for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Wherever.”

“Still. Where?”

“I don’t know. You decide.”

“There’s this new Chinese place I’ve heard good things about. I thought maybe we could try it.”

“Really? Where is it?”

“Somewhere in Manayunk”

“That far away!”

“It’s not THAT far – we’ve got the car, after all, it’s just a fifteen, twenty minute drive, tops. It’ll take us that long to find a parking spot somewhere downtown.”

“I guess. I don’t know. Oh, look, they’re starting again”

***

“Wasn’t that wonderful!”

“Mmmm”

“I just love Kodaly, don’t you?”

“Yes”

“Did you hear that long organ solo at the end? So grand, so stirring”

“Yes. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. So where are we going for dinner?”

“I thought you’d decided you wanted to go to the Chinese place.”

“I hadn’t decided. I just suggested it. I thought it would be nice to try out a new place. And we haven’t had Chinese in a while. Besides, Mariana said it was the best Chinese food she’d had in Philly.”

“Who’s Mariana? Is she the one you were helping with her paper last Sunday? When you couldn’t meet me for lunch?”

“No, no, that was Walter. Mariana’s the one in my cohort – you remember – we met her at that party…”

***

“So anyway, the point is we don’t have to go to the Chinese place. I just happened to think of it, that’s all. We can always go somewhere else”

“Yes, let’s. I’m not really in the mood for Chinese food anyway.”

“Okay. So what are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t know”

“You must have something in mind.”

“Not really. You suggest something, na”

“I already did. You didn’t want to go there.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“Look, I’m not being like anything. I’m just stating fact. I suggested a place. You didn’t want to go there. Now it’s your turn to come up with a suggestion.”

“Don’t be upset. If it really means that much to you we can go to the Chinese place. I don’t mind that much. I just think it’s far.”

“I’m not being upset. Look…hey wait! Isn’t this where our car was supposed to be?”

“It was 17th and Sansom, I thought. This is still 16th”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure it was 16th. Oh, god, I hope it hasn’t been towed.”

“Are you sure? I could have sworn it was the 17th.”

“No, no, it was the 16th. Don’t you remember that Pizzeria over there. How could they have towed it? I put more money in the meter than was necessary. And the sign clearly says it’s free parking after 8. What the hell.”

“You want to just walk down to 17th and check?”

“What’s the point? I’m sure they must have towed it. That is, I hope they’ve towed it. I hope it hasn’t been stolen. Oh dammit! I should call and check. Can you see a number on any of these boards?”

“Well, it can’t harm, can it? I’ll just go down and take a quick look, shall I, while you look for a number to call?”

“Ah, here it is. Right. Wait, where are you going? Don’t go wandering off by yourself like that. If you absolutely must go to 17th street I’ll come with you. I just think it’s a waste of time. I know it was right here. Hello? Hello? Damn, they’ve put me on queue.”

***

“I don’t understand it. I could have sworn we’d parked on 16th.”

“I told you it was 17th. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Ah, well, at least we found the car. So, what were we talking about?”

“We were trying to decide where to go for dinner. You were sulking because you wanted to go to that Chinese place that your friend Mariana recommended.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. I don’t give a damn about the Chinese place. In fact, I absolutely refuse to go the Chinese place. Now, can we please figure out where we’re going instead.”

“I know. Why don’t we go to that Mexican place where we went for our first month anniversary.”

“We never went to a Mexican place for our first month anniversary. You know I don’t like Mexican food.”

“But, of course, we did. You cribbed, as usual, but we finally ended up there. Don’t you remember. They had those singers who wandered from table to table singing old Spanish songs. It was so romantic.”

“It sounds terrible. But this never happened. You must be confusing me with one of your ex-boyfriends. As usual.”

“Yes it did. Of course it did. And afterwards, one of the singers came up to me and gave me a rose and told me he thought I was beautiful. And you got all upset about it, and you were so mean, said he’d probably been out herding cattle for too long. You even refused to leave a tip. We had such a big fight about it. We almost broke up. I think you’re just blocking the whole thing from your memory.”

“Whatever. Even if there is such a place, I’m certainly not going there again.”

“Okay, then, you pick some place.”

“How about that desi buffet place?”

“What, and eat cold, greasy samosas and half-cooked naan? You’re kidding me.”

“Where then?”

“How about sushi?”

“We could. Except I’m really hungry. Sushi’s not going to be filling enough.”

“I know. Why don’t we go to that Italian place?”

“Which one?”

“The one where they have that awesome marinara sauce.”

“The one in Manayunk? But I thought you said Manayunk was too far.”

“Are you going to start that all over again?”

“Okay, okay, let’s go to the Italian place.”

***

“It’s shut.”

“Oh, dammit.”

“Why would they close so early?”

“It’s not that early, you know. It’s almost 11.”

“Yes, but it’s Friday night. They’re supposed to be open later on weekends.”

“That’s Saturday night, I thought.”

“Friday night too.”

“Well, anyway, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. You want to try your Chinese place after all?”

“I thought you hated the idea of Chinese.”

“I didn’t hate it. I just thought it was far. But now that we’re here anyway.”

“Besides, I’m sure that’ll be shut by now as well. Everything will be shut. This damn one horse town.”

“So what do we do then?”

“Let’s head back to town anyway. Maybe we could get some pizza. I’m sure some pizza place somewhere will be open.”

“Pizza! Yuck! All that gooey cheese and stuff. Who needs that.”

“Well, what are we going to do then?”

“Why don’t you come back to my place. I’ll rustle up something at home.”

“With your cooking? No thanks.”

“Smartass. I think I have some instant Chinese stuff. And I bought this amazing chilli soya sauce from Trader Joe’s the other day. And we could open a bottle of wine.”

“Oh, so NOW you want to eat Chinese.”

“No, I don’t want to eat Chinese. I’m just trying to come up with the best alternative open to us right now.”

“Ya, right. And whose fault is that anyway? If you hadn’t been so damn indecisive, we could have gone straight from the concert to the Chinese place and had a perfectly good dinner. Instead we’re going to be stuck eating some sort of ramen crap, all because you couldn’t make up your mind.”

“Okay, for one thing, it’s not Ramen crap, it’s a perfectly good Hakka noodle mix. Plus, I don’t see why you’re blaming me. If you hadn’t been so insistent that we go to this stupid Chinese place, despite the fact that I didn’t want to, we could have decided on some other place a lot earlier. And who came up with the idea of this Italian place, I’d like to know. It’s not like you were particularly full of suggestions. Besides, what really cost us time was all your stupid paranoid belly-aching about your car being towed away, when all the time it was just where I said it was.”

“Okay, okay, so I was a little confused about the car. At least I remember who I have dinner with where. And don’t go mixing dates with you up with dinners I’ve had with my ex-girlfriends.”

“Dammit, we did go to that Mexican place. Look, if you’re going to be like this, I’m not sure I want to have dinner with you at all.”

“I’m not sure I want to have dinner with you.”

“Great. Now that we’ve got that sorted out, I’m assuming you’ll be kind enough to drop me off at my place. Or if that’s too much trouble, just get me back to downtown and I’ll catch a cab.”

“Oh, I’ll drop you home. I don’t want to waste some poor taxi-guy’s time while you try to ‘decide’ what route to take home.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

***

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What you doing?”

“Nothing much. You?”

“Nothing much. Did you eat something?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“Ya, neither am I. But you should eat something you know. It’s not good for you.”

“Maybe I’ll have some ice cream later.”

“You can’t have just ice cream for dinner.”

“Why not? I’ve done it before.”

“It’s not healthy. What flavour is it?”

“Double Fudge Brownie”

“Oooh! my favourite!”

“Yes, I bought it thinking we’d have it the next time you came over.”

“Oh.”

“Ya, well.”

“Look, don’t eat just ice cream. Come over and I’ll make you something. I won’t try to cook, I promise – I’ll just follow the instructions on the packet.”

“I don’t know. It’s late. What flavour did you say the noodles were again?”

“Teriyaki Chicken.”

“Hmmm. No, better not. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ll rustle up something.”

“Like what? I’ve seen your fridge, you know. There’s nothing worth eating in there. Look, it’s no trouble. I’m not sleeping anyway. Just come.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Hmmm. Okay then. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier today.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t know what got into me. I acted like a complete jerk.”

“Ya, well. We both behaved like idiots.”

“So I’ll come over then.”

“Yes, come.”

“You realise this means we’re going to have Chinese after all?”

“Yes. I know. I know. See, you always manage to get your way with me.”

“Oooh. Is that a promise?”

“Idiot. Just get here soon, okay. Meanwhile I’ll figure out how this damn thing gets made. Oh, and honey?”

“Yes?”

“Bring the ice cream.”

“Of course. See you in a bit. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Categories: Fiction

P.S. Since people are always accusing me of writing stories about sad, depressed people all by themselves, I thought I’d try something different. The result is a little, well, twee, but I figure variety is always a good thing. Today a couple. Tomorrow, who knows? An entire cricket team, perhaps?

P.P.S. Please, please note tag saying ‘fiction’ above. Not only am I not dating someone, but to the best of my knowledge there are no amazing Chinese places in Manayunk either. (That said, I do think the organ solo at the end of Kodaly’s Missa Brevis is pretty impressive).

Rush hour roar of the flooded river. Traffic of currents and debris. The surface of the water as slick as a windshield – your face wavering in its indifference. Thin trails of mist rising like exhaust smoke. Fallen trees sliding past, slow as limousines.

A little way out, a heron, alert and disdainful, like a traffic warden. Watching the river flow by, senses acutely tuned to the possibility of fish.

You try to catch its eye but it ignores you. You feel trapped. How is this river to be crossed, you wonder. There is no overbridge, no intersection of any sort. You kick your shoes off, advance one timid foot into the flow. The cold rush of the water against your naked toes shocks you, makes you aware of how unprepared you are, how vulnerable. You panic. You draw back.

From the other side of the speeding current the girl is beckoning to you. She seems confused by your hesitation. She is too far away to hear you, so you trace the flow of the river with your hand, then throw up both hands in defeat. She seems taken aback by this, surprised that this should be a problem. She leans over a little, looks upstream. There is no break in the water in sight.

For a while the two of you just stand there, staring at each other, waiting. Like two mirrors distorted by distance. She kicks the grass with her toes. You keep peering upstream, looking for a chance, wanting to demonstrate your alertness. After a while she gestures again, this time raising her hands in a question. What now? she says. Then she beckons to you again. Come on. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Come. You shake your head. You repeat your earlier gesture – hand swinging in an expansive curve, taking in the speed of the river, its mighty force, then both hands half raised in the air to say “How can I?”. Your helplessness more evident this time.

She is disappointed in you. She lowers her eyes to the ground, shakes her head. You are ashamed. You feel a desperate urge to go across to her. To dive headlong into the river, bisect its expanse with proud manly strokes, arrive dripping at her feet before she has the chance to look up. Your muscles tense, prepare to surrender themselves to the gesture. Your brain says no.

She looks up again. Even from this far away you can see the contempt in her eyes. She shrugs, turns, walks away. As you watch her leave, you think, I could still do it – if I got across right now, I could catch up with her, pretend it was a joke. But you know it’s too late. Hope is falling from you, floating away on the swift current of the river like a damp leaf. Once she’s out of sight, you sink slowly to the ground, settle down to wait. Sooner or later your chance will come, you know. Sooner or later you’ll find a way across. All you have to do is be patient.

With a great flap of its wings, the heron soars away.

After a while, you forget about the girl, about crossing, about where you are. You just sit there and watch the river flow past.

Categories: Fiction

Okay, this is turning out to be a depressingly Biblical week.

Still, if you haven’t seen it already, please go read David Plotz’s Blogging the Bible Project over at Slate. An extract:

The Lord—not so good at follow-through. In Chapter 2, He is clear as He can be: He commands man not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and bad: “for as soon as you eat of it, you shall die.” No wiggle room there. You shall die. But then when Eve and Adam eat the fruit of the tree a few verses later, do they die? Nope. God punishes Eve with “most severe … pangs in childbearing” and curses Adam by making the soil barren. Any parent knows you have to follow through on your threats, or your children will take advantage of you. God makes a vow He can’t keep—or if He did, He would undo all his good work. So, He settles instead for a half-hearted punishment that just encourages His children to misbehave again. Is it any surprise that we sin again? And again? And again? All the way down to the present day. You can call this “original sin,” but maybe it’s just lax parenting.

This isn’t, incidentally, the mighty and distant God of Chapter 1, who shaped the universe and poured the ocean. Instead, this is an exasperated, down-to-earth deity, peevish at being forced to hunt through the Garden of Eden to find His wayward children—more like a frustrated dad who lost his kids at the mall than like God on High.

Brilliant stuff.

Categories: Links

Do you ever get the feeling that you’re living a double life?

There are two Falstaffs.

Day Falstaff is sincere and studious. He wakes at 6:30 every morning, is hard at work by 8. Day Falstaff is a workaholic, insanely organised, superhumanly efficient, the kind of person who has a schedule for everything and would be lost without his calendar. He’s also a serious kind of guy – tries to keep himself abreast of current affairs, is interested in politics and philosophy and in all things mathematical. Day Falstaff analyses everything. He never trifles with fiction and poetry and stuff like that – he doesn’t see the point. Instead, he spends his time doing Research, which he’s passionate about. Day Falstaff reads prescribed texts. Day Falstaff’s favourite words are ‘institutional’ and ‘artefact’. Day Falstaff is kind of boring.

For all that, Day Falstaff isn’t a bad guy once you get to know him. He’s kind and mild-mannered, likes children and animals (when they’re not interfering with his research), is surprisingly generous. Day Falstaff shaves. Day Falstaff is careful of his appearance. The truth is Day Falstaff rather likes people, it’s just that he’s shy and insecure and doesn’t make friends easily. That’s why he never goes to parties, for instance (not that he’s ever invited) – he doesn’t have the nerve. Not surprisingly, Day Falstaff has no luck with women. They think he’s sweet, but too vanilla. As a result, Day Falstaff goes to bed early.

Night Falstaff, on the other hand, is a Byronic madman. He’s a wastrel, a good for nothing, wakes up at 7 in the evening and stays awake till the wee hours of dawn. Dreams of being an artist or some such. Swings wildly between manic depressiveness and visionary exhilaration. Drinks like a fish and has, on several occassions, narrowly escaped drowning in his own puke. Is always unkempt and badly dressed, never combs his hair, is proud of his stubble.

Night Falstaff’s ambition in life is to be a tortured genius. So far he’s doing a good job of being tortured.

For all that, Night Falstaff is the artistic one. Writes poetry, goes to concerts and the ballet. Worships Bach. Is a voracious reader, averaging three maybe four novels a week. Reads books simultaneously, taking a break from one to read the other. Calls it chain reading. Cries easily, for all his uncouthness. Is deeply moved by beauty wherever he finds it.

Night Falstaff is social too, in his own way. Doesn’t really care for people much, has nothing but contempt for them in general, but is capable of being hysterically funny and unequivocally charming when he wants to be. With a couple of drinks in him, is capable of being the life of the party. Puns endlessly, is full of wisecracks, proficient in wordplay. Quotes Auden a lot. Night Falstaff doesn’t have much luck with women either, but that’s mostly because he’s too cynical about relationships to commit. Besides, a lot of people think Night Falstaff is gay.

Day Falstaff counts calories, has salads for lunch and homecooked meals for dinner, takes his vitamins. Night Falstaff exists on a diet of caffeine and chocolate.

Day Falstaff e-mails his mother every day. Night Falstaff likes to believe that he just appeared out of the sky. Night Falstaff doesn’t believe in family. Night Falstaff blogs.

Day Falstaff reads the New York Times and the Economist. Night Falstaff doesn’t believe in newspapers, and is fond of quoting Thoreau on the subject.

Day Falstaff has high blood pressure. Night Falstaff has a homo-erotic death wish.

Day Falstaff is competitive. Night Falstaff couldn’t care less.

Night Falstaff has toyed with the idea of suicide, but doesn’t think he has the nerve. Day Falstaff has toyed with the idea of settling down, but doesn’t think he has the nerve.

Day Falstaff dreams of coming up with the next Big Idea. Day Falstaff has never got over A Beautiful Mind. Night Falstaff doesn’t watch films that are in English. Night Falstaff wants to become immortal, and then die.

Day Falstaff would be horrified if he read this post. Day Falstaff is very protective of his privacy. Day Falstaff never talks about himself. Night Falstaff is laughing himself silly imagining Day Falstaff’s expression when he sees this in the morning. Night Falstaff thinks Day Falstaff is a prig.

What was it Edna St. Vincent Millay said?

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light!

Night Falstaff thinks this St. Vincent Millay woman is all wet. Day Falstaff thinks it’s kind of touching, but wonders how you’d keep a candle burning at both ends. I mean it’s not like it would fit in a candle stand. So do you just stand around holding it? But that’s not much good, is it?

See what I mean?

Categories: Whimsy, Personal

Next morning, the debris from the storm was everywhere. Great clods of dirt lay scattered across the footpath, like burrs from an old carpet. Broken branches lay torn on the grass: small clumps of leaves, green as pennants, left behind after a stampede. Huddled along the edges, the puddles trembled, heartbroken. Afraid of being stepped on.

It was too early in the morning to know whether it was cloudy, still that grey hour of twilight when the sky itself seems faded. He had woken early. He hadn’t been sleeping well. There was a chill in the air left over from the storm, as clear as a fingerprint on glass. He felt it shiver its way under his thin T-shirt. He braced himself against it, feeling himself sharpened by the sensation. Feeling more alive.

He was about to turn and go back into the house when he saw what the storm had done to the tree. One of the great boughs, the one that used to extend lazily over the lawn, had broken, and its fall had taken most of that side of the tree down with it. The other side, the one facing the road, had suffered too, the wind had torn most of the leaves from it, leaving it with a shaven, emaciated look. It was as if the winds, looking for a scapegoat, had chosen to vent their frustration on his tree, tearing it to shreds. It was terrible. Other trees along the road had been damaged too, but none this badly. Why had his tree been singled out?

Standing there, staring at the ruin of the tree, he felt a vague impulse to cry. He’d always loved that tree. It was the reason he’d taken this place. Oh, he’d gone over the house with the property agent, staring blankly at the long french windows, turning the taps in the bathroom on and off, but with the first sight of the tree he’d already made up his mind. The tree reminded him of a painting he knew he’d seen, but couldn’t now remember. The instant he set eyes on the tree, he could picture himself lying under it, in the cool shade of a long Spring afternoon, reading, or scribbling away in his notebook. Times were good then, his second book had just come out, money was no object. But he had had qualms about moving out to the suburbs, having lived all his life in one apartment or the other. It was the tree that had made him decide to take the plunge.

Still devastated by what had happened to the tree, he went back into the house, wanting to tell someone about it, needing the sympathy. Only there was no one there, of course. As he stepped into the relative darkness of the kitchen he had to remind himself of that. The door slammed behind him. He walked over to the coffee machine, poured himself some of yesterday’s coffee. Stood there watching as the cup turned round and round in the microwave. Then sat at the table, letting the coffee grow cold again, too tired to lift it upto his lips to drink.

After a while he thought to himself – it’s probably for the best. She would never have understood anyway, she was always saying she didn’t know what the big deal about the tree was. If she’d still been here they would have had lunch plans with someone or the other. There would have been a fuss when he said that he wasn’t going to go, that he needed to get the garden back in shape. All the old recriminations would have started. And even if there wasn’t something planned he would have had to go through the formalities. Come in for lunch. Sit at the table. Make conversation. Never mind that he had work to get done. No. It was better this way.

Swigging down his barely tepid coffee in great thirsty gulps, he opened the refrigerator, pulled out bread, salsa, a hunk of cheese. The cheese looked like it might be getting mouldy. He wondered how long it had been in there. Why take a risk? He cut the cheese in smooth, even slices, until it was all gone. The last slice he doubled and then doubled again and popped into his mouth. Five slices. Too much. Oh, well. He’d just make the sandwiches now and eat what was left for dinner. He spread liberal amounts of salsa on the bread, then made sandwiches with the cheese, wrapping them all up in a large cloth. He heated what was left off the coffee and poured into a thermos. He was ready.

Out in the garden again (a hint of pale sunlight now, wan as a smile), he placed the coffee and sandwiches a little way from the tree, then went around the back to the shed and got himself some tools. Carefully, he raked the area around the tree clear of fallen leaves, then pruned away the branches from which all the leaves had been stripped. Then, bringing out his ladder, he carefully lifted the fallen bough back into place. This was hard, because the bough was heavy and he was working alone. He had to use all the strength that he could muster, the sweat was pouring off him. Balancing the bough with his shoulder he tied it back in place with a rope. Then he tried letting go of the weight. No, that wouldn’t hold.

Leaving the branch balanced precariously at the tree’s side, he went back into the tool shed, fetched a couple of brackets. These he hammered into the tree, using them to fix the bough in place. Yes, that would do. He stepped back to survey his morning’s work. It didn’t look too bad. The brackets and the rope were clearly visible, of course, but that was probably because he was looking so carefully – a casual observer might not notice. And the tree still looked denuded, but at least the basic shape was right, and the outflung bough, returned to its rightful position, was casting its usual shadow on the lawn.

He knew it wouldn’t last. He knew you can’t grow a tree back that way. He knew the right thing for him to do would be to take down the bough and strip away all the other dying branches and get rid of them all. Only then there wouldn’t be much of a tree left, and he would have to borrow a chainsaw from his neighbour and cut the whole tree down because it would have become too painful to look at. And without the tree he would have no reason to stay, and he would have to move back to the city and his summer would be over forever. And he didn’t want that. Not yet.

And besides, he seemed to remember something about grafting the stem of a flower onto another. If it worked for flowers, why not for trees? Who could say what would happen if he fixed the branch back like that. Had anyone ever tried? Maybe it would start to grow again, maybe the tree would heal and be as good as new. Who could tell?

Exhausted, he went over to grab his lunch. But the ants had got to his sandwiches first.

Categories: Fiction

I don’t know what I hate more. The fact that the Indian Government is going around committing such gross violations of freedom of speech as banning the film version of the Da Vinci Code. Or the fact that they’re doing that means I now have to defend – actually DEFEND – crap like the DVC.

Apparently the movie is now to be previewed by Christian groups, after which a decision on whether or not to ban it will be taken [1]. Can we take it that this is now official government policy? That you get to watch any film that might offend you and approve its release. Have I mentioned how much porn offends me?

Oh, and can we therefore assume that every other movie that’s been released in recent times meets with the Church’s complete approval? So for instance, Basic Instinct 2 is a completely unobjectionable film, brimming with morals and plain old-fashioned Christian virtue? Stabbing someone repeatedly with an ice-pick right after you’ve had sex with them is A-okay with the Church, just as long as we’re all clear that our Lord the Saviour wasn’t getting any.

And speaking of sex, isn’t that another of those things that the Church disapproves of? Are we to assume, therefore, that the next time one plans to use a condom, one has first to call one’s local church group and have them come by and watch to make sure they approve?

Oh, and what about Muslims (who are apparently supporting the ban, scenting, no doubt, the sweet possibility of precedent)? If you’re offended by the idea that Christ and Magdalene might have been getting jiggy with it, then surely the fact of a whole other religion, especially one which discredits your prophet and usurps God for itself, should be even more horrifying. If we are going to go down the route of not offending anyone, surely the first step is to ban religion?

Okay, okay, so I’m ranting. I can’t help it. The whole thing is just too ridiculous from beginning to end. It’s ridiculous that anyone would take a work of pulp fiction this seriously, that a centuries old faith would even dignify this sort of idiocy with a response [2]. It’s ridiculous that the leaders of one of the world’s most powerful religions should be so insecure as to need every tiny detail of their belief system to be true [3]. It’s ridiculous that these leaders think that the best way to suppress the message of the book / film is to initiate a huge public debate about it, thus ensuring that you no longer have to watch the film / read the book to find out what the offending argument is – you can just hear it on the news. It’s ridiculous that the government of a supposedly secular state would give even a moment’s consideration to the request for such a ban, let alone approve it.

It’s not just the principle of the thing, or the fact that it goes against every ideal of democracy, freedom or multiculturalism. It’s not just that it involves making the incredible leap of logic that says that a person who willingly goes to a cinema hall, buys a ticket and sits through a movie (presumably you have to watch the whole film before the plot twist becomes clear) is somehow being forced to witness a blasphemy and must therefore be protected [4]. It’s also the sheer impracticality of it – do these people realise the precedent they’re setting? Every religious fundamentalist in the country must be jumping with joy at this point. If the government does this for the DVC, how are they ever going to justify not doing this for every other crackpot little group that finds something offensive? We might as well stop all movie shows right now and force all cinema halls to play endless re-runs of Krishi Darshan.

Look, I’m pretty sure DVC will be a crap film. I’m sure it’ll be one standard Hollywood blockbuster whose only merit will be the opportunity it offers to completely shut off your brain and be mindlessly entertained by it. I’m sure I’ll either avoid it or go watch it and be pained by it and write scathing reviews making fun of it. But it’s my right to be pained by any movie I choose to be pained by, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let the government take that right away from me.

[1] I’m not sure I see the point of this. I mean what are they expecting the Christian groups to say? “Oh, they were talking about THAT Christ and Magdalene pairing? That’s okay then. We were afraid it might have been the other one. Go ahead and show the film. We’re fine with it. Hell, we can be as open-minded as anyone else”

[2] Are there really people out there who believe everything they see in the movies? Life must be really tough for them. They’re probably sitting cowering in their basements right now, wondering whether the martians will get them first, or the dinosaurs, or Global Warming (I’d bet on Global Warming, btw). Or maybe they’re hoping Spiderman will save them.

[3] Will someone please explain to me what the big deal about this secret descendants of Christ thing is anyway? I mean it’s not like we’re saying all the other good stuff the man did, all the dying on the Cross to redeem humanity stuff, is not true. So he had a little fun before he did all that. Why the desperate need to believe in his virginity? Except, of course, that it makes all these priests who’ve been going around being all celibate look pretty darn silly.

[4] I mean, look, we don’t even ban cigarettes, dammit, and those things are actually BAD for you. If you’re really concerned about the offensive nature of the film, just put up a statutory warning saying that the film may be offensive to certain religious sensibilities, why don’t you?

Categories: CurrentAffairs, Rant

To climb the belltower,
step after step,
in the grainy light,
without breathing harder:
to spy on each landing
a basket of gifts,
a snowbox of wonders:
pressed flowers, pieces
of colored glass,
a postcard from Niagara Falls,
agates, cut-outs of birds,
and dozing in the pile,
in faded mezzotint,
Child Mozart at the Clavichord.
Three days you fasted
to bring you angels:
your square-toed shoes,
friends of your plodding,
are turning weightless.
When the pear-shaped, brindled cat
who lives under the belfry
jumps into your arms
you are not surprised
by the love-look in her amber eyes,
or by the blissful secrets
she confides to you
in oval, pellucid tones.
What if the iron overhead
suddenly starts pounding?
What if, outside,
a terrible storm is raging?
What if, below,
your twisted brother is calling?

- Stanley Kunitz, ‘The Crystal Cage’

Stanley Kunitz died this Sunday. He was 100.

In an interview published in the current issue of the American Poetry Review (not available on-line I’m afraid), Kunitz talks about his fascination with poetry as sound:

“I agree completely with Wallace Stevens when he says that poetry is mostly sounds. There are sounds even before they coalesce into syllables and words….The poets I love all are responsive to the sounds of words even beyond the meaning of words…I was thinking of Hopkins in particular.”

and later:

“Even now, in the middle of the night, if I wake, as I often do, I hear the night. I hear the sound of the night, which is not street noises, or any other, but there’s a sound that seems to emanate from the movement of the spheres and I actually can hear it and I keep wondering “where is it coming from?” and then I realize it’s not coming from anywhere. It’s coming from me.”

This, I think, is the central intuition behind Kunitz’s poetry – the idea that if we are very quiet and listen very carefully and without undue fuss to the sounds of nature around us, then we may well discover in them the secrets of our own self. It is a marvellous idea, and one that Kunitz did considerable justice to, all through his life.

See also this webcast of Kunitz from the Library of Congress, as well as another of his poems on Minstrels.

And finally, to close off with another poem:

Who are we? Why are we here,
huddled on this desolate shore,
so curiously chopped and joined?—
broken totems, a scruffy tribe!
How many years have passed
since we owned keys to a door,
had friends, walked down familiar streets
and answered to a name? We try
not to remember the places
where we left pieces of ourselves
along the way, whether in ditches
at the side of foreign roads
or under signs that spell FOR HIRE
or naked between the sheets in cheap
motels. Does anybody care?
All the villagers have fled
from the sorry sight of us.
In the beginning we had faith
that the Master, who day and night
lets nothing escape the glare
from his invisible tower,
would soften at our appeals;
but we are baffled by his replies
even more than by his silences.
When we complain of the cruel sun
and the blisters popping in our skin
he turns our suffering against us:
A great wound, one you could claim
your very own, might have saved you.
Instead you let others do you in
with their small knives.
What is to become of us?
The sea, that has no ending,
is lapping at our feet.
How we long for the cleansing waters
to rise and cover us forever!
But he who reads our secret thoughts
rebukes us, saying: You cannot hope
to be restored unless you dare
to plunge head-down into the mystery
and there confront the beasts
that prowl on the ocean floor.
“Sacred monsters” is what he calls them.
If only we had strength enough
or nerve for a grand heroic action.
Habit has made it easier for us
to wait for the blessing of the tide.
It’s really strange how much we miss
those people who came to gape and jeer;
we’d welcome their return, for company.
Why is the Master knocking at our ears
demanding immediate attention?
In the acid of his voice we sense
the horns swelling at his temples
and little drops of spittle
bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
This is not an exhibition, he storms,
it’s a life!

- Stanley Kunitz, ‘The Sea, that has no ending’ (based on a painting by Philip Guston)

Categories: Poetry