Music Review: One Deep River

It isn’t about easy listening at all, because much of it isn’t. But, surely it has to do with unhurried contemplation and music.

74 year old, Mark Freuder Knopfler published his 10th solo album on 12th of this month. And I got to sit down and listen to all of it in multiple instalments through the subsequent week.

Between his last two Dire Straits albums and later, Knopfler has done soundtracks, and four fantastic collaborative albums.[1] And then, after the group broke up, ten albums including “One Deep River“, some six years after his previous one.

His previous Down the Road Wherever had a familiar mix of bluesy rock and Irish influences, with some tracks leaning towards mellow ballads and others featuring a more upbeat groove. Some songs were forgettable, Knopfler shone injecting some new elements like jazz and funk into his signature sound, making it a steady listen for fans.

Mark Knopfler’s latest, “One Deep River,” feels like a contemplative journey down a slow moving English canal. The Tyne river, that bisects Newcastle, where he grew up, appears as a recurring theme throughout the album. The Tyne river bridge is on the album cover too. Knopfler explores themes of memory, aging, and the passage of time with a quiet wisdom and a craftsman’s touch.

The album opens with a burst of the familiar. “Two Pairs of Hands” sounds like as if J J Cale’s “Durango” and Knopfler’s trademark guitar work had a love child. Here, he wryly contemplates the challenges of leading a band under the scrutiny of thousands. The “Ahead of the Game” a reflection on his enduring love for music, with his signature style two part riff.

Knopfler then steers the album into a different direction. “Smart Money” is kind of Margaritaville-esque, with a flowing melody and piano flourishes. “Scavenger’s Yard“, on the other hand is gritty and dirty, with a bluesier soundscape, the protagonist navigating the dark underbelly of a metaphorical “Scavenger’s Yard.”

However, the heart of “One Deep River” lies in its introspective ballads. Tracks like “Black Tie Jobs” and “Watch Me Gone” are about Knopfler’s storytelling. The former, check the slow waltz, paints a picture of a bygone times, and subtle relationships. The latter country-folk leaning song, talks about an individual’s (musician?) leaving for a bigger town, leaving childhood memories and heartaches behind. Are the name-dropping of Dylan and Van Morrison references to Knopfler’s own influences?

Train imagery weaves its way through the album, a recurring symbol of life’s journey. “Tunnel 13” is a bard telling the tale of a real-life train robbery. Catch Greg Leisz on his pedal steel guitar. Very smooth. However, I found the opening chorus silly and distracting.

All the twelve songs from the main album. There is second CD too, with another five songs.

“Before My Train Comes” is almost a gentle sway of the music hinting at the inevitability of life and time. This use of trains reminds me of Bob Dylan’s “Slow Train Coming” and Knopfler’s collaboration therein. I felt that a little bit of that energy would have helped some of the more languid patches of the album.

The melancholic mood deepens with “Janine” which mixes the fading embers of a rodeo romance with the harsh realities of a fading boomtown. Knopfler’s guitarwork echoes the emotional desolation.

While the album felt melancholic, there is also a sense of disquiet running an undercurrent beneath some of the songs. “This One’s Not Going to End Well” hints at anxieties about a rising of global unrest, the song’s nautical theme a stark contrast to the comfort of the river imagery explored elsewhere. Perhaps the sequencing contributes to this unease.

The album’s pacing slows down in the middle, with several ballads strung together, before regaining its footing with the title track. The last number, “One Deep River” is majestic, almost. You might be able to recall some short licks, and lilts reminiscent of his music in “Missing…Presumed Having a Good Time“.

“One Deep River” felt somewhat meditative, about life’s twilight. Knopfler’s voice, the comforting baritone, remains a mellifluous anchor throughout, his lyrics imbued with a subdued wisdom acquired from a life spent observing and reflecting. The musicianship is impeccable, with Knopfler’s longtime collaborators weaving their magic around his compositions. Guy Fletcher is on the keyboards, by the way.

However, the album’s greatest strength is also a weakness. Knopfler’s commitment to a slower, more contemplative sound may leave some listeners yearning for the occasional burst of energy that characterized his earlier works. Those seeking a vibrant tapestry of sound may find the album’s consistent melancholic mood a bit too much to handle.

To me, “One Deep River” is a rewarding listen for those who appreciate Knopfler’s singular style. I have listened to some of the songs many times now. This album unfolds slowly, its subtleties revealing themselves with repeated listens and the songs grow on you. It surely does not possess the energy of his younger days, it presents a poignancy in reflection on the passage of life, reflectively delivered with grace and artistry.

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[1] One with Chet Atkins, two with Emmylou Harris and one as a part of the mercurial group Notting Hillbillies

My Name is Gauhar Jaan: Book Review

“My Name is Gauhar Jaan” has been adorning my book shelf for at least the last 10 years without me having read it. Finally, I did, ten years late. My name is Gauhar Jaan was a captivating exploration of a forgotten legend. It’s the story of Gauhar Jaan, a singer whose voice resonated across late 19th and early 20th century India, a woman who defied societal norms and carved her own path to artistic brilliance. And above all, she was the first professional voice to be recorded in India.

Vikram paints a vivid picture of Gauhar Jaan’s life, starting from her unlikely origins. Born Angelina Yeoward, the daughter of an Armenian father and an Anglo-Indian mother, her journey takes her from the dusty streets of Azamgarh, to Banaras and to the opulent soirees of Calcutta. We witness her transformation into Gauhar Jaan, a captivating performer equally adept at Hindustani classical music and lighter genres. The biography delves into the complexities of the “tawaif” tradition, where Gauhar Jaan grew up and thrived. She was, like other “tawaifs”, was an accomplished artist, poet, and intellectuals first and only then courtesans.

Vikram’s deep and meticulous research brings the era alive. We experience the vibrant cultural scene of Calcutta, a melting pot of artists, patrons, and socialites. He masterfully weaves in the socio-political context, highlighting the changing dynamics of British colonialism and its impact on Indian art forms. This rich tapestry allows the reader to understand Gauhar Jaan’s rise not just as an artist, but within the broader cultural and historical landscape.

Likely Gauhar Jaan’s first recording. Just over two minutes, in Raag Jogiya.

One of the book’s strengths is its nuanced portrayal of Gauhar Jaan. She’s not a one-dimensional character. We see her ambition, her fierce independence, and her love for music. She craves not just wealth, but recognition for her artistry. Sampath doesn’t shy away from her flaws – her extravagant lifestyle, her volatile temper, and her occasional recklessness. This multifaceted picture allows the reader to connect with Gauhar Jaan on a human level.

The book delves into the world of Hindustani classical music, offering a reader unfamiliar with the genre a glimpse into the rigorous training and dedication required to be a maestro. Sampath uses evocative language to describe the intricacies of ragas and thumris that Gauhar Jaan mastered. He paints a picture of her performances, highlighting the emotional depth she brought to her music. This allows the reader to appreciate the power of Gauhar Jaan’s artistry, even without prior musical knowledge.

The book uses good research to talk about how the gramaphone came to being, and then to British India. It is appropriate to understand the background on which Vikram draws out what happened during that time with the recording industry and the artists. His own musical training becomes apparent when he goes to length explaining how the different styles of music and dance, the different ragas evolved, and in some cases split apart. It is the story of the Dhrupad, the Thumri, and the Khayal. And then the separation of Kathak, from the forms and styles of rendition, and of course the split even in metering between Dadra and Kaharwa. It is about the need to finish a classical rendition within the stipulated three minutes that a recording would last, including the “My Name is Gauhar Jaan”. This was required to identify the recording artist. In some cases, Vikram goes down to fundamental levels and at pains to explain the way the Ragas work, or even how Indian classical music works, and what brought in the “divergence” between what we know today as Hindustani classical vs Carnatic. But then again for most English educated folk, it might be appropriate and necessary.

However, “My Name is Gauhar Jaan!” isn’t just about music. It’s a story of resilience. Gauhar Jaan faced societal prejudice due to her background and profession. She was an Anglo-Indian woman, considered an outsider in both European and Indian society. She fought against discrimination and challenged the rigid gender roles of her time. The book explores the double standards she faced – celebrated for her talent yet ostracized for her choices.

The book’s title, derived from Gauhar Jaan’s signature sign-off on her recordings, is a powerful reminder of her self-assured presence. It’s a testament to a woman who refused to be defined by her circumstances or societal expectations. “My Name is Gauhar Jaan!” is a declaration of ownership – of her identity, her talent, and her legacy. She, after all, was perhaps India’s first real national celebrity at that level and calibre. The biography however also talks about an episode in her life when she was “humbled” by the Raja of Datia, and how her attitude to life changed after that.

One of the most captivating aspects of the book is the exploration of Gauhar Jaan’s relationship with her mother, Malka Jaan, also a talented singer and published poetess. Their bond is a complex tapestry of love, competition, and sacrifice. Malka Jaan, a gifted artist forced into silence due to societal expectations, becomes the driving force behind Gauhar Jaan’s rise. She pushes her daughter towards excellence, sacrificing her own artistic aspirations. Theirs is a story of love and ambition, tinged with a touch of sadness. A fair amount of text is dedicated to Malka, almost with an amount of affection.

The book’s midsection explores Gauhar Jaan’s rise to fame. We witness her electrifying performances that left audiences spellbound. Through newspaper clippings and descriptions of her soirees, we see her cultivate a loyal following of patrons, including some of the most prominent figures of the time. The invention of the gramophone becomes a turning point, allowing Gauhar Jaan to become one of the first Indian artists to be recorded. These recordings, though limited due to the technology of the time, captured a glimpse of her brilliance and preserved her legacy for future generations.

A fair portion of the biography deals with the legal cases that Gauhar was involved in. It is these cases, case histories, judgements and documentation that Vikram traced down to understand Gauhar, to trace people who knew of her and the milieu around her.

However, the narrative takes a poignant turn as the latter half explores Gauhar Jaan’s decline. Financial mismanagement, changing tastes in music, and personal controversies take their toll. Sampath doesn’t sensationalize her fall, but portrays it with a sense of empathy. We see a brilliant artist grappling with the harsh realities of life and the fickle nature of fame. The changing cultural landscape saw a rise in popularity of Western music styles, challenging the dominance of Hindustani classical music. Even before that he talks about the social stigma that Gauhar (and her ilk) were dealing with, being “Tawaifs” being invited to public functions.

The work is about Gauhar’s ancestory, the genesis and definitely about the vicissitudes of life that Guahar faced. Her spurts of bliss and happiness that never lasted long, between lovers, friends and her mother. A lover, from her younger age, just moved away. The second one died at 30. A father who divorced Malka a(nd refused to acknowledge her till being summoned for a court case) and relocated and a mother who died of depression (from loneliness) and alcoholism.

The lack of the primary source, Gauhar herself or even her contemporaries, shows up as perhaps a shortcoming that can’t be helped. This leaves some gaps into her inner world, her feelings and emotions. However, Vikram effectively uses the available historical documents, interviews and “circumstantial evidence” to create a compelling portrait; paints a picture not just of the public persona, but also of the woman behind the legend.

Overall, “My Name is Gauhar Jaan!” is a triumph. It’s a meticulously researched biography that brings a forgotten legend back to life. It’s a story of artistic brilliance, societal defiance, and the bittersweet nature of fame. This book is a must-read for anyone interested in Indian history, music, or simply a captivating tale of a woman who dared to be different.

This book, at least this edition, came with a CD of Gauhar Jaan’s early recordings. The sad part is that I had no immediate mechanism to listen to a CD anymore, and had to locate an old USB connected CD writer to be be able to rip it and then listen. The CD is lovely too.

Military History of India: Book Review

Jadunath babu was born in 1870 in Karachmaria, in today’s Rajshahi division of Bangladesh, in a wealthy Zamindar family. Why do we point out that he was born in a zamindar family in today’s Bangladesh? It is not a hatred towards a feudal system, for sure. Hold on to those stirrups a bit, we will come to that presently.

Anyway, Sarkar moshai got educated in English literature, graduated from Presidency College in Calcutta, was a gold medalist in his MA examinations, and taught at Ripon College, taught history at Banaras Hindu University, and Ravenshaw (in Cuttack). Over time he was appointed Vice Chancellor of Calcutta university, and if my memory serves right, he also taught at Madras University.

Now, that is the background which he drew upon, to be (mostly) self taught and conduct deep research of Indian history (especially the Mughal period), he continually sought out material from primary sources and not translations.

During his working years he wrote prolifically, primarily, on the Mughal period, but also on economics in British India, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, history of Bengal and the Naga Sanyasis. His form of erudition, research and publication needed money. This is where his wealth came in handy. His ancestral wealth allowed him to be independent and not to be swayed by the required “narrative” of those days, or influenced by the strains and tugs of colonial India, and then nascent communism.

Over time, unfortunately, the strengthening of Marxist and post colonial thought and narrative has all but caused Sir Jadunath’s work, and himself to get faded from public memory. Few, today, have heard his name or ready any of his works. Even the folk at haloed Blossoms in Bengaluru do not stock his older editions, or the reprints (now that copyright for his works has expired). You might still find some of his works reprinted, with the online book sellers.

Jadunath babu, in his Mughal era writings, concentrated often on the military, its tactics and strategy. I picked, and read and reviewed (albeit a short one) one of his books on warfare in the hope that at least one reader will find her curiosity piqued enough to look for (and read) the book, or any one of his books. Also, that one more person will know of Sir Jadunath.

Ambitious in scope, and published in 1960, after Jadunath babu’s passing, this work spans a period of some 2300 years. This, in itself, is an arduous task. However, with meticulous detail, he traverses diverse eras, from Vedic chariot warfare to the gunpowder conflicts of the Mughal and Maratha empires, all the way to Peshwa Baji Rao. This expansive canvas allows readers to grasp the enduring trends and transformations shaping India’s military landscape.

Jadunath babu’s depth of analysis is equally notable. Beyond battlefield maneuvers, he probes the social and cultural underpinnings influencing military organization, tactics, and weaponry. Social structures and beliefs, and economic systems are dissected, providing a nuanced comprehension of the intricate interplay between warfare and society. He explains how the Mughal army became as mighty as it did, and why it imploded into itself. He explains how the non-combatants, at a point of time outnumbered the combatants some 10 to 1.

Jadunath babu’s work uses primary sources, drawing from Persian chronicles, Sanskrit epics, and colonial records. This approach, made possible by his deep knowledge of Persian, offers a rich, multi-dimensional perspective on historical events, bolstering the credibility of his interpretations and connecting readers with the past through its authentic voices. This also enables him to disdainfully trash many other interpretations, which were based on translations.

His objectivity is straightforward, recording facts, balancing praise for Indian warriors’ heroism with a candid discussion of defeats, strategic blunders and overall lack of preparedness. He avoids romanticizing past conflicts, presenting a realistic portrayal of war’s complexities and does not delve into “post truth”. He has chosen the battles carefully. For instance, he has a chapter on the 2nd battle of Panipat, but not on the other two. He has chosen, again, to dedicate a chapter to the battle at Talikota and then about Baji Rao’s whirlwind campaigns. You will notice, he has picked these battles based on demonstration of strategy, and those with historical impact. His portrayal of the battle of Talikota, perhaps exemplifies unpreparedness, lack of strategy, lack of vision all put together. This came to be the most important battle between a Hindu kingdom and Muslim army in South India.

Then, the book contains these little gems which one might not notice unless careful. e.g. the name Rumi comes from Constantinople, the eastern Rome. Certain residents took the name Rumi, from Rome.

However, I believe, that the subject matter of the book deserved a wider and deeper treatment and the addition of at least another 200 pages (on the 180). The thin-ness of the book neglects many other interesting battles, big and small. There are small sections though, on races which fought the battles and comprised armies, and how the artillery units got modernised and resourced. He does also reference the gunsmithing in Munghyr (now Munger) which continues till today.

There are some contemporary views in the book, which have now been found to be untrue. e.g. the Aryan Invasion theory, or even Aryans as a separate civilisation, has been referred to, in the book. We now know both those to be colonial figments of imagination, and then furiously propagated by Marxist so-called-historians like Irfan Habib, Romila Thapar etc. Reflecting mid-20th-century perspectives, his treatment, mainly of the Mughal era, may appear somewhat Eurocentric to modern readers.

The book, however, is a must read, for anyone interested in battles, Indian history or even the casual reader on an airline flight two hours each way.

I read a reprint edition by a company called Sanage. This perhaps is not the reprint to read. There are spelling mistakes in the text; upon a bit of analysis, it appeared that – the printing company has scanned facsimiles of the book available on the web. They have then run a free OCR to get the text, but have not had the luxury of a spell check on their PCs, or literate staff to weed out the howlers. The book also has missing two appendices on the Maratha System of War, and Elephantry, found in the original work. The footnotes, in the original, have gotten smooshed into the original text because again literacy is not a skill found in Sanage.

In spite of these considerations, “Military History of India” is an introductory landmark in the field. Jadunath babu’s masterful synthesis of historical data, insightful analysis, and commitment to objectivity positions it as essential for those seeking an understanding of Indian military evolution.

This remains a foundational text, providing a framework for further exploration and enriching our understanding of India’s complex military history.

The version that you would want to read off the web is here.

The Emergency Stories : Book Review

We know that, often, an incident, or a sequence of events can’t be written down and published as is. Because the subject is politically sensitive, or there aren’t enough verifiable facts. The author, then, uses a “novelised” and a fictionalised form. The emergency, imposed by Indira Gandhi, was one such period with a large cluster of events. It has become fashionable these days to talk about the advent of fascism in India, while forgetting what fascism really is. What lack of freedom of speech and expression, really are. But, I digress; right at the beginning.

Manohar Malgonkar wrote a story, a novel, based in Delhi, with the Emergency as the vicious backdrop. This novel is The Garland Keepers. Having read the Devil’s Wind (fictionalised biography of Nana Saheb) and Sea Hawk (which I reviewed recently) recently, this was my third Malgonkar.

The story is about a bank scam, run by the powerful and mighty, discovered by a cop. And then the usual murder of the cop leads to his friends getting together to trace the clues, protect their own, and expose the guilty. The murdered cop’s step sister plays a role, a bit of an aborted love interest type of role though. But, murder, you say? Yes, you know, the trucks which used to mysteriously appear from the fog in Delhi (or elsewhere in the country), with untraceable license plates, hit and disappear? That type. People say, this is the type of truck which hit the exact car in Pranab Mukherjee’s convoy when he expressed his desire to become the prime minister, while he was being coaxed to become the president instead.

Moti Bagh, in South Western Delhi, a residential colony for government employees, plays a part in the story based in Delhi of the mid / late 70s. And so do many other locations in Delhi; apart from the cluster of roads just after Safdarjung’s tomb, Ajmeri and Kashmere gates, West End, the Maidens hotel (an Oberoi property now), Connaught Place and so on. The novel refers to Basant Gaon, near Palam as well. Should you be from Delhi (not the 5 years in the city type), you will recognise the geography, and many of the locations which exist even now. There are other references to locales and people, though not by their known names. This will need you to be familiar with these characters and places during the 70s, or even the 80s. Sagar Apartments (on Tilak Marg), a mound on the Gurugram side of the 09-27 runway at Delhi airport, Dhirendra Brahmachari, Indira Gandhi and her son Sanjay, his mistress Rukhsana Sultana, Arjun Dass, HKL Bhagat, CBI (the organization) , it’s then director D Sen etc. They are all there.

As the story twists around evidence collected by the investigating cop (now dead), there are a few paragraphs around Dhirendra Brahmachari’s receipt (evidently, as a gift) of a plane, without having to pay customs duty, as well. Similarly, there are references to Sanjay Gandhi’s version of Maruti. These help build the context, and give a flavor of the times.

Sanjay Gandhi, and the first Maruti prototype. Small, scooter tires, and obnoxious.

There is only one place where Malgonkar mixes up his city geography a bit, but that can be forgiven because he does a good job of capturing the feel, without going into too much detail. He sticks to the plot. One might say, the lack of description of the city areas doesn’t help the readers’ imagination. True, but the story is about intrigue, the wheels within wheels, the machine, imposition of dictatorship, the corruption (moral and otherwise) of the high and mighty, and complete subversion of democracy. It gives a view into how governmental posts are allotted, how power is brokered, how people are removed. From governmental posts, and from the earth. It also gives a view into how fear was driven into people’s minds, to comply.

The book starts with an incident involving a Kashmiri, who had joined the Pakistani army, out on patrol near what is today the Line of Control between Kashmir, and the Pakistan Occupied Kashmir. His being “attractive”, drawing the attention of the CO and the rest of the patrol party and later desertion, form the first chapter

Malgonkar holds back revealing too much about the bank scam, and how it happened, till about 1/3rd of the way down. And reveals the pieces gradually in a tightly written, and fast moving story. It is only towards the end that the thread with the Kashmiri deserter is tied, thus revealing the connections.

The one thing that could have been better is tying up the different threads towards the end. It just gets a little jumbled, and the untangling gets hurried, abrupt and rather simplistic. The climax gets anticlimactic.

The villains of the piece are evident early on. What keeps the reading alive is the desire to know the connections of the dots. Clearly, this book (published in 1986) could not have been written or published for years after the emergency, and certainly not till Indira Gandhi was alive. Malgonkar would have landed up in jail under the MISA .

This is a good book to taken on a long flight, or a train journey and would make a good script for a movie.

Sarkhel Angre – A Book Review

This is a book, which is back in print after a good dix decades and a half. It had to be purchased, and read. If not anything else, as a tribute to one of the most successful generals in 18th century India. The byline of the title says “The life and Battles of Kanhoji Angre”.

Angre, almost, has been a forgotten general from that period of time. His name came to fore, for a short while, as the Indian Navy’s new insignia was unveiled.

The new insignia, (the lower image) with the gold and blue octagon, borrows from Angre’s seal. There was some usual political furore for a bit and then Angre was forgotten again.

Manohar Malgonkar was a man of many parts. He retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Maratha Light Infantry, was a hunter, story teller, civil servant, businessman, farmer, novelist, and also a journalist. He was urged by many including Parakrama S Jayasinghe (of Asian Publishing House) to write on Angre. He did, and Sea Hawk was published in 1959.

Republished in 2022

What I read is a re-publication (not a reprint) by Harper Collins.

If you do not know enough about Kanhoji Angre, you can start with reading on wiki, as long as you manage to sanitize the textual contemptuousness of the (clearly leftist) article author (s).

From the point of bringing out facts and anecdotes from the archives and records, Malgonkar does a superb job. We must consider that he wasn’t really a historian, though he has some historical works to his credit. Novels, are his form. Because of using archives and records, the narrative of his book tilts and sways with the tone of his source material. The narrative favours the British, in places, and that is natural too. The British were meticulous record keepers, in many cases with “fudged accuracy”.

The title of the book may lead you to believe that this is Kanhoji Angre’s biography, or that you might learn about the battles (from a military perspective). If so, you might be disappointed. Maybe about 20% of the book is really about Angre, but more about what was happening during his father’s time, and during the time that he was alive. Primarily along the coast line from Surat to (say) Mangalore.

If you want to read about what was happening in that area, and how was Angre placed in that milieu…this is the book to read. It is about what was happening with the Maratha kingdom, the reign of Aurangzeb, the Siddys of Janjira, the British East India Company operating from Bombay, the Portuguese, the Sawants of Wadi, and a little about the Dutch as well. This is the time that the Maratha kingdom traipsed through the reign of Shivaji, to his son Sambhaji, and then to Shahu (in Satara) and Sambhaji (of Kolhapur). This is the time when Balaji Vishwanath became the Peshwa for Shahu’s kingdom, followed by son Baji Rao.

Unfortunately, little has been written about our maritime history. Whether merchant or naval. It is known that Indian merchants used to reach as far as Bahrain, and all along the eastern coast of Africa for millennia. Vasco Da Gama, fell in with some of these merchants who guided him through to Kerala. On the eastern side, there is enough evidence and recorded history of merchant and naval sea faring all the way into the eastern most fringes of Indonesia, and upwards towards Vietnam. In fact, there are enough mentions in Mahabharata of the people of those regions, and they feature in Indian lullabies even today.

I digress. Now, this book is not a military history, and does not contain tactical naval move descriptions through the battles mentioned and described. If you are so inclined and interested, do visit the Naval Maritime museum at Fort Kochi which is a treasure trove of accounts, history and battle maps and has most parts of a room dedicated to Maratha Naval warfare.

What the book loses in terms of a historic treatise, Malgonkar salvages with tightly written anecdotes because he was a fine raconteur. There are many interesting bits of information that you will uncover, which might help you connect dots. For example, the title Sarkhel given to Angre (by Shahu), was for perpetuity, and to be carried through generations. Angres did carry it through. The interesting thing is that you will find Sarkhel as a surname in Bengal. I will let you connect those two dots.

Harper Collins has gone to sh*t

Now, coming to this particular edition / re-publication of the book. Harper Collins has inserted an introduction of six odd pages by one Shanta Gokhale. The introduction is a travesty on paper and ink. There is nothing new that one gets to know about the book or the author that the book itself doesn’t mention. Adding in quotes from the book itself doesn’t help much.

Harper Collins has used Pritish Nandy and some Girish Kuber to add in comment blurbs on the rear jacket. Nandy is from advertising, has no context of the subject and clearly, has not read the book before commenting. Kuber, I have not heard of, though that doesn’t take away from his mentioning that the book is “real-life fiction”. There could hardly be a more damning comment on the book.

Harper Collins’ own contribution is adding footnotes, from information available on the web. In some cases, they actually have scribed down a URL in the footnote.

Verdict

Should you read this book? Oh yeah, absolutely. If not anything else, for it to pique your interest which you can carry forward and learn more.

Must you buy it? Well, Harper Collins’ additions are annoying at the least. If you so wish, and your morals don’t hurt you, you can find a PDF version of the original edition, on the web.

The 100 Kauravas, or were they 102?

We keep hearing about the 100 Kaurava brothers. But, in reality, Dhritarāshtra had 102 children. Were you aware?

Watch this short video to know the names.

The 100 better known Kauravas were:

A little more about some of these characters. Jayadratha was the warrior who blocked the path of Abhimanyu, in the Charavyuha which finally led to the latter being surrounded and being killed. Jayadratha had wholeheartedly, against the norms those days, supported the killing of then unarmed Abhimanyu. But even earlier, Jayadratha had a few blotches on his character, including his once failed attempt to kidnap Draupadi.

Yuyutsu, you heard, survived the war, essentially because he was part of the righteous victorious side.

Quite like him, there was one among the 100 sons of Gandhari who stood up against his brothers during the humiliation of Draupadi in court. This Kaurava’s name was Vikarna. Vikarna stood up against his brothers in court, but also (as duty) fought for them in the war. He was killed, like other Kauravas, by Bheema.

Shankha in Sanātana Dharma

Conches are still used all over Bhāratvarsha (India) across religious ceremonies, in temples and at homes. It also was a common tool for communication in battles and wars. Did you know that warriors often used to have names, and back histories attached to their conches?

Watch this short video to know more.

Let’s talk a little bit more, in addition to the video. Consider the following Shloka:

नारायणं नमस्कृत्य नरं चैव नरोत्तमम्
देवीं सरस्वतीं चैव ततो जयमुदरियेत्

Narāyanam namaskrutya naram chaiva narottamam
Devīm saraswatīm chaiva tato jayaudariyet

When Agni deva sought the help of Krishna and Arjuna for helping him consume Khandava forest, they said they did not bring their weapons. Then Agni had brought the weapons for both the warriors from Varuna deva. Those included Devadatta. That you now know, was Arjuna’s conch.

द्रुपदो द्रौपदेयाश्च सर्वश: पृथिवीपते |
सौभद्रश्च महाबाहु: शङ्खान्दध्मु: पृथक् पृथक् || 18|

Drupado draupadeyashcha sarvashaha pruthivīpate Soubhadrashcha mahabahu shankhāndadhmu pruthak pruthak Loosely meaning, that Drupada, and Draupadi’s sons, all other kings, and also Subhadrā’s sons all had different conchs.

of Cherra, and the Cherubs

Used to be known as Sohrapunji, the Brits called it Cherrapunjee, and now it is called Sohra. Your geography text books might have mentioned it as one of the wettest places on earth. It is, during the rainy season. This is a spread out town at average 4700 ft above sea level in Meghalaya, some 30 km from the Bangladesh border.

RKM Higher Secondary School, Sohra, Meghalaya

This short post is centred around an event that I attended late last year and is more of jotting down some related thoughts.

This was a play day organized by the Ramakrishna Mission (RKM) Higher Secondary School in Sohra, and participated in by 1432 children of 44 schools run by the same organization, across 11 districts of Meghalaya.

Children at the U Soso Tham commemorative day at Sohra

RKM is a universal secular organization trying to provide the indegenous Seng Khasi people the ability to stand on their own and hold on to their ancient traditions. This play day was organised on one such commemorative day for Seng Khasi poet U Soso Tham.

A large percentage of the students are from BPL or close to BPL situations. RKM continues to build schools, expand existing ones, build girls’ hostels in Meghalaya. The existing schools provide education, uniforms, books (and stationery) and meals free of cost. Running 44 schools across the geographic spread and remoteness makes daily logistics a challenge.

The RKM school building in Sobhar, Meghalaya

Some villages, all on a mountain side, are about 5oo metres from the nearest motorable road. That makes carrying material for construction difficult. Many workarounds are created to make work easier and faster, including multilevel corrugated metal chutes to slide material and cement bags down mountain sides.

There is also this little village called Shella, right on the border, skirted by the river with the same name. The river also forms the border between the two nations. This village continues to be of a people not converted and deep rooted in its traditions. Perhaps the remoteness helps. The dedication of the organisation and the cooperation of the village residents is to be seen to be believed.

School teachers and students singing a welcome song

The little village of Sobhar, at the border. All that you see beyond the hills is Bangladesh.

What causes larger stress to the system is external, though unspoken. This is pressure from other religious groups and organisations who consider RKM to be a Hindu organization throwing a spanner into the religious conversion activities that the former continue in the North East.

This, as you can imagine, is a situation very different from any other school chain in the country. The fact that it provides a yeoman service to the nation and to the local populace is clear. But, the enormity is astounding. If you happen to be in Meghalaya, I would encourage you to visit them in any of the 44 locations.

Blackholes, Kali, Bhagawad Gita : Connecting some dots.

This entire post is trying to connect some unconnected dots from our scriptures, our culture, epics and today’s science as we know it. All that I am doing is posing some questions which you might want to examine. I am not an academic, so my thoughts are scattered as well. These stream of thoughts were triggered by a particular type of Facebook posts that I have read which speak about how deep into the Bhagawad Oppenheimer was.

Dot 1: कालोSस्मि

I am referring to J Robert Oppenheimer, of the Manhattan Project, of course and his philosophical quandry which was (evidently) resolved by the Bhagawad. After the atom bomb came to being, Oppenheimer very famously said “Death, I am become” loosely translating “कालोSस्मि” from the Bhagawad. That is where this thread started for me.

कालोSस्मि appears in Chapter 11, verse 32.

श्रीभगवानुवाच |
कालोऽस्मि लोकक्षयकृत्प्रवृद्धो
लोकान्समाहर्तुमिह प्रवृत्त: |
ऋतेऽपि त्वां न भविष्यन्ति सर्वे
येऽवस्थिता: प्रत्यनीकेषु योधा: |

You will notice that कालोSस्मि here does not translate the way Oppenheimer saw it. More so, because of the event that precedes Chapter 11. Krishna shows Arjuna his Vishwaroopam to get the latter to get up and fight, on the Kurukshetra battlefield. This is the third time, in the epic, that Krishna does this. The usual imagery mentioned, something that only the subject is able to see, is a super large innumerable forms with thousands of arms, eyes, mouths etc. The text, of course, refers metaphorically to the multiverse, the cosmology that is within Krishna’s being. Obviously seeing a being with a thousand arms, eyes etc. would not have perturbed Arjuna that much. What he got to see is something else. The word काल (Kāla) has many more meanings and interpretations. Only two of those are death, and time. One meaning also encompasses all of creation. You would find the same interpretation in the Buddhist “kālachakra” . This word, again, does not translate to something as simplistic as “wheel of time”, and is at a level quite different from “time”. Krishna then, is telling Arjuna that he (Krishna) is काल, in the form of universality, and that he will wipe the Kouravas out even without Arjuna’s effort and that the latter doesn’t really matter in the larger realm of काल. This level of cosmic universality, perhaps, is what yogis have tried to understand and only some Siddhas have managed to.

Dot 2: Durgā

Durgā is known in our scriptures to have been created to slay Mahishāsura, by collecting supreme energy from Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh and many other lesser gods. Durga thus is this tremendous embodiment of true source of divine powers of the “male gods”. She is known to have expressed herself as a blinding source and beam of light during her battle with Mahishāshura, on Chāmundi Hills in the outskirts of Mysuru. The original name of Mysuru, you might be aware, is “Mahishur“.

Dot 3: Dasha Mahavidya

Many of our Goddesses, have vividly violent form too. Tantrism, worships these 10 Goddesses (all manifestations of Pārvati), as Dasha Mahāvidyā. Meaning Ten Great Learnings (or Wisdoms). Of the ten counterparts, Durgā’s is Kāli, Lakshmi’s is Kamalā and Saraswati’s is Mātangi and so on. You will find these same 10 being worshipped in Tibetan Buddhism today, in Tibet, Ladakh, and in our eastern states. This form of Buddhism, Vajrayāna, loosely defined, is the Buddhist form of Tantric Shaivism from where the understanding of the Dasha Mahāvidyā arrive from.

Dot 4: Kāli

Kali – By Raja Ravi Varma – https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/goddess-kali-ravi-varma-press-karla-lonavala/iAHNImEWSOYQeg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21792915

Now, if Kāli is the antimatter to Durgā‘s matter, then she must be dark as opposed to Durga‘s blinding white light energy. She is. Let us consider her form. She is described as large, darker than the darkest night, long untied and disheveled hair, not a thread on her body, scimitar in hand, wearing a necklace of severed heads, and blood smeared on her body and hair. A rather fearsome imagery. This pagan imagery, since, has been “civilized” a bit to work with different weaker sentiments. She, undoubtedly, is the most powerful, and most violent of the Dasha Mahāvidyas, and her pujā is done timebound, for a short while with utmost respect.

The thread

What could Kāli be metaphorically representing, something that we are today aware of? Her name signifies two of her attributes – one who is dark, and the other epithet is “devourer of time”. She has the severed head necklace, and is unstoppable. Clearly, she destroys, rather violently. To me, that reminds of a cosmological feature – a blackhole. It’s gravity dilates time infinitely and devours light, is super large and ever growing, is completely bare (but not empty) and totally unstoppable. It pulls other celestial bodies (most of which are spherical in shape, at the unit level) in and destroys them. Is Kāli then an earthly representation of a black hole?

Now connecting all the way back. Could Krishna have been showing Arjuna a representation of time-space continuum and the fundamentals of Kāl and creation?

“Hello Darkness My Old Friend”

This story below is not that well known, and isn’t mine. But, sure as hell needs to be read and known. The context is that a memoir got released earlier this year and reading a review got me thinking. Read the story of Sanford Greenberg and Art Garfunkel, yes the same one as in Simon and Garfunkel. To me, this is a story of friendship and loyalty. Warning: You may tear up, you may feel warm inside.

IT is one of the best-loved songs of all time. Simon & Garfunkel’s hit The Sound Of Silence topped the US charts and went platinum in the UK.

It was named among the 20 most performed songs of the 20th century, included in Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, and provided the unforgettable soundtrack to 1967 film classic The Graduate. But to one man, “The Sound Of Silence” means much more than just a No 1 song on the radio with its poignant opening lines: “Hello Darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.”

Sanford “Sandy” Greenberg is Art Garfunkel’s best friend, and reveals in a moving new memoir, named after that lyric, that the song was a touching tribute to their undying bond, and the singer’s sacrifice that saved Sandy’s life when he unexpectedly lost his sight.

“He lifted me out of the grave,” says Sandy, aged 79, who recounts his plunge into sudden blindness, and how Art Garfunkel’s selfless devotion gave him reason to live again.

Sandy and Arthur, as Art was then known, met during their first week as students at the prestigious Columbia University in New York.

“A young man wearing an Argyle sweater and corduroy pants and blond hair with a crew cut came over and said, ‘Hi, I’m Arthur Garfunkel’,” Sandy recalls.

They became roommates, bonding over a shared taste in books, poetry and music.

“Every night Arthur and I would sing. He would play his guitar and I would be the DJ. The air was always filled with music.”

“Still teenagers, they made a pact to always be there for each other in times of trouble.

“If one was in extremis, the other would come to his rescue,” says Sandy.

They had no idea their promise would be tested so soon. Just months later, Sandy recalls: “I was at a baseball game and suddenly my eyes became cloudy and my vision became unhinged. Shortly after that darkness descended.”

Doctors diagnosed conjunctivitis, assuring it would pass. But days later Sandy went blind, and doctors realised that glaucoma had destroyed his optic nerves.

Sandy was the son of a rag-and-bone man. His family, Jewish immigrants in Buffalo, New York, had no money to help him, so he dropped out of college, gave up his dream of becoming a lawyer, and plunged into depression.

“I wouldn’t see anyone, I just refused to talk to anybody,” says Sandy. “And then unexpectedly Arthur flew in, saying he had to talk to me. He said, ‘You’re gonna come back, aren’t you?’ “I said,: ‘No.There’s no conceivable way.’

“He was pretty insistent, and finally said, ‘Look, I don’t think you get it. I need you back there.That’s the pact we made together: we would be there for the other in times of crises. I will help you’.”

Together they returned to Columbia University, where Sandy became dependent on Garfunkel’s support. Art would walk Sandy to class, bandage his wounds when he fell, and even filled out his graduate school applications.

Garfunkel called himself “Darkness” in a show of empathy. The singer explained: “I was saying, ‘I want to be together where you are, in the black’.”

Sandy recalls: “He would come in and say, ‘Darkness is going to read to you now.’

“Then he would take me to class and back. He would take me around the city. He altered his entire life so that it would accommodate me.”

Garfunkel would talk about Sandy with his high-school friend Paul Simon, from Queens, New York, as the folk rock duo struggled to launch their musical careers, performing at local parties and clubs.

Greenberg wears glasses so that people imagine that he can see; he doesn’t like himself to be considered blind, and with what he has achieved, rightfully so.

Though Simon wrote the song, the lyrics to The Sound of Silence are infused with Garfunkel’s compassion as Darkness, Sandy’s old friend.

Guiding Sandy through New York one day, as they stood in the vast forecourt of bustling Grand Central Station, Garfunkel said that he had to leave for an assignment, abandoning his blind friend alone in the rush-hour crowd, terrified, stumbling and falling. “I cut my forehead” says Sandy.

“I cut my shins. My socks were bloodied. I had my hands out and bumped into a woman’s breasts. It was a horrendous feeling of shame and humiliation.

“I started running forward, knocking over coffee cups and briefcases, and finally I got to the local train to Columbia University. It was the worst couple of hours in my life.”

Back on campus, he bumped into a man, who apologised.

“I knew that it was Arthur’s voice,” says Sandy. “For a moment I was enraged, and then I understood what happened: that his colossally insightful, brilliant yet wildly risky strategy had worked.”

Garfunkel had not abandoned Sandy at the station, but had followed him the entire way home, watching over him.

“Arthur knew it was only when I could prove to myself I could do it that I would have real independence,” says Sandy. “And it worked, because after that I felt that I could do anything.

“That moment was the spark that caused me to live a completely different life, without fear, without doubt. For that I am tremendously grateful to my friend.”

Sandy not only graduated, but went on to study for a master’s degree at Harvard and Oxford.

While in Britain he received a phone call from his friend – and with it the chance to keep his side of their pact.

Garfunkel wanted to drop out of architecture school and record his first album with Paul Simon, but explained: “I need $400 to get started.”

Sandy, by then married to his high school sweetheart, says: “We had $404 in our current account. I said, ‘Arthur, you will have your cheque.’ “It was an instant reaction, because he had helped me restart my life, and his request was the first time that I had been able to live up to my half of our solemn covenant.”

The 1964 album, Wednesday Morning, 3 AM, was a critical and commercial flop, but one of the tracks was The Sound Of Silence, which was released as a single the following year and went to No. 1. across the world.

“The Sound Of Silence meant a lot, because it started out with the words ‘Hello darkness’ and this was Darkness singing, the guy who read to me after I returned to Columbia blind,” says Sandy.

Simon & Garfunkel went on to have four smash albums, with hits including Mrs Robinson, The Boxer, and Bridge Over Troubled Waters.

Amazingly, Sandy went on to extraordinary success as an inventor, entrepreneur, investor, presidential adviser and philanthropist. The father of three, who launched a $3million prize to find a cure for blindness, has always refused to use a white cane or guide dog.

“I don’t want to be ‘the blind guy’,” he says. “I wanted to be Sandy Greenberg, the human being.”

Six decades later the two men remain best friends, and Garfunkel credits Sandy with transforming his life.

With Sandy, “my real life emerged,” says the singer. “I became a better guy in my own eyes, and began to see who I was – somebody who gives to a friend.

“I blush to find myself within his dimension. My friend is the gold standard of decency.”

Says Sandy: “I am the luckiest man in the world.”

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Connecting the “Forgotten Army” dots.

This perhaps is an odd one because it relates to military history and connects some random dots. This story came together as I read different texts, biographies and monographs at different points of time. This is a story of four soldiers, each other’s contemporaries, each having worked in the British Army or the British run Indian Army. Each of them achievers, even on fields other than the battle field, and each of them familiar with controversies. Their lives and careers intersected with each other’s in time and space, in different geographies.

Disclaimer: You will find the following to read more like field research notes, and not really long form text, because that is exactly what this is.

The four soldiers are Gen. J N Chaudhuri, FM William Slim, Lt. Col. John Masters and Maj. Gen. Orde Wingate. What connected them finally, of course, was the Burma campaign. Just in case you are not familiar with all of them, allow me to quick thumbnail sketch these officers.

Gen J N Chaudhuri took over the Indian Army after the Indo-China debacle of 1962

Jayonto Nath Chaudhuri came from an illustrious family in Bengal, with stalwart members. He was the Military Governor of the state of Hyderabad from 1948-49, Chief of Army Staff from 1962-66, and High Commissioner to Canada from 1966-69. Later, he wrote two books on military matters. He was commissioned from Sandhurst in 1928 and during his career moved between Infantry and Light Cavalry, taught at Staff Colleges, and was mentioned in Dispatches during battle. His international career took him to Africa, to the middle east, to Burma and then theaters in India. He took over after the mess that was the Indo-China war, and led through the 1965 Indo-Pak war.

Maj Gen Wingate, was to the Jews of Palestine what T.E. Lawrence was to the Arabs. 

Wingate, was the most odd one of the entire lot. Even mercurial, perhaps. Someone like him needs a separate article, just to list his eccentricities. He was accepted at the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich, in 1921; and received his artillery officer’s commission in 1923. Though he showed prowess as a rider, a good spotter, being able to accurately identify river crossing spots, he lived in want due to an extravagant lifestyle that he chose to indulge in. His international career took him to Sudan, to what is now Israel, to India and then to Burma. Wingate should be credited with being the creator of what we know today as Special Forces.

FM William Slim, in effect, changed the way wars are fought today.

Slim, started as Major General in the Burma front, rose up through the ranks while changing the face of the Eastern Campaign of the allies, and transforming the Forgotten Army to a winning one. His campaigns were no less dramatic, no less poignant, no less impactful than the more famour one at El Alamein. He was commissioned into the Royal Warwickshire Regiment at the outbreak of WWI, saw first action (and injury) at Gallipoli and then in Mesopotamia. He was transferred to the 6th Gurkha Rifles and later to the 7th. He, in WWII, saw action in Sudan, Ethiopia, Eritrea (got hit during a strafing in Agordat). Then again in Iraq, Persia and finally in the Burma front. He retired as Field Marshall and the Chief of Imperial General Staff. Uncle Bill Slim, rightly, is attributed with the transformation of the way battles are run in terms of tactical and rapid retreats, joint services operations and super effective supply chains.

Image Courtesy Akhil Kadilal’s blog post on the Chindits.

John Masters eventually got famous more because of what he wrote, particularly fiction, than for his military exploits. He wrote a score of fiction novels from 1951 – 1983. Among his non-fiction work, his three part autobiography is a delightful read. Born in India, he graduated from Sandhurst into the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry and then into 4th Prince of Wales’ Gurkha Rifles[1]. He saw action in the North Western Frontier, Iraq, Syria, Persia, and then in Burma as a Chindit. In Burma, he got temporary promotions to acting Brigadier.

Now that we know who these men are, let us consider the intersections and commonalities and interesting trivia.

Both John Masters and Gen Chaudhuri were born in Bengal, trained at Sandhurst (of course), went to the staff college at Quetta (to learn and teach). Chudhuri in 1939-40, and Masters in 1942. Slim attended too, in 1929. Chaudhuri went back in 1943 as an instructor. Both Masters and Chaudhuri spent time being posted in Saugor, the latter attending the equitation course. Both of them saw action in Burma, and both died within a month of each other[2].

Staff college, Quetta in 1910.

Wingate started early with non-conventional battle with executing ambushes to trap armed poachers in Sudan and was quite at home in the jungles. Later in Palestine[3] , he raised a small commando team. The special squads that he raised, were used to conduct night raids on Iraq Petroleum Company’s pipelines[4]. He raised the Chindits, in effect, the world’s first Special Forces to operate deep behind enemy lines. The two Chindits operations had little military impact. The formation, in fact, lost about 1/3rd of its men (more due to non-battle reasons). But, they did have a tremendous impact in terms of morale. Guess where these men trained. In Ramgarh for a while, and then at Dhana (Madhya Pradesh) where a military station thrives. Wingate’s residential bungalow is the current Station Commandant’s office. Dhana is just 23 km away from Saugor[5].

Wingate was supremely politically savvy and managed to use Churchill and Mountbatten to get himself stuck down Slim’s throat to authorize both the Chindits operations (Operation Longcloth, and Operation Thursday).

Lt. Gen. (then Maj. Gen.) David “Joe” Lentaigne also of 4th GR, poached Masters into the 111th Indian Infantry Brigade (a Chindits formation). Masters served under Lentaigne when the latter took over the Chindits after Wingate’s untimely death in an air crash near Imphal. Lentaigne, to (then Lt. Gen.) Slim, was the obvious choice. The liking wasn’t quite shared by the Chindits themselves, and less so by Masters who served directly under Lentaigne. Masters continued to speak less than charitably about Lentaigne in his autobiography[6] and rather bitterly about the battles that he participated in.

Masters wrote, rather successfully. Chaudhuri wrote two books as well. During 1934-37, Slim did too. He wrote some novels and short stories under the pen name Anthony Mills.

All of them saw action in Sudan, Eritrea, Abyssinia, in the Mesopotamia region and Burma. All of them lived in India for a period of time, at least during the war. All of them got trained or gave training[7] in, then undivided, India. For each of these four, their acquaintance started in Africa. These acquaintances, fate and the war brought them to Burma. Of these Masters served under Wingate. Wingate knew Slim from Africa. It is not clear whether ‘Muchhu’[8] Chaudhuri (then a Lt. Col.) knew any of the other three personally except that he might have bumped into Masters in Quetta during his second stint there.

These are the dots that I connected. If you have more, I would love to hear.

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[1] This regiment continues to exist today in the Indian Army, as the illustrious 4 Gurkha Rifles

[2] John Masters (7^th May, 1983), J N Chaudhuri (6^th April, 1983)

[3] He turned into a Zionist around this time, and trained (to be famous later)  Zvi Brenner and Moshe Dayan

[4] You can see something very similar in the Tintin album – Tintin and the Land of Black Gold

[5] Now known as Sagar and houses the Mahar Regimental Centre

[6] The second volume of Masters’ autobiography, titled The Road Past Mandalay, deals more with the Burma campaign, and bitterly so. He wrote a series of novels with a central character from the (fictitious) Savage family, the stories placed primarily in India. The most famous one, Bhowani Junction was also made into a movie with Ava Gardener playing a key role.

[7] Slim was appointed head of the Senior Officers’ School in Belgaum, in 1939

[8] Nicknamed thus because of his mustache.

Hrvatska 02: Zagreb on 15mm

Day 2

Day 2, but still tired. Woke up because of human noise outside the room, closer to 10 in the morning. The drapes had blocked out light, and thankfully so because I dragged myself out of bed somehow, eye lids still uncooperative, head insolent, back following Newton’s first and legs stubborn. Didn’t take matter much to conquer the mind. Usual required cleanup and back to bed. Body made the decision to continue to be at a state of rest till it was closer to time for me to meet my local pro photog friend. Somewhere mid afternoon. After all why not, isn’t this what holidays are supposed to be. Get us to slow down, perhaps. My first mistake on this trip was yet again trying to do too much and go to three towns in ten days.

Breakfast was somehow obtained after it was shut down, because it was past civilized breakfast time, and was followed by a dive back into the bed. Gradually, it was mid afternoon and I walked downstairs to meet Roman Martin. His body of work is superb; you can see part of his portfolio here.

Roman is a pro based in Zagreb, does assignments for his various clients across Europe, runs photo tours too and then does his usual shoots for various clients. He is also the brand ambassador for Manfrotto and Pentax in Croatia. He showed up on the dot.

Instead of doing a regular orientation tour, walking with a photog worked out much better, because we spoke the same language, understood each other quickly and found common pet peeves and likings in photography, equipment and accessories. Here is one of his shots from our walk together.

Did we see some of the usual sights? Sure, we did. But, we also went to places that tourists usually don’t. Like all Zagrebians do, we started with a coffee near the parks and the old railway station. Who doesn’t like a cup of decent coffee. Coffee is everywhere in Croatia. Called Caffe, but pronounced something like Caffa … a bit similar to Kahwa. Given that this area was the confluence of civilizations with Austro-Hungarians, Romans and the Ottomans having ruled here, no wonder coffee (though isn’t grown) takes a place in a Croatian’s life.

I am akin to clumsiness on tables; my hands take a life of their own, and knock over tumblers and cups on a table. Today, was Roman’s turn to waste his glass of Coke.

We walked through the other side of the Railway Station, clambered on to coaches of trains and surprise waiting passengers. It was time to see the cuboidal Yugoslavia era office buildings, somewhat non-descript except for the graffiti. The station compound overlooks the old Esplanade hotel and also houses small parks with spring blooms and exercising machines.

We walked and shot and chatted about new equipment, idiosyncracies of manufacturers, why they should not make software on their own and how they have started using cheap stuff on their costly camera bodies (e.g. rubbish grade strap that Nikon and Pentax provide). We talked about the silliness of people who buy super heavy cameras for outdoor shooting and that even decent point and clicks (his Ricoh GR II for example) which do superbly well.

Meanwhile, I got acquainted with my new 15mm IRIX lens. It was designed in Switzerland, made in Korea, bought by me (an Indian), shipped from Poland to my friend in England. Globalization, you would say.

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Quick review of the IRIX 15mm f/2.4 Firefly lens – sharp, even at the corners. Clean build, different looking. The focus ring has a convenient lever (like the Leicas used to have) and a notch for infinity focus. Very handy.

The threads for filters aren’t that smooth. Unscrewing a polarizer out, was a bitch. The twist-on shade leaves a blur on images on the left hand bottom corner, and takes some effort to pull out of the lens. The blur isn’t a whole lot, can be cropped out … but clearly a bummer.

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The Royal Opera was the next stop. It is a yellow painted limestone building, on the base format of the Vienna Opera from the time of the Austro-Hungarian rule. Just that it is smaller, and less ornate. Many of the buildings from the same period are around and give the feel (though not just quite) of Vienna. Spent some time at the National Archives, which used to be the University Library. We walked the streets to the old and Upper Town, Gornji Grad and heard about how people in upper town had a huge problem with the Opera house being built in the Lower Town (Donji Grad). It is less than a kilometer away. The famous St Marks is here, so are the cobbled streets and views of the rest of the city. The famous blue whale is here too and are the museums including the strangely famous Museum of Broken Relationships. We walked and shot, marking spots that I need to revisit.

We ambled our way back down to the Dolac, where the city fresh market is set up every morning. We had some time to kill, and ambled around. Roman fed me some Fritules smothered with Nutella. Warm and sweet. Unhealthy, and decidedly delicious.

Some time was also spent at Zagreb 360, the viewing tower of the 16th floor of a building right next to the old Dubrovnik Hotel. The views are gorgeous, and even more on a bright day. We reached just a bit before sunset, but the cloud cover put paid to photo ops. Roman arranged for the passes and the drinks were on the house, thanks to his connections.

Back at the Ban Jelačić square, I grabbed some brats for dinner as I intended to keep walking around for a bit. This little popular kiosk (called Fantastic) at the corner of the temporary fair, is run by a mother son team. If you like hot dogs, and bratwursts, this is the place to go to have some and wash it down with beer (or whatever other liquid you like).

Day 03

Next day was to check off an item on the bucket list. The winds were bad in the morning at high altitude and rain was forecast. Not ideal conditions for a skydive. All that I could do was wait patiently for a message from the skydiving company to let me know if the winds were calming down or not.

Walked about town, spending time, on standby, walking the streets. But, earlier in the morning went out to the Dolac (pronounced Dolats, with a soft ‘s’) before the tourists showed up. Only local sellers and buyers. Many local folk wonder why do tourists spend so much time at a market taking pictures of vegetables. Fair point, I think. But, know what? There are vegetables, fruits, flowers, fish, meat, cheese and dairy. The market is vibrant, the produce are beautiful looking, the energy palpable and many coffee shops (of course) with local folk (many senior citizens lazing) around. What is there not to like?

Dolac is food porn land. The strawberries looked so nice that I bought a kg of them, and the seller threw in some more for the same price. They are called Jagoda, in Hrvatska (Croatian) and there is also a super market chain here by that name. Unfortunately, I ended up wasting most of them; no way, I would have managed to eat all of them. Hopefully, the housekeeping lady at the hotel ate and enjoyed some of them.

The fish market isn’t different. Fresh fish of all kinds and such a hub of activity i the morning. Same for the meat market too, most of which is underground. The Balkans seem to be good with their meats and like their meat cured and preserved. Plenty of it, from all kinds of animals, all types of cuts. Same for cheese. Many fromageries, many types of cheeses to buy or even sample. BTW, when you are here (and if you are a non-vegetarian), try out some of the ham or the proscuitto. Divine. Good to travel home with you. Go visit the Dolac, preferably on a sunny day. It is a delight.

It is a little difficult to shoot at the Dolac because of the crowd and the locals do not reallyappreciate

Who was Sachindranath Sanyal?

Book Review: The Ocean of Churn
Title: The Ocean of Churn: How the Indian Ocean Shaped Human History
Author(s): Sanjeev Sanyal
First Published: 2016

Alert: Political bias, long read, nationalistic tinge

The name of the book reminded me of the Churn of Oceans (Sagar Manthan, and the resulting Amrita Kumbha carried by Mohini), rather than the Ocean of Churn. But the book isn’t about our cultural tales, but more about history of the geographic zone that we inhabit. That is what the author does a good job of.

Had I tried to purchase this book after reading “Indian Railways: The Weaving of a National Tapestry”, some trepidation would have risen in my mind. After all Sanjeev Sanyal’s supervisor in the Economic Advisory Committee, Bibek Debroy, is one of the “authors” of the copy-paste drivel that I have referred to above. He is quoted on the back cover of Sanjeev’s book, saying “Sanjeev Sanyal tells us wonderful stories about the Indian Ocean. It is history, geography and commerce rolled into one. An excellent read”. Given Debroy’s clear lack of attention to detail, as displayed in his other book (reviewed here), his praising a book means little. He might not even have read the book.

Before starting to write, I wanted to check what other people said about the book. One Shiv Visvanathan, in the Hindu, perhaps because of his affiliations and where the review was printed, could not stop himself from taking ‘sinister’ jabs. He felt hurt by Sanjeev’s saying, of Marxism, “like some Victorian steam engine driven by the inescapable laws of Newton”. If Visvanathan came out of the box that communism has painted for him, he would comprehend Sanjeev’s explanation through Complexity and the need for additional detail would be obviated.

Sanjeev Sanyal is an economist, a Rhodes scholar, has worked on international development projects, been a banker and is currently the Principal Economic Advisor to the Ministry of Finance. Given the current dispensation at the helm, that automatically tarnishes Sanjeev as being a right-winger-saffron-tainted-patriarchal-cow-dung-loving-bigot. So, Visvanathan being keen on a debate between NCERT historians (?) and Sanjeev is to be expected.

Visvanathan calls Sanjeev an “amateur historian”; am guessing as opposed to “historians” like Ramchandra Guha, Irfan Habib, Romila Thapar and William Dalrymple. Not only do I agree, but I would go as far as saying Sanjeev Sanyal isn’t a historian at all. He appears, to me, as someone who researches with the tremendous tenacity of a quant-economist, to satisfy the immense curiosity, about our civilisation’s past, that he nurtures so lovingly. That maybe the reason why his book reads like a collection of lecture notes; not too detailed, yet providing enough flavour while covering a vast time period and geographic expanse. Each of the chapters in this book could easily turn into individual books in their own right. A book like this, isn’t meant to be academic; isn’t an R C Majumdar, a Jadunath Sarkar or a Suniti K Chatterjee, but is tuned to today’s world with people of short attention spans. Pop-history? Maybe. This book, I believe, is a wonderful base for someone who wants to read further and delve into a particular area by starting with the 17 pages of bibliography. Keeping with the tone with the book, my review flits from topic to topic as well.

Anyhow, I got down to reading the book three years after I bought it, between the loud announcements in planes, “mind your arms”, “gourmet coffee” on board, the fear of a P&W engine failure (for two airlines), not wanting to interact with staff for fear of being beaten up or abused (one of those two airlines) and playing with the phone during domestic flights in my last two months’ effort of seeing my own country.

Sanjeev’s writing style is lucid, flows well but the book is crammed with information deserving more than a casual read. He covers the subject, keeping India at the fulcrum, stretching all the way to Australia in the east, and definitely to the eastern sea board of Africa in the west, foraying northwards into the Red sea and across; anything which is connected to the Indian Ocean and the adjoining water bodies, perhaps naturally so, because the histories of these lands and their peoples have been interlinked through time. His story telling lithely dances between tribes in Africa, the Hindu (or Hindustani) influence across the shores of the Arab world, of course India and its maritime forays, the far east, the Mongol influence on China and its trade fleets, all the way from pre-historic times to 2015 into independent India.

India’s influence in South East Asia is palpable, even today. Not just in terms of religion and culture but even in terms of names of towns and cities, or even where people trace their routes to Ayodhya.

The book starts off when the land masses on our planet were moving about causing rift valleys somewhere, and some masses clashing into others; moves through possible human migrations across this entire geography into Indo-China, and all the way to Australia. DNA matches today show the possibility of the Australian aborigines having migrated from greater India long time ago. He picks up civilizational threads with the Mehrgarh (in Bolan Valley) around 6000 BCE and touches upon the lasting impact that the Saraswati valley civilization (Dholavira and Lothal) has had on this civilisation. He draws similarity of culture, and continuing patches of Indian-ness still existing in many parts of world from far-east to even as far as Bahrain. Maybe he could have touched upon the fact that Bahrain (or that area) was a transit port for merchandise when beads and fabric was being exported from India, till about some 2500 years ago. 

Dholavira, only a part of which has been excavated must have been quite a city with its immaculate planning, civic amenities and flourishing trade.

He talks about the Chinese, and the Hindu influence across Indo China, Thailand, Vietnam, and as far as Bali. Today, we know of the vibrance of Hindu culture in Bali, the influence of Buddhism and Hinduism all the way to Japan.

Kollam in Mylapore festival in Chennai

There are two streams of thought which seems to permeate all across the book.

Matrilinearity of dynasties: Sanjeev talks, rightly, about matrilinear dynasties and families rather than Matriarchy, the latter being practiced rarely if at all. Earliest traces can be found perhaps in Mahabharat with Uloopi. The lineage traveling through women, has not been uncommon in the subcontinent or even eastwards of India.

Debunking of some myths which have been deliberately propagated, and have perhaps seeped into our collective understanding.

• • He does talk about the Aryan Invasion a bit. This remains one of the biggest weapons of the ‘other side’ because of its direct link to race theory.

• • Ashoka the great’s, greatness gets tarnished in the book and rightly so. The kindness of his heart, becoming a Buddhist and Kalinga war become somewhat out of sync temporally on closer inspection. Bottomline is that Ashoka abdicated from his dharma, his raj-dharma in fact, and might have been the cause of a long-drawn decline.
  • Of the recent times, he touches upon the patriot myth of Tipu Sultan who was after all a genocidal-converting maniac trying to protect his kingdom from the British. Nothing to do with love for this land.

There are a few more that I wish he had touched upon. The history, as we have been told, is rife with these. Three, of the many others, that that I can think of, right away, are:

• • Alexander (the great) getting walloped at India’s borders, hearing about the mighty Nanda of Magadh, running away, likely to die of poisoning (arrow injury near Lahore) and diarrhoea while crossing Baluchistan.

• • Akbar, and his fake greatness taking a jolt because he didn’t really (Sikandra, Fatehpur Sikri etc.), wasn’t secular at all and allegedly was a womanizing ruler (ref – Meena Bazar).
  • And that Mughals or invaders before or after them built nothing in this land. Not Qutab Minar, not the two Red Forts, not the two Jama Masjids, the large spectacular Baolis, Not Taj Mahal, not the Sikandra mausoleum, not Fatehpur Sikri and not even what is today Humayun’s tomb.

The book travels through the millennia, finally winding down around 2015. During this time, as he traverses quite a few times to the far east, he brings forth stories (often of valour and sacrifice) and incidents from what is today Indonesia, and particularly Bali.

He also peppers his narration with lesser known delights like that of SMS Emden which ran amok in the Indian Ocean during WWI destroying and crippling many vessels, and even launched 125 shells at Madras finally to be put to rest by HMAS Sydney. 

He continues to come back to the topic of Indian soldiers having participated in missions all across except perhaps in the Americas. The level of participation in theatres of war is astounding. This from folk lore (before even cleanly recorded history) to the modern day when India continues to be one of the largest contributors to the UN Peace Keeping forces.  Sanjeev speaks, through gritted teeth, about the support the British garnered from the Mahatma to have Indian soldiers fight their wars. One campaign of bravery that did get missed in the book is the battle of Haifa where the Indian regiments, comprising primarily the Jodhpur and Mysore Lancers and troops from Hyderabad, Patiala and Alwar attacked rear-guard the Ottoman troops resulting in the capture of Haifa and Acre. Israel remembers this wit gratitude, but all that we have to show for such a campaign is the Teen Murti statue in Delhi, and two insignificant memorials in Bangalore.

The book, as I mentioned above, talks about rise and fall. Whether it might be about Saraswati valley, the Indian kingdoms in the middle ages, the wealth in temples, the hunt for an effective spice route or even the colonial powers. His ability to show the demise of the kingdoms and the winding down of India’s maritime powers is fluent along with the growth of foreigners into Kerala. Rather interestingly, two reviewers refer to the declining maritime powers but could not find a reason mentioned by Sanjeev. This is rather amusing because Sanjeev has mentioned this clearly, of course based on circumstantial evidence. One doesn’t expect a fact-based writer to conjure imagined reasons. One ventures that either the reviewers have not read the book in detail, or have just copied each other’s reviews. The first is one Niranjan Rajadhyaksha whose review appeared in the Mint (16/08/16) followed by the one (referred above) four days later.

There are of course many pieces of work which talk about vicissitudes of kingdoms, but rarely do books talk about different sea faring empires from India. The Maratha empire, Kanhoji Angre and the Maratha navy for instance. The only public place where you can read about the exploits of the Maratha navy are at the museum at INS Dronacharya in Kochi., mull over this for a second – most books on history of our nation, and this region have been land-oriented. This one is an exception, and unique. In addition, his meticulous (and obviously) painstaking sincere research corralling logical constructs from genetic studies, archaeological finds, genetic studies, archived documents and local folk tales is stupendous. Sanjeev’s travel, either to write the book, or otherwise contributes greatly. It is evident that many of the places that he talks about, he has visited personally and that first-hand experience brings a level of sincerity.

There is only one thing that I believe could be have been different. Sanjeev gets emotional with what he writes in the last maybe 100 pages of the book which covers modern India, primarily before independence and some after. His outrage is understandable, but that makes him sectionally unpopular and will cause him trouble if the political dispensation at the helm were to change and him and his likes (Vikram Sampath, Hindol Sengupta etc.). But, these 100 pages are important. They talk about our freedom struggle and unashamedly about what type of people really contributed to our gaining independence. It brings to light a person who is almost forgotten, Sachindranath Sanyal. Few remember that this man was the fulcrum of revolutionary activity across the country, caused Rashbehari and Netaji to meet, arranged for their escapes and was sent to the Cellular Jail twice. Let that sink in, twice! There is little that you can find online about him, or even in print. I could find his autobiography “Bandi Jeevan (life in imprisonment)” only in Hindi and references to him in another book titled “The Banaras Conspiracy Case”. Of course, without much pre-work, I could not trace anything about him or his colleagues in Kashi in two of my trips. He, his friends, and the likes have been forgotten for all practical purposes. We choose to remember who we have been taught to remember.

As in case of faith and religion, rebirth of the fervor for independence revolved around Kashi. This image is at the prayer hall at Satya Loke (Lahiri Mahashay’s great grandson’s house). The image shows among others, Lahiri Mahashay and Mahavatar Babaji.

Towards the end of the book when he talks about this geography through the sixties and the nineties, he draws a parallel between Lee Kwan Yew and Nelson Mandela and what made them astute and great leaders of their nations, and capable of changing their destinies. This, I believe, is not an often cited and astute observation. What is stark, unfortunately, is the lack of a similar instance at our independence or even later where selfish interests might have damaged our destinies forever.

Though the book is about greatness (either earned, thrust upon or just marketed), valour, pride but also about failures, some of them deliberate. The very last line of the book, “Time devours the greatest of men and the mightiest of empires”, very Shelley’s Ozymandias like,  is what stitches the book together. By the time one is done with the book, a tone of melancholy sets in.

There is plenty about the book that I have not covered. However, this book, or something similar deserves to be part of school syllabi for class VIII, and IX . Yes, that is a pipe dream. Meanwhile Sanjeev Sanyal continues to try and wake Kumbhakarna up.

All photographs (except top) are copyright the author.

Indian Railways: The Weaving of a National Tapestry: Book Review

Nilgiri Heritage Mountain Railway Workshop, Coonoor.

Book Review: Indian Railways: The Weaving of a National Tapestry
Title: Indian Railways: The Weaving of a National Tapestry
Author(s): Bibek Debroy, Vidya Krishnamoorthy, Sanjay Chadha
First Published: 2017

Gurcharan Das is a self-proclaimed public intellectual. So is Ramchandra Guha. Gurcharan Das has written books, has been on various government committees and opines on everything. He has had a good corporate career, has run Procter and Gamble in India, has had three case studies on him been used at the Harvard Business School. So, there is a fair amount of credibility there. He also has written the foreword for Indian Railways: The Weaving of a National Tapestry and that made me buy the book, besides Bibek Debroy being one of the authors. Debroy is, after all, fairly celebrated as far as policy-making economists are concerned, in our country. He used to be a part of the Niti Ayog till earlier this month and continues to be Chairman of the Economic Advisory Council to the Prime Minister.

The other two authors are Vidya Krishnamoorthy, registered as a young professional occupying room 118A at the Niti Ayog, and Sanjay Chadha is an Additional Secretary in the Ministry of Commerce.

The book’s back cover says, ‘The railways brought modernity to India’, and the book is an ‘engagingly written, anecdotally told history’ of an institution that ‘still weaves the nation together.’ It is an appealing set of words, and the credentials of the authors, who were colleagues on an official committee, are nothing short of impressive.

This book, traces the genesis of the colossus called Indian Railways picking from the need, how the politics came together, how some of the Indian efforts (including that of Debendranath Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore’s father) were put to rest. The book talks about how the different railways in the country came about and how, first the East India Company, and then the British Government went through almost a quagmire of a path to sanction the different routes.

If you do not have a source of gaining information about our railways, its genesis, the history of different trains, this is a good place to start. The story of Indian Railways, undoubtedly, is fascinating. Though the reason for its advent (or the multiple privately-run networks and lines) was only commercially motivated; less for passenger traffic than cargo for certain. The one other reason, not stressed enough is the need to move troops across India from the bases, regimental headquarters and cantonments. One should keep in mind that the railways started spreading after 1857. It is a fact that John Company did find it arduous to move troops as quickly as they would have wanted; e.g. to break the siege of Lucknow.

The Railways have fascinated many authors, including these three who were colleagues in the Committee for Mobilization of Resources for Major Railway Projects and Restructuring of Railway Ministry and Railway Board. The committee headed by Debroy also had Gurcharan Das, I discovered, as a member. As I read through this 319-page report, it became clear that it is an assessment report at best which twists and turns, reports many points of data that the Indian Railways likely already knows. It compares Indian Railways, matching data with those in Japan, Russia, the US, Pakistan, Bangladesh, the UK, and China. Except one, all apples and oranges because of reasons more than one. The report has been fattened by backward looking data, unnecessary large-format histograms (with less than three data points each), pages of graphs made by someone starting to learn Excel, data points and table which fail to relate the past to what the future might look like, PowerPoint bullet point slides enlarged to cover a page and points of data which fail to bring together a story or decent point of view. Young, green-behind-the-ears consultants from a decent consulting company would have done a significantly better job. And I mean, significantly better.

But, I digress. Three types of writing behavior have carried over from the report to the book.

First is the lack of proofreading (in edit) thus overlooking grammatical errors, and the lack of a coherent story.

Second is writing by picking material and doing copy paste. Many of the anecdotes, artifacts (letters for instance), and photographs have been lifted from the Indian Railways Fan Club web site (this web site is superb in its content, just so that you know) with little real addition from the authors.

Third is that the authors have chosen not to do serious legwork. They, or their errand boys, it does seem to appear, have not even bothered to visit the Railways museums (and we have quite a few in the country now) and workshops to learn or even shoot pictures on the ground.

Different chapters of the book read differently in styles of writing, some of them are colloquial in language, at best. There are pieces of information that are repeated. There are instances of different numerical values being used for the same data point, in two different pages. Grammar in many places is just incorrect. There are typos implying the fact that neither the authors nor Penguin have bothered to even run a grammar check e.g. There actually is a sentence in the book which has in the middle “is was”.

Maybe, the authors snagged some interns and made them write the book for a pittance while they continued to spend the government’s money (aka your tax money) doing “work” for the Railways reforms committee and its report.

Debroy might be a good author (otherwise) and perhaps has done some stellar work in his translations. But, if he has put his name on this book and is earning money out of it, I would expect some ownership, some attention to detail. His having been part of the Niti Ayog and now being the Chairman of the Economic Advisory Council, with this quality of work, is deeply concerning. Someone with this level of lack of ownership should not be helping devise the economic policies of the country.

Sanjay Chadha’s contribution to the book is unclear. However, Vidya Krishnamoorthy was the compiler of the Railway’s report and is likely the one who has put this book together as well. Should she have been employed in the corporate world, she would have lost her job for the quality of her work.

Gurcharan Das, it is clear that either you have not read the book or have written the foreword as a mutual back-patting society member. In either case, you have demonstrated a clear lack of integrity. If not, then your quality of work is underwhelming and it is time you faded away from public life.

Then, as far as Penguin goes…If you can’t employ proofreaders and have no editors in your rolls anymore, then you should give up the business. Please refund my money, I will send this drivel back to you.

Finally, for you the reader. Please visit the IRFCA web site instead. That way, your intelligence will not be insulted. I found the IRFCA web site to be a delight, and a wealth of easily found information on this miracle called the Indian Railways.

An Indian Summer : Book Review

Title: An Indian Summer
Author: James Cameron
First Published: 1974

A middle-aged man, in love with and married to someone much younger and of a different nationality. After being in a head-on collision with a truck, making his way to the newly formed Bangladesh border in pouring rain, in the opposite direction of the refugees pouring in from the east, recovering from an open heart and his teeth being pulled out (to avoid any infection), Cameron wrote “Indian Summer”. Somewhat of a memoir, something of his observations about India (and Britain) and sketches about cities, our people and personalities that we are familiar with, or not or have been expected to revere.

If you do not like writing which is frank and provides honest feedback, this book isn’t for you. Especially, if you are Indian or British and if you are “liberal” minded. James Cameron, working for a “lightish” journalistic assignment, is back in India as he had been a few times, in the last three decades. It is clear from his writing, his relationship with the nation is like that with a feisty mistress who loves, hates, gives tremendous heart ache, is vengeful and yet sets the bed aflame in the night, in the morning and in the afternoon. All without notice, unpredictably. And the marks (of all those) remain.

Embed from Getty Images

What was serendipitous for me was discovering that his young bride Monisha Cameron (later married Denis Forman, after Cameron’s passing away) was from Bangalore and that he spent some time here, working and musing over the way people around were. Her father was a police officer (then retired) and had taken residence in a bungalow, with a retinue of servants right here in Richards Town, in Bangalore where I currently live. Cameron mentions many things which are familiar in this neighbourhood, and also other places and local institutions of the city that we Bangaloreans have grown to be fond of, like the Westend Hotel (now a Taj).

With Moni (fondly referred to thus), he goes through journeys and much else. He speaks of his arrival at Bombay airport only to realise that the hotel where his reservations were supposed to be, have not received the telegram. While he tries to resurrect the reservation or get accommodation in a different hotel. He writes “…they looked back at us with patient, courteous indifference, hoping we would go away. They had all the time in the world and we had not; They could afford to wait.

In this situation, India will always win. There is no purpose in being right if one is powerless …”

His humour is beyond cheeky, and style of writing almost gleeful. His observations, as the newly married couple travel through Calcutta, Madras, Delhi, Bombay and parts of Rajasthan, are nothing short of merciless and scathing, but polite. His admiration open and honest. Consider these.

He had spent some time with Nehru, even riding together every morning in Simla, and were much more than acquaintances. Apart from much else, he describes Nehru as a “purposeless tyrant”. Similarly, he finds Jinnah to be more concerned about his attire than even what was to be Pakistan. He recounts that Jinnah had run away from an interview upon noticing that his servant had dressed him in a pair of not matching cufflinks.

One senses faint but mixed admiration for Mrs. Gandhi and absolute disgust for Attlee, and the then British government during India’s independence and cleaving.

He comments on the corruption, the filth, rows of Indians doing their morning number two, facing away from railway tracks. Cameron, towards the beginning, uses verbiage from Naipaul “Indians defecate everywhere. They defecate mostly by the railway tracks…”. Naipaul gives much consideration to this phenomenon in An Area of Darkness as does Cameron. But, then again if you are unable to appreciate Naipaul’s jabs about India, you won’t Cameron’s either.

He shows sympathy for the thousands of Hindu refugees coming in from East Pakistan, spends time with the then Maharana of Jodhpur. Jodhpur, he was young then, speaks about the removal of the privy purse, but with less hurt than the rubbing of the nose in dirt that Mrs. Gandhi deliberately gave all the erstwhile princely states.

His admiration, for Nirad Choudhuri, the latter used to live somewhere near Asaf Ali Road in Delhi those days, is sky high and unadulterated; but mixed with some sympathy. “…Choudhuri was for me by far and away the most interesting and complicated English writer in contemporary India”. “I greatly wish I could read as much, and remember as much, as that little Nirad Choudhuri. I know I shall never be able to do that”. Of the Autobiography of an Unknown Indian, which was dedicated “To the British Empire…”, he describes the Indian intelligentsia immediately swallowing the bait and twittering with indignation. “Having read no more than the dedication they did not appreciate that it was a monstrous tease…”. Not much, sadly, has changed in India even now. The intelligentsia is the same, their malaises likewise.

His views of some of our cities seem rather relevant and astute. Of Madras, he writes “Madras has not the second hand self importance of New Delhi nor the hysterical ugliness of Bombay, it is a million miles from the despairing horrors of Calcutta. It is an agreeable, rather boring place; it is the sort of place I would be if I were a town.”

Cameron’s writing in a way is something like that of Malcom Muggeridge, rather stylish in a literary sense, but autobiographical and yet journalistic in nature. With the backdrop of his recent marriage, perhaps makes his story more compassionate than just plain journalistic essay in long form. He is self-deprecating often, slightly morose about his age, the accident, the surgeries, and his ill-health.

By the way, those of you know only James Cameron the movie director might want to look up the journalist (also author of more than a dozen books). He was good enough for a prize to be instituted in his name, for journalism. Since 2017, the University of London kept the memorial lecture, but the prize was replaced by the Eric Robbins prize.

His prose is tight, observations beautiful and the book, slim and deceptively delightful, superbly entertaining and honest.