Conditioning

I want to tell you about two Alfred Hitchcock movies I recently watched, but first allow me some space for a few preliminary thoughts.

When we approach the work of an artist we’ve heard a lot about but experienced little, our expectation of the encounter comes in the way of looking at it for what it simply is: a work of art. But when do we ever explore art we know little about? We read reviews of the work, hear about it from friends, familiarize ourselves with the artist’s biography, and by the time we come upon the work our minds are conditioned – we are no longer that blank slate on which the artist wishes to sketch her landscape.

And what can equal the joy of that chance encounter with something beautiful that strikes a chord within – that piece of symphony you stumble upon while switching channels on the radio, or that unforgettable scene from a movie you come across by chance on TV? Untainted by reputation, these encounters carry the power of something original, pure; a mystery surrounds them, and they leave us in delight and wonder.

The two Hitchcock movies I watched were Vertigo and Rear Window. Vertigo was my first Hitchcock movie in a long time, and I approached it carrying all of Hitchcock’s reputation as a master of suspense. No wonder, then, that I came away disappointed. The suspense was there all right, but it was too dramatic and overt to my liking. Further, the parts where Kim Novak tries to seduce Jimmy Stewart with her charms appeared artificial, and, consequently, a bit ridiculous.

With this experience behind me, I started Rear Window knowing what to expect. And here I was pleasantly surprised. Unlike Vertigo, the suspense in Rear Window is subtle: it moves like a slow, slithering snake that may or may not strike.

I shall not reveal details and spoil all the fun, but let me tell you about an aspect both these Hitchcock movies share. In both, the viewer knows more than the protagonist does for a good part of the movie, which is a interesting device because it introduces a layer of mystery into the plot. You think you know more than the poor hero who is trying to crack the puzzle, but, as you’ll see in Rear Window, you never can be sure.

Rear Window makes me want to watch more of Hitchcock’s classics; you should do the same if you haven’t seen them yet. And remember to leave behind all that you’ve heard about them.

Sunday lunch

On Sunday we drove to Frankfurt to meet a relative – my father-in-law’s cousin, to be precise. He lives in Singapore with his wife and four children, and owns an investment-banking firm. This was the first occasion I spent a while talking with him – the last time we met was at my wedding, and you know how much the bride and groom get to talk to guests during their wedding. No, you wouldn’t really know that – you aren’t married yet. Anyone on the radar?

So we landed up at this hotel in Frankfurt on Sunday evening, and soon after we drove to a nearby Tandoori restaurant. Taj Mahal, said the board outside, in glittering silver. We seated ourselves at a corner table, and a pleasant-looking waiter came up and greeted us. Drinks were ordered first – me Ginger Ale; my wife Mango juice; her uncle Scotch – and we then asked for some starters. While he was taking our order, another waiter came up and started talking to this guy in Punjabi, telling him how to take the order. Among other things, he told this chap not to feel shy about asking the guests if he didn’t understand something, and to note down the number listed adjacent to the dish we ordered. Yeh yahaan naya hai, he explained to us, and gave some more gyan before leaving the naya waiter, and us, in peace. This on-the-job training was the first I’d come across in all these years, and funny thing was that the new guy seemed more composed and gracious than his mentor.

The conversation was relaxed and slow-paced, which suited me very well. I asked him a question I always ask people in that line: how are currency values regulated? How does the Pound go up one day, and the Dollar the next? He replied – in a general and slightly vague manner – that it had to do with the flow of goods, with how much each currency could buy. We then drifted to other matters, and as always, my question remained unanswered. Perhaps you have an idea?! (I’m pulling your leg, of course).

At one point during the conversation, he spoke of people taking a year off and doing something divorced from their usual line of work. The Swiss, he said, do that every seven to eight years – they quit what they are doing and take up something else for an year. One could take up political science – it would broaden one’s horizons. Or literature (my eyes lit up at this point!). Or simply travel somewhere.

The rest of the evening my thoughts kept drifting back to this theme. It would be really nice to take an year off. I would probably study literature, or history. And backpack along the Mediterranean coast, following Paul Theroux’s route in The Pillars of Hercules.

Castles in the air, of course. Next year – when my wife will be occupied with her full-time MBA – would be perfect for such a break. But that is out of question – finance has suddenly become a major topic for discussion and planning. Further, I’m mid-way through a career transition right now, and a break at this time would be most inappropriate. (As I write this, I wonder if there wouldn’t always be some “practical reason” that keeps me from taking this step…)

A different topic. You say you like my new style – hmmm, that’s interesting. I’ll keep that in mind. And about your comment regarding your pet name, I first read it as “My pet’s name at home is..” !! But that is a nice coincidence, yes. And it makes me wonder what your real name is. Don’t tell me.

Snapshot

Let me offer you a snapshot:

I am at my sister’s place (We drove 150 kms to Saarbruecken this evening, listening to assorted Hindi songs as the sun dipped into a partly cloudy horizon). Wife is watching TV: a German channel is showing a dubbed version of In the mood for Love. I refused to watch it in this form; I’ll wait for the DVD to arrive, to experience it again in Mandarin with English sub-titles. I’ve downloaded iTunes, and I’m listening to Vivaldi, switching intermittently to the movie’s haunting music. Hardu – that’s what we call my sister – is packing for her India trip, which begins tomorrow (lucky her).

Nothing unusual there, but I didn’t promise anything, did I? And yet, you persist…

… now before I continue telling you more about My Name is Red and the Istanbul it illustrates, let me tell you about the three sisters who run the Turkish supermarket in town. I was there shopping last Saturday. The eldest of the three was at the cash counter, dispensing change to an elderly man speaking in a tongue I did not understand. As I turned over a few tomatoes to choose from, I heard her call out to her sister.

“Halide!”

The youngest one peered out from behind a stack of crates. As always, I was startled at the resemblance among the sisters. If you were shown their pictures, you would assume they were of the same woman in different phases of adulthood. But I’ve seen them together, so you will have to believe what I say.

The only men you’ll find there are customers; the sisters seem to run the place all by themselves, and it makes you wonder if their husbands are at home, cooking supper and putting the children to bed. But the truth is stranger: many men have tried to engage them in matrimony, and failed.

Why is that? you ask. But my wife, who has just completed her movie, is calling out for me, so you – and I, and this story – will have to wait for another day.

Of what use is a blog?

Two and half years after I started it, I discover that this thing called blog has some practical value after all.

Since morning – on this 16th day of July 2005 when a few million copies of a certain book are being distributed to as many impatient fans across the globe – my dear wife has been in a fidgety mood. She apparently cannot take up anything until the book arrives. I make myself coffee, serve and eat breakfast, and leave for office (it’s Saturday, but I have some work pending). She asks me to check the postbox on my way out – but it is really too early.

An hour later, I get a call from home.

“Are you sure we got the book on the day it was released last time?”

“Yes, my dear. It was a Saturday, and you finished the book that very day, leaving me hungry and alone – don’t you remember?”

“Then why hasn’t it come yet? The post should’ve come by now, isn’t it?”

“It must be on its way.” I reply, “Why don’t you read something else?”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Click.

Half an hour later, another call.

“Your blog is a nightmare to navigate!” she screams.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, perplexed.

“That post you put up two years ago when the last Potter book arrived. I want to know whether it came through Deutsche Post or DHL?”

“And why do you want to know that?”

“Because the Deutsche Post lady has come and gone, and no book arrived! Now tell me how to find your post!!”

Ah! You never thought my time-pass hobby could prove so useful, did you? Who could have imagined that a trivial observation about letters printed on a van could provide relief from my wife’s constant interruptions.

I tell her she only has to add “archives” at the end of the blog url to get access to all the past archives. “And then look for June or July 2003”.

“Okay. Bye!”

Click.

A few minutes later I get a call again:

“You say it was a DHL van, but why haven’t you mentioned the time it arrived, you sloppy writer!!”

I lean back on my chair and laugh. I can afford to do so – I am presently well beyond her reach. When she protests, I tell her I’m sincerely hoping the book arrives soon.

“Why?” She doesn’t believe I could wish anything well on her behalf.

“Because if you receive the book this time, two years later I won’t have to answer questions on how the last book arrived.”

Click.

Next time the phone rings, the tone is louder, happier.

“It’s arrived!” she says, and adds sternly, “Come home soon and make lunch.”

I am back at office now, after a meagerly lunch, while she’s sewn herself to the sofa and dissappeared into the magical world of witches & wizards.

Guantanamo

I’m trying to imagine a farmer in Afghanistan. I’m trying to imagine his life as he works in his poppy fields, as he offers his prayers five times daily, as he sits together in the evening with other village folk and as he plays with his son before going to bed.

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The farmer is now in a cell in Guantanamo. He is lying on the floor, wrapped in an Israeli flag while his interrogator stamps The Koran with his feet. He has been subjected to loud noise – cats meowing, infants wailing – which has deprived him of sleep for many days. Once, a female interrogator tried to seduce him, offering sex in exchange for information. On another occasion he was stripped, told to bark like a dog and pick up piles of trash. There have been weeks when he has been denied toilet paper and water for washing himself – weeks he has ended up defecating on himself.

I close The New Yorker. What comes back to my mind is a quote from the article: “If you don’t have a terrorist now, you will by the time he leaves.”

My name is red

… and did I tell you that I recently took up My Name is Red, the novel by Orhan Pamuk I’d heard so much about? It is an enchanting piece of work, and has many similarities with the last novel I read (Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose). Both have illuminators, masters, apprentices, religion (Christ and Anti-Christ in one, Allah and the Devil in the other), murder (surrounding a book), forbidden love … and both are set in the medieval ages.

Here’s a sampling of some memorable sentences so far:

“You know the value of money even when you’re dead.”

“To avoid disappointment in art, one mustn’t treat it as a career.”

“If a lover’s face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.”

“Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.”

The multiple character narration point-of-view is something I haven’t come across in a long time (Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone was the last one I read that had this structure).

You’ll get to hear about Red, Black, Enishte, Esther, Dog, Tree, Murderer and other characters as I slowly plough through this book.

Random thoughts

Tour de France is in the air. I’d seen posters on sidewalks and heard reports on the radio, and a couple of days back I noticed a Tour-de-France dish on the menu. It was a non-vegetarian dish, so I decided not to take the ride. During lunch, C mentioned that this weekend the riders would be reaching Karlsruhe. I then revealed my ignorance by asking a few questions about the race. Would they start the next stage in the order they came in at the end of the last one? No, they would all start together, C explained. The time taken for each stage is recorded, and there are bonus points for the top three in some stages.

Tourdefrance

I recollect being intrigued by the passion Germans carry for cycling. I couldn’t see the point in cycling 20 kms to office each morning; I’d have to rest the whole day if I tried that. The cycle Colours bought has been lying unused next to the stairwell for over a year; she’d be quick to point out that had I filled air in the tyres, many things would have been different (one, of course, would be the air in her own tyres).

I do not remember thinking of cycling as fun. Riding to school was a convenient means to reach on time and get back early, and the big black Hercules dad had acquired for me met this purpose. An incident comes to mind: one evening a little while after I got back home from a game of badminton, I realized that my cycle was missing. I reported it to dad, who took the matter seriously and asked me to accompany him to the colony secretary’s house. There probably were a few other incidents on his mind – nothing else could explain the intensity behind his complaints on the deteriorating security situation in the colony. Something must be done about it, he said, adding that the gurkha slept all day and played cards at night. Before leaving, he even suggested searching the gurkha’s cottage if nothing else yielded result. When we got home, a friend was waiting for me with my cycle: I had left it behind at the badminton court.

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If this is a “diary” (as I wanted it to be), to whom am I narrating all this, in a memoir-like fashion? If the cycle incident came to mind and I wanted to write it in a diary, it would not need more than four words (lost-cycle-colony-badminton) to bring it all back. Is diary writing only a means to preserve memory? Isn’t it also an exploration of memory, a journey that begins with everyday happenings and leads to distant lands, both in the past and towards possible futures?

Anne-Frank addressed each entry to Kitty. Do we all need someone “out there” to write to, or can we write to a vacuum?

Ersatz

In the German class T asked us the meaning of the word ‘Ersatz’. I vaguely remembered having come across the English word in an article where A.S.Byatt had spoken critically of the Harry Potter series and those who read it. It had a negative connotation, but I could not recollect its precise meaning. “Alternative”, he answered, but that somehow did not seem fully appropriate for its English counterpart. Back home, I looked up Wikipedia:

Ersatz is a German name (literal meaning: “substitute”) for products, especially chemical compounds and provisions developed in war-times when shortage of certain goods was imminent. It is associated with cheap replacement, low quality and disgust. The word surfaced during World War I in Germany because the allied fleet cut off all transport to Germany by sea.

Ersatz products that were developed were, for example: synthetic rubber (buna produced from oil), benzene for heating oil (coal gas) and coffee, using roasted beans, which were not coffee beans.

Although it is used only as an adjective in English, Ersatz can function in German either as a noun on its own, or as an adjective in compound nouns such as Ersatzteile (spare parts) or Ersatzkaffee (coffee substitute).

The wartime experience of ersatz products is satirized in George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, which features a line of Victory products, such as Victory Gin and Victory Cigarettes, which are uniformly vile.

Later, I found the quote from A.S.Byatt where she used the word in the context I had first read it. Speaking of adults reading Harry Potter, she said that “they don’t have the skills to tell ersatz magic from the real thing, for as children they daily invested the ersatz with what imagination they had.”

Etymology offers a fascinating path towards cementing a word in memory.