The Lotus and the Wattle

For once I have been far too preoccupied to think of blogging.  Plus it has been quite hot here causing one to feel like a koala high on ingested eucalyptus leaves.I return to it by habit and today being 26 January makes the post a bit easy. 

My title of course refers to the national flowers of the two countries I have resided in.

I remember Republic Day being a solemn occasion back home, in Delhi we went once in a while to the parade.  Elsewhere at least on the day there is a lingering sense of patriotism, a reflection on how far the nation has travelled. Here, Australia Day comes at the end of a long summer break for most people and appropriately the mood is a bit relaxed. If people are not at the beach, they are cooling off in a pub or in the enormous shopping complexes that dot the city.  In fact the day came into being as a holiday only in the 1990s.  This does not mean the day has no significance. Honours are handed out as in India.  The nature of Australia is debated by talking heads. In small ways people remember the past, today I saw floral wreaths being placed for the Unknown Soldier.  More thoughtful people think of the ways in which the day was calamitous for the indigenous population. Of late there has also been a marked increase in the number of flags and related merchandise, forehead flag tattoos and the like (to be fair, a varied section of the population sports these - though the "I grew here, you flew here" T-shirts brand of Australian nationalism is a different matter).  This causes consternation in some sections of the population, the self-image of the country prohibiting it to be like flag waving America.  I must admit I don't see it that way, perhaps because Mumbai streets are awash with tiranga merchandise on the day and our celebration of nationhood is unabashed.

Perhaps the lack of seriousness here is also due to the nature of the day, the arrival of the first convict ships in New South Wales.  Federation, which took place on 1 January 1901, corresponds more to our Republic Day and the date more correctly reflects the birth of the nation. But no true Australian would countenance the loss of a holiday*! And so Australia Day remains, a holiday after which life takes on a more purposeful outlook and the odd, sweltering days of February, which are neither summer nor autumn, begin.

*New Year's Day is a public holiday here.

Russian Wives

Apologies to people who are searching for Russian brides and are misled by the title.

I haven’t done much of late except work so a brief post on two movies that I saw awhile back.

In Pedro Almovodar’s movie, Broken Embraces, a scriptwriter describes the kinds of movies that should be verboten and includes biopics. Of course to this list should be added overblown Almovodar melodramas like Broken Embraces but that is another story. I do concur on the biopics and Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky did nothing to dissuade me of this. It is not exactly a sweeping biopic and is possibly fictional being largely an account of a romance between Chanel and Stravinsky. It does end with the obligatory old people at the end of their lives shot though like all good biopics. Also tacked on is the obligatory “all that good sex inspired so much good art!” and a slightly misguided attempt to have the romance play out to the The Rite of Spring score (really). The filmmakers do their best to conjure up a passionate romance but sadly, in spite of all that heaving sex, it  remains flaccid and I use the pun intentionally. In fact, it is only the opening sequence which is based on the notorious staging of The Rite of Spring that is breathtaking; the insistent, jagged music and the atavistic  dance is startling, thrilling and beautiful even after a century of modern dance. It is a pity that the movie doesn’t follow the Russian troupe who staged The Rite of Spring and we are left with Coco and Igor.

While more or less a two hander, Stravinsky’s wife plays a small, important role in the film and it ended up being the kind of movie where she seemed far more interesting than the principals. She is consumptive, a foreigner, a mother and a neglected wife and the actress playing her provides her with a quiet dignity and restraint. There is a softness to her persona in her clothes, the things she brings, all of which has Russian folk elements. Chanel’s’ signature black and white simplicity fills up much of the screen so its punctuation with Mrs. Stravinsky's muted colours gives the movie an interesting palette. It is the one thing the filmmakers get right – the film is not stifled by its sheer beauty unlike say A Single Man. The red of a Russian rug that Stravinsky’s wife brings to this black and white abode is not just visually arresting but softens and brings life to the starkness of the house. I wish the movie had been on Mrs Stravinsky. Or at least the fictionalised version presented in the movie.

An example of The Rite of Spring staging here.

Seeing the movie reminded me of another movie of Russian artistes in exile, this one on Ivan Bunin. Though about the writer, his wife plays an important role in the film, in fact the movie is titled His Wife's Diary. Here too it’s the way the lives of émigrés who could never go home plays out in foreign locales that keeps the movie interesting and more than a roundelay of affairs. Bunin was quite the womaniser but the actress who plays the wronged wife gives it an added dimension, she still remains the concerned wife preoccupied with his literary affairs and is not in the least a martyr (the film if I remember correctly suggests that Vera Bunina had her own close relationships). It was an intriguing film and I wouldn’t mind a second viewing, sadly SBS screenings of foreign films are getting rarer by the year.

On De Beauvoir

It is my firm belief that in so far as possible extravagant birth commemorations as well as the hagiography of famous authors must not besmirch these pages.  Nevertheless a short blog post on The Beaver who was born this day in 1908.

In a post not long back, I alluded to the influence of De Beauvoir and co. on my life.  I don’t know if I am the ardent feminist I was in my youth for time has the habit of eroding the idea that the world will be as you imagine it to be.  Still The Second Sex is the closest a book will ever get to being a Bible for me.  It is apparently ill served in translation, and the reviews of the new translation appear to be mixed.  If a few of its subtleties are lost in the English version, it still remains a cool, detached study of the feminine condition.  In fact I would hardly call it a “women’s book” for it is far more ambitious in scope. De Beauvoir’s other books and novels stand on their own and she was also politically active, nevertheless The Second Sex remains what she is best known for. 

The Second Sex is of course a bit dated given it was written in 1949. There is for example a lot of emphasis on Freud, which doesn’t always ring true to the modern mind.   Even this is important though for what distinguishes it from many other feminist books is that it no polemic but a reasoned study as it’s very introduction shows:

For a long time I have hesitated to write a book on woman. The subject is irritating, especially to women: and it is not new.  Enough ink has been spilled in quarrelling over feminism, and perhaps we should say no more about it.  It is still talked about, however, for the voluminous nonsense uttered during the last century seems to have done little to illuminate the problem. After all, is there a problem? And if so, what is it? Are there women, really?……..What has become of women? was asked recently in an ephemeral magazine. But first we must ask: what is a woman?

A question that is possibly still being asked for even if the lives of women have changed since 1949, the ways in which the world works to ensure compliance to a feminine ideal remains fairly unchanged.

De Beauvoir is of course also known for the company she kept, most notably Sartre.  Though it was the most important of De Beauvoir’s relationships, she was perhaps a bit ill-served by it for Sartre arguably remains better known.  There is also a mini-industry on the sordid aspects of their life together which appears to have been far more complicated than anything the Bloomsbury set thought of.  Then there is De Beauvoir’s relationship with Nelson Algren, which hews far more to the romantic template resulting in a book on their letters and a play.  Coincidence or otherwise, the affair seems to have taken place around the time The Second Sex was published.  Truth be told Sartre is far too much the intellectual and there is a lack of the kind of passion found in De Beauvoir's correspondence to her other lovers. And there is admittedly something enticing in the juxtaposition of De Beauvoir the female intellectual and Algren the decidedly earthier author. 

How enticing can be seen from the rumours of a film on their affair starring Depp and Paradis.  If true, one can only borrow from the young and say “facepalm ”.  

Promising to Smile

From being a horizontal thread or path that one followed or traversed, time in that year suddenly became vertical, to be ascended like a ladder into the sky with each step or happening following quickly on the other.
-To the Is-Land, Janet Frame-

For quite some time, life felt a bit like this.

I miss my grandfather. But not without feeling grateful for his long life.

I miss my uncle deeply. It seems strange that I won’t be sitting in his room chatting with him in an unfettered manner (for he was one of the least judgmental people I knew, one of few people with whom I have felt complete ease), while he rearranges his numerous papers and constantly adjusts his scared thread. My uncle was even tempered, rarely took offence at anything and was always ready with a light hearted take on all matters. But he was also odd, brilliant and evasive, given to addictions that caused numerous outbursts in his immediate family. Yet I don’t think it made much difference to his nephews and nieces who simply accepted him as he was and were sometimes a little delighted in having an uncle who had strayed from known paths (his wild youth could always be mined for outrageous stories). He had a fine voice in his youth; one of his favourite songs was “गीत गाता हूँ मैं” and he would half-jest that it was a song that completely captured his state of mind, especially the line "I once made a promise to laugh, so I always laugh". I think of that as my uncle’s legacy-that in spite of the cruelty of what happened, in spite of the inevitable sadness, we can still summon up a smile for him. So this one is for you, RM.

This year I wasn't prolific but did make a few cards for friends and family. One I quite liked went to a favourite former student who is now quite a grown person, to prove which she took me out for a swank dinner when we last met. It is made of rather tiny pressed flowers and leaves that tumbled out of an old address book and a bit of ragged stitching holding together card remnants (pic below).

The flowers behind are the Golden Myrtle. Though the green and gold emblematic of this country is principally due to the wattle, every other season boasts yellow blossoms. Ordinary and ubiquitous as it is, the fierce summer blooming of the myrtle has resulted in a fine show in the lanes around my house.

Golden Myrtle

Not long back I spoke to a cousin who more than the rest of us faced a particularly steep, vertical ladder in the past two years. She said she felt neutral, neither happy nor sad. Horizontal, neutral, ordinary, tiny  – they all seem mighty fine and attractive words to have in one's life.