How do I know this PhD, this office, this subject, constitutes the right path for me? Because they do not feel alien or look new. I recognize them as I would old friends. Or new ones who feel like old ones.
How do I know this man is right for me? Because I remembered his face the first time I saw it.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Ellora - II
After the lushness of Kailasa, a walk around the hillside to the Buddhist and Jain caves feels either like a cool breeze or a splash of icewater. Depending on how much you melted at Shiva's feet. It felt like a splash of cold water to me. And I was completely swept away. There is something even more moving about the Buddhist caves. Their austerity only highlights the perfection of technique, the expressions on the Buddha's face leap out at you all the more because he is the only one in the room. There is no throng of people here, living, dying. No ceaseless press of life. There is only being, no becoming. And yet, there is nothing static about these caves. Some of the images that have stayed with me:
Inside a small, small chamber, the Buddha is seated in a teaching position. His eyes are shut and he is smiling that halfsmile of his that makes all of your smiles suddenly seem fake by comparison. (New personal challenge for 2007: Smile one cosmic smile.) You walk the length of the empty cave up to this tiny chamber at the far end. All the while, you imagine that the Buddha is alone in there. You peep inside, mesmerised by that smile. You don't notice that on either side of this tiny chamber, there are two perfect creatures looking down at you from either side. Door gaurds. They actually keep you out. The sight of them is so unexpected, they look so real, so vibrant, so from-somewhere-else, you feel a whole lot of healthy respect and a great deal of awe, and you are prevented from taking that step into the sanctum. (Though the marks on the inside walls prove that I might be a fool for thinking this way - people have obviously gone right in.)
Inside the Vishwakarma, a hundred impressions first crowd for space and then melt away as you drown in the mighty face in front of you. Two things that struck me immediately: Between the pillars and the walls of the dimly lit cave, you can only see darkness receeding into the distance. You imagine it stretching all the way to the end of the cave, where, ultimately, it will curve around the back of the seated Buddha and you will get a glimmer of light from the only window in the room. At this point, you will be sharing a piece of the sky with him. From the entrance of the cave, those passages look like doorways to other worlds.
Secondly - Inside this cave, the acoustics magnify the slightest sound. There is no other ornamentation, hardly any light. In the looming darkness, the Buddha seats enormously, lit only by one shaft of pale sunshine. The pillars on either side are almost oppressive. The ceiling looks like a ribcage. You are inside a spiritbody. And there is nothing else. You cannot think a single coherent thought, you feel the impulse to whisper. But far from being oppressive, the overall impression is one of liberation. There is nothing else.
After I have taken my photos, I walk outside to put on my shoes and change my mind. The cave is totally empty now. I run inside, kneel at his feet and press my forehead to the ground. I look up and smile, and run out again before anyone else has a chance to come in.
Inside a small, small chamber, the Buddha is seated in a teaching position. His eyes are shut and he is smiling that halfsmile of his that makes all of your smiles suddenly seem fake by comparison. (New personal challenge for 2007: Smile one cosmic smile.) You walk the length of the empty cave up to this tiny chamber at the far end. All the while, you imagine that the Buddha is alone in there. You peep inside, mesmerised by that smile. You don't notice that on either side of this tiny chamber, there are two perfect creatures looking down at you from either side. Door gaurds. They actually keep you out. The sight of them is so unexpected, they look so real, so vibrant, so from-somewhere-else, you feel a whole lot of healthy respect and a great deal of awe, and you are prevented from taking that step into the sanctum. (Though the marks on the inside walls prove that I might be a fool for thinking this way - people have obviously gone right in.)
Inside the Vishwakarma, a hundred impressions first crowd for space and then melt away as you drown in the mighty face in front of you. Two things that struck me immediately: Between the pillars and the walls of the dimly lit cave, you can only see darkness receeding into the distance. You imagine it stretching all the way to the end of the cave, where, ultimately, it will curve around the back of the seated Buddha and you will get a glimmer of light from the only window in the room. At this point, you will be sharing a piece of the sky with him. From the entrance of the cave, those passages look like doorways to other worlds.
Secondly - Inside this cave, the acoustics magnify the slightest sound. There is no other ornamentation, hardly any light. In the looming darkness, the Buddha seats enormously, lit only by one shaft of pale sunshine. The pillars on either side are almost oppressive. The ceiling looks like a ribcage. You are inside a spiritbody. And there is nothing else. You cannot think a single coherent thought, you feel the impulse to whisper. But far from being oppressive, the overall impression is one of liberation. There is nothing else.
After I have taken my photos, I walk outside to put on my shoes and change my mind. The cave is totally empty now. I run inside, kneel at his feet and press my forehead to the ground. I look up and smile, and run out again before anyone else has a chance to come in.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Ellora - I
I thought I would write about Ellora as soon as I returned home. That way, I reasoned, a lot of the detail would be preserved. I realize now how silly that impulse was: more has been written about Ellora than I can hope to even read, let alone better. And the rapture in the detail can only be experienced, not read about. As for preserving my impressions in their entirety, I'm glad I'm writing late. This way, the ones that have really stuck - the ones that mean the most to me personally, - I can write about. So. Here are some of the things that return to me again and again:- Nataraja, larger than life, dancing the world to ruin and destruction. Underneath his thumping feet, famine, destruction and panic. His arms outstretched, his head tilted back. I recognize that expression as my own. As everyone's. I imagine swirls of energy, of light, of flame, wreathing him. His aura, if he had one, would simmer. It makes me panic just looking at him like that. It makes me cry to see that one of his hands cups the cheek of his wife, seated at his feet. Don't be scared.
- On the opposite wall, Shiva, larger than life, meditating. Shiva as a man. A simple yogi. His expression will come back to me many caves later when I look at the Buddha's peaceful face. And I will recognize it as something not of this world.
- Two lovers engraved on the wall of Kailasa temple: He holds her face and bends down to kiss her. Again, I recognize that kiss. So do you. It is the splitlightsecond before the first I love you. It is the minute before a long parting or the instant when, after your return, you are held once again and feel that no matter how long your journey, the one step into waiting arms is what has brought you home. We all recognize that moment.
- Seven mothers hold their children. Their bodies appear animate with love. 'I remember how my mother used to embrace me. I would look up sometimes and see her weep'.
- Shiva and Parvati. Talking, embracing, cuddling, teaching-and-learning (though in that one she looks tense, nervous. As if he will reproach her for not understanding his point). Kissing. Making love. Standing there so real at the end of dark corridors, so large, so full of energy that I begin to forget that I am in a temple of stone. The first step to this forgetting is when I start to think how lifelike they 'look', and wonder - If stone can be so alive, how infinitely alive am I?! And everyone around me. And these trees! And the rock that makes this mountain, and this air! I take a deep breath and look at the end of this particular corridor again. There, in the dim shadows I see the curve of Parvatis' waist and Shiva's fingers resting lightly against it. I see their bent heads, leaning into each other. The curve of one of her knees. I feel that she feels the strength of the arms that encircle her shoulders. And that's it. I've forgotten that these creatures look alive. They are alive. I've forgotten that centuries separate the sculptor and me. I forget that myth and reality separates Shiva and me. I forget everything, and walk forward smiling, to meet my friend.
I will never, ever, forget that. And I will never, ever say 'looks alive' ever again.
Monday, June 18, 2007
A Letter from India - Part I
Home again. I'd expected big changes - but nothing seems to have changed much. The last time I came here, I was shocked at the general infiltration of MacReebok. This time, there are no new horrors skulking on the horizon - no new malls - and so I suppose there is less awareness of change. But an insidiously unpeaceful feeling is still buzzing in the background of the streets. At first, it's hard to get a feel of. People look happy, shopping with their families. Some stores are even open late - well past dark - and this makes shopping-dinner-movie evenings possible. Great. Good stuff. There are also a slew of new cars to carry people from their new apartments straight to the mall. And tonnes of mobile phones on every corner. There are huge hoardings patchwork-quilting the sky. And everywhere, there are people. A press of people. A throng. A herd. A multitude. A crowd. And it is always moving, this crowd. Ceaselessly. At night, sleepless from jetlag or heartache or both, I can hear the sound of cars and motorbikes. Used to be, I could only hear the odd truck punctuating the sound of crickets from my garden. It used to make me feel like I lived in a border town, somewhere remote and Faraway from everything. Somewhere exotic (only the very naive imagine border towns to be exotic, I was once told. Maybe I am very naive indeed, because I find them utterly beautiful. Exquisite, even.)
Used to be, I knew trees on street corners. Used to be, I could see stars even as I walked down a street in the middle of the city at night. Now, they only appear in the sky after I get back to my house - because we live in the middle of no-light. We have kept the stars, and they gather shyly in the dark above my house. I'm so grateful. So, so grateful for that.
Randomly, and therefore perhaps not quite accurately, these are now the symbols of our success, as I see them pinned, plastered and painted everywhere: Gold palm trees inside malls; the Sphinx; Napoleon and Caesar; Neon; Sex; Noise; New Stores Selling Gloss. It is as if we are all racing towards the places adorned with these symbols because they represent our arrival. We've seen, we've conquered. So what if we have no interest in actually going to Egypt, we can bring the sphinx here. And it can sit outside our multicoloured mall, guarding it. We can put our cigarettes out on its nose. We came, we saw, we acquired.
A part of me is delighted. Another part is appalled. I want no part in this. I want a part in it. The speed is thrilling. The speed is sickening. There are so many people, out on these streets, at night, and they're all (okay, I exaggerate: most of them) are wearing such pretty clothes! But no one is looking at me, no one is seeing me standing here. And I am not seeing them either. We are all simply aware of the press of nameless faceless sexless people, thronging around us, mutual architects of this sense of buzz. The unmistakable smell of a big city on the move. For the first time, I'm lonely on these streets. The lights are so bright. The glare is blinding. But most of all: There are so many people here. I'm so lonely.
Thank God, at least above my house, the stars still shine.
Used to be, I knew trees on street corners. Used to be, I could see stars even as I walked down a street in the middle of the city at night. Now, they only appear in the sky after I get back to my house - because we live in the middle of no-light. We have kept the stars, and they gather shyly in the dark above my house. I'm so grateful. So, so grateful for that.
Randomly, and therefore perhaps not quite accurately, these are now the symbols of our success, as I see them pinned, plastered and painted everywhere: Gold palm trees inside malls; the Sphinx; Napoleon and Caesar; Neon; Sex; Noise; New Stores Selling Gloss. It is as if we are all racing towards the places adorned with these symbols because they represent our arrival. We've seen, we've conquered. So what if we have no interest in actually going to Egypt, we can bring the sphinx here. And it can sit outside our multicoloured mall, guarding it. We can put our cigarettes out on its nose. We came, we saw, we acquired.
A part of me is delighted. Another part is appalled. I want no part in this. I want a part in it. The speed is thrilling. The speed is sickening. There are so many people, out on these streets, at night, and they're all (okay, I exaggerate: most of them) are wearing such pretty clothes! But no one is looking at me, no one is seeing me standing here. And I am not seeing them either. We are all simply aware of the press of nameless faceless sexless people, thronging around us, mutual architects of this sense of buzz. The unmistakable smell of a big city on the move. For the first time, I'm lonely on these streets. The lights are so bright. The glare is blinding. But most of all: There are so many people here. I'm so lonely.
Thank God, at least above my house, the stars still shine.
Monday, June 04, 2007
The Scream
An excerpt from Slavoj Zizek's The Parallax View that I found on http://radicalpolitics.wordpress.com :
_____________________________________________________
In the beginning is the scream. We scream.
When we write or when we read, it is easy to forget that the beginning is not the word, but the scream. Faced with the mutilation of human lives by capitalism, a scream of sadness, a scream of horror, a scream of anger, a scream of refusal: NO.
The starting point of theoretical reflection is opposition, negativity, struggle. It is from rage that thought is born, not from the pose of reason, not from the reasoned-sitting-back-and-reflecting-on-the-mysteries-of-existence that is the conventional image of 'the thinker'.
We start from negation, from dissonance. The dissonance can take many shapes. An inarticulate mumble of discontent, tears of frustration, a scream of rage, a confident roar. An unease, a confusion, a longing, a critical vibration.
(…)
And so they urge us (and we feel the need) to study society, and to study social and political theory. And a strange thing happens. The more we study society, the more our negativity is dissipated or sidelined as being irrelevant. There is no room for the scream in academic discourse. More than that: academic study provides us with a language and a way of thinking that makes it very difficult for us to express our scream. The scream, if it appears at all, appears as something to be explained, not as something to be articulated. The scream, from being the subject of our questions about society, becomes the object of analysis. Why is it that we scream? Or rather, since we are now social scientists, why is it that they scream? How do we explain social revolt, social discontent? The scream is systematically disqualified by dissolving it into its context. It is because of infantile experiences that they scream, because of their modernist conception of the subject, because of their unhealthy diet, because of the weakening of family structures: all of these explanations are backed up by statistically supported research. The scream is not entirely denied, but it is robbed of all validity. By being torn from 'us' and projected on to a 'they', the scream is excluded from the scientific method. When we become social scientists, we learn that the way to understand is to pursue objectivity, to put our own feelings on one side. It is not so much what we learn as how we learn that seems to smother our scream. It is a whole structure of thought that disarms us.
And yet none of the things which made us so angry to start off with have disappeared. We have learnt, perhaps, how they fit together as parts of a system of social domination, but somehow our negativity has been erased from the picture. The horrors of the world continue. That is why it is necessary to do what is considered scientifically taboo: to scream like a child, to lift the scream from all its structural explanations, to say 'We don't care what the psychiatrist says, we don't care if our subjectivity is a social construct: this is our scream, this is our pain, these are our tears. We will not let our rage be diluted into reality: it is reality rather that must yield to our scream. Call us childish or adolescent if you like, but this is our starting point: we scream.
________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________
In the beginning is the scream. We scream.
When we write or when we read, it is easy to forget that the beginning is not the word, but the scream. Faced with the mutilation of human lives by capitalism, a scream of sadness, a scream of horror, a scream of anger, a scream of refusal: NO.
The starting point of theoretical reflection is opposition, negativity, struggle. It is from rage that thought is born, not from the pose of reason, not from the reasoned-sitting-back-and-reflecting-on-the-mysteries-of-existence that is the conventional image of 'the thinker'.
We start from negation, from dissonance. The dissonance can take many shapes. An inarticulate mumble of discontent, tears of frustration, a scream of rage, a confident roar. An unease, a confusion, a longing, a critical vibration.
(…)
And so they urge us (and we feel the need) to study society, and to study social and political theory. And a strange thing happens. The more we study society, the more our negativity is dissipated or sidelined as being irrelevant. There is no room for the scream in academic discourse. More than that: academic study provides us with a language and a way of thinking that makes it very difficult for us to express our scream. The scream, if it appears at all, appears as something to be explained, not as something to be articulated. The scream, from being the subject of our questions about society, becomes the object of analysis. Why is it that we scream? Or rather, since we are now social scientists, why is it that they scream? How do we explain social revolt, social discontent? The scream is systematically disqualified by dissolving it into its context. It is because of infantile experiences that they scream, because of their modernist conception of the subject, because of their unhealthy diet, because of the weakening of family structures: all of these explanations are backed up by statistically supported research. The scream is not entirely denied, but it is robbed of all validity. By being torn from 'us' and projected on to a 'they', the scream is excluded from the scientific method. When we become social scientists, we learn that the way to understand is to pursue objectivity, to put our own feelings on one side. It is not so much what we learn as how we learn that seems to smother our scream. It is a whole structure of thought that disarms us.
And yet none of the things which made us so angry to start off with have disappeared. We have learnt, perhaps, how they fit together as parts of a system of social domination, but somehow our negativity has been erased from the picture. The horrors of the world continue. That is why it is necessary to do what is considered scientifically taboo: to scream like a child, to lift the scream from all its structural explanations, to say 'We don't care what the psychiatrist says, we don't care if our subjectivity is a social construct: this is our scream, this is our pain, these are our tears. We will not let our rage be diluted into reality: it is reality rather that must yield to our scream. Call us childish or adolescent if you like, but this is our starting point: we scream.
________________________________________________________
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Perhaps it is darkness
Perhaps it is Darkness who is scared
And not me
Or anyone else.
__________________________
Something I wrote for deviantart a while ago but which re-appeared in my head this afternoon, wanting to be here too.
And not me
Or anyone else.
__________________________
Something I wrote for deviantart a while ago but which re-appeared in my head this afternoon, wanting to be here too.
Friday, June 01, 2007
What is Indian Morality?
An article about sex education in India in the International Herald Tribune yesterday sparked this off. Specifically, this inane statement by Shivraj Singh Chouhan, chief minister of Madhya Pradesh: "government has devaluated (sic) Indian culture and its values...Instead, the younger generation should be taught about yoga, Indian culture and its values." Right. Let's just deconstruct 'Indian Values'.
Perhaps the values Chouhan mentions can be found here. Specifically, perhaps it is our typically Indian set of values that allows each one of us to talk the talk and walk right past houses like this everyday on our way to glitzy malls or highrise offices or the airport - so that we can get out, get out, GET OUT. After all, in a country where people living in the heart of even wealthy areas live hunter-gatherer lifestyles, perhaps it is only moral for us to look away. Shame on them, grovelling in the dirt. (Photo source)
___________________________________________________________________
Perhaps Indian morality is to be sidestepped when it comes to the media. I don't see anyone successfully shutting down Cosmopolitan. Even though, hell, whether I was having casual sex in Pune or not, I could most certainly learn how to 'do it well', once a month. I could also watch saas-bahu soap-operas on TV where X is the illegitimate son of Y who is sleeping with Z who is actually his older sister. These soaps have won lots of praise for being wholesome family entertainment that depicts 'Indian Values'. Much appreciative clucking goes on when some particularly virtuous virgin shuns the attention of some ruffian lothario because such rendezvous are 'Not in (her) culture.' Of course not. But hold on, what does our virtuous virgin watch for entertainment? Bollywood dramas where hips thrust from east to west and women are jolted up and down to the pelvic thrusts of romeos driven mad with lust for their jawani. Please. Where are Indian values in Indian cinema?! (Photo source)
____________________________________________________________________
Oh dear oh dear. What can I say. If I took a little girl here would I tell her to look away? Or would I tell her that ancient India had a stunning appreciation of the power, beauty and poetry of the human body, used it to great symbolic effect and didn't shy away, in it's art, from depicting sex as - well - great! As fun! As sacred! (And since when have those two things not mixed?!) Would I tell this girl (lets imagine she's curious - all the little girls I know, are) about the sexual rites of Tantra, about the graphically detailed Kama Sutra, about the legendary sexual exploits of Krishna or Shiva? Would I tell her about the poetry of Mirabai, some of whose pieces drip lust and passion from every line? (Photo source) (Also see here for a fabulous article that deals, in part, with the blatant sexuality of Chola art.)
Perhaps Chouhan should consider this before implying that 'morality' is in any way connected to the bland, lifeless, literalistic interpretations of 'virtue' so often imposed on 'Indian culture'. What such interpretations often lack is an appreciation of the role of intent. Surely the intent (or lack thereof) involved in our blind eye towards the poverty that surrounds us implies much worse malevolence than the sex education programme? Perhaps the hypocrisy of a government that applauds India's' 'free media' but then rants from the rooftops about 'dirty sex scenes' represents far worse ignorance? The intent behind the sex education programme is to save lives through education. From this perspective, how can a balanced, open discussion of sex and sexual health pollute intent?! The very 'worst' (I use that word to pander to Chouhan's perspective, not my own) it can do is encourage the entirely healthy curiosity about an aspect of life that is naturally awakening at adolescence. And wouldn't teenagers who seek to indulge their curiosity be physically and psychologically safer if they had had some sex education?
Perhaps the values Chouhan mentions can be found here. Specifically, perhaps it is our typically Indian set of values that allows each one of us to talk the talk and walk right past houses like this everyday on our way to glitzy malls or highrise offices or the airport - so that we can get out, get out, GET OUT. After all, in a country where people living in the heart of even wealthy areas live hunter-gatherer lifestyles, perhaps it is only moral for us to look away. Shame on them, grovelling in the dirt. (Photo source)___________________________________________________________________
Perhaps Indian morality is to be sidestepped when it comes to the media. I don't see anyone successfully shutting down Cosmopolitan. Even though, hell, whether I was having casual sex in Pune or not, I could most certainly learn how to 'do it well', once a month. I could also watch saas-bahu soap-operas on TV where X is the illegitimate son of Y who is sleeping with Z who is actually his older sister. These soaps have won lots of praise for being wholesome family entertainment that depicts 'Indian Values'. Much appreciative clucking goes on when some particularly virtuous virgin shuns the attention of some ruffian lothario because such rendezvous are 'Not in (her) culture.' Of course not. But hold on, what does our virtuous virgin watch for entertainment? Bollywood dramas where hips thrust from east to west and women are jolted up and down to the pelvic thrusts of romeos driven mad with lust for their jawani. Please. Where are Indian values in Indian cinema?! (Photo source)____________________________________________________________________
Oh dear oh dear. What can I say. If I took a little girl here would I tell her to look away? Or would I tell her that ancient India had a stunning appreciation of the power, beauty and poetry of the human body, used it to great symbolic effect and didn't shy away, in it's art, from depicting sex as - well - great! As fun! As sacred! (And since when have those two things not mixed?!) Would I tell this girl (lets imagine she's curious - all the little girls I know, are) about the sexual rites of Tantra, about the graphically detailed Kama Sutra, about the legendary sexual exploits of Krishna or Shiva? Would I tell her about the poetry of Mirabai, some of whose pieces drip lust and passion from every line? (Photo source) (Also see here for a fabulous article that deals, in part, with the blatant sexuality of Chola art.)Perhaps Chouhan should consider this before implying that 'morality' is in any way connected to the bland, lifeless, literalistic interpretations of 'virtue' so often imposed on 'Indian culture'. What such interpretations often lack is an appreciation of the role of intent. Surely the intent (or lack thereof) involved in our blind eye towards the poverty that surrounds us implies much worse malevolence than the sex education programme? Perhaps the hypocrisy of a government that applauds India's' 'free media' but then rants from the rooftops about 'dirty sex scenes' represents far worse ignorance? The intent behind the sex education programme is to save lives through education. From this perspective, how can a balanced, open discussion of sex and sexual health pollute intent?! The very 'worst' (I use that word to pander to Chouhan's perspective, not my own) it can do is encourage the entirely healthy curiosity about an aspect of life that is naturally awakening at adolescence. And wouldn't teenagers who seek to indulge their curiosity be physically and psychologically safer if they had had some sex education?
I Write of That Journey
I've been struggling for a while to articulate what this blog is really about. Sure, it's about my PhD and my thoughts on environmentalism. The title is inspired by a quote by Gregory Bateson: "What is the pattern that connects the crab to the lobster and the orchid to the primrose? And all four of them to you? And you to me?"
But obviously, if you were to ask me so what does that mean for your blog, my answer would be two-fold:
The short one: I want to write about connections. Process. Cause and effect. Momentum. Direction.
The long one: At the heart of all of these things there is a throbbing pulsing intangible something. If I were a mystic, I would call it Love. Not the tattered word that supersaturates our relationships, our recreation, our lust or our quest with sickly sweetness. Something more. Something deeper. I find that other people have described this much better than I will ever be able to. I make it sound like fluff. Like a pretty concept. Their words reveal it as a crystal-hard, glowing here-now-and-always Thing. Perhaps because they have experienced it. And I, despite always looking for it, have always been a creature of movement, too restless and impatient to grasp it. Mirabai (The picture above depicts her singing a devotional hymn to her beloved Lord Krishna) writes of it as a journey - that was the first appeal. But if you read closer, it hasn't got anything to do with moving, and everything to do with (cliché as it sounds) knowing that you are already there. Less of becoming, more of being.
Here, in her words, is the pattern that connects:
I Write of That Journey
Mirabai
I remember how my mother would hold me.
I would look up at her sometimes and see her weep.
I understand now what was happening.
Love so strong a force
it broke the
cage,
and she disappeared from everything
for a blessed
moment.
All actions have evolved
From the taste of flight;
the hope of freedom
moves our cells
and limbs.
Unable to live on the earth, Mira ventured out alone in the sky –
I write of that journey
of becoming as
free as
God.
Don’t forget love;
it will bring all the madness you need
to unfurl yourself across
the universe.
I understand now what was happening.
Love so strong a force
it broke the
cage,
and she disappeared from everything
for a blessed
moment.
All actions have evolved
From the taste of flight;
the hope of freedom
moves our cells
and limbs.
Unable to live on the earth, Mira ventured out alone in the sky –
I write of that journey
of becoming as
free as
God.
Don’t forget love;
it will bring all the madness you need
to unfurl yourself across
the universe.
What freedom! What light, what colour, what joy, what music, what transcendence, have we seen - any of us - compared to this!?
Read it. Read it again. Read it with your eyes closed, if you want to see it. Know it.
Responses to The Alarmist Perspective
This is shaping up into a valuable debate, for me at least.
Here are two responses to 'The Alarmist Perspective' (below):
Response 1:
Again, as you said, I think you've done a better job than the article in articulating what the problem is. And
while that has it's use (I'm not for a moment implying that just because you don't have a 100% doable solution, you stop talking about the problem), you still haven't given me much clarity on what can be done. I ask that because even if the government won't listen (as of now, that may change), industry might. For selfish reasons like "we care about the environment, buy our products". It's happening in the West, it'll come here. But my sincere advice to you in your struggle would be not just to tell us all what's wrong, but identify realistic ways of changing or at least amending it.
Response 2:
I'll try and keep it as short as possible - I thought the article was thought provoking. However, most such writing is rarely ever action-oriented, which in turn means that although it aims at drawing attention to a problem, offering solutions is not the aim.
In this case, especially, offering solutions is not entirely possible. Not because we aren't well equipped but simply because solutions will come with understanding and that won't come when there's such widespread ignorance about the absolute criminality that for instance, gas spewing generators perpetuate.
As for your take on the issue, especially the theoretical aspect of it, Za, it makes a lot of sense to fit such patterns into a larger psycho- economical framework. Where I work, this is what we are trying to tell the government - that growth is usually viewed as progress when actually it might imply a change. In theoretical terms, what we view as a linear and upward trajectory might be a parallel process. So, we've been trying to get the planning commission to listen to the idea of having separate planning processes for growth that will necessiate sustenance of what we already have and growth that will take us further. As we explain to the babus, the difference is if I have an apple, do I want to keep it fresh or do I want to make it into juice? And more importantly, that making it into juice will means I have to keep it fresh first.
I hope that makes sense to you? I work with a government where the going is tough. It might offer some hope to say that I see the will to change things only growing. That has come about because we lot (that Za calls social activists, who are actually just restless creatures gnawing at the government day in day out) refuse to give in to a normative discourse, which in this country is very very easy to do. Instead, we are stressing the pragmatic benefits of taking an alternative approach. I must say that I am very very impressed with how increasingly attentive the political establishments are in this regard.
As for the corporate giants, I am repulsed by how little they do. Body Shop for instance go around advertising their "good" behaviour. But what about it's nine other sister concerns all owned by L'Oreal that don't do anything even remotely close to what Body Shop preaches through it's product advertising? Sorry, perhaps I expect too much. But I don't agree when it is alleged that the government might not listen, but corporates will for whatever motive. History shows otherwise. We must remember that at the end of the day, the government is a non profit organisation - which means it will do whatever necessary to govern the country and that won't happen if the country is going up in smoke. I know I said I'd keep it short. Blimey!
I also received a very well thought out, valuable comment on some of my economic points in a Comment to the original post.
This post is getting rather long though, so I will summarize my arguments for and against all three responses in a separate one. Keep the arguments coming!
Here are two responses to 'The Alarmist Perspective' (below):
Response 1:
Again, as you said, I think you've done a better job than the article in articulating what the problem is. And
while that has it's use (I'm not for a moment implying that just because you don't have a 100% doable solution, you stop talking about the problem), you still haven't given me much clarity on what can be done. I ask that because even if the government won't listen (as of now, that may change), industry might. For selfish reasons like "we care about the environment, buy our products". It's happening in the West, it'll come here. But my sincere advice to you in your struggle would be not just to tell us all what's wrong, but identify realistic ways of changing or at least amending it.
Response 2:
I'll try and keep it as short as possible - I thought the article was thought provoking. However, most such writing is rarely ever action-oriented, which in turn means that although it aims at drawing attention to a problem, offering solutions is not the aim.
In this case, especially, offering solutions is not entirely possible. Not because we aren't well equipped but simply because solutions will come with understanding and that won't come when there's such widespread ignorance about the absolute criminality that for instance, gas spewing generators perpetuate.
As for your take on the issue, especially the theoretical aspect of it, Za, it makes a lot of sense to fit such patterns into a larger psycho- economical framework. Where I work, this is what we are trying to tell the government - that growth is usually viewed as progress when actually it might imply a change. In theoretical terms, what we view as a linear and upward trajectory might be a parallel process. So, we've been trying to get the planning commission to listen to the idea of having separate planning processes for growth that will necessiate sustenance of what we already have and growth that will take us further. As we explain to the babus, the difference is if I have an apple, do I want to keep it fresh or do I want to make it into juice? And more importantly, that making it into juice will means I have to keep it fresh first.
I hope that makes sense to you? I work with a government where the going is tough. It might offer some hope to say that I see the will to change things only growing. That has come about because we lot (that Za calls social activists, who are actually just restless creatures gnawing at the government day in day out) refuse to give in to a normative discourse, which in this country is very very easy to do. Instead, we are stressing the pragmatic benefits of taking an alternative approach. I must say that I am very very impressed with how increasingly attentive the political establishments are in this regard.
As for the corporate giants, I am repulsed by how little they do. Body Shop for instance go around advertising their "good" behaviour. But what about it's nine other sister concerns all owned by L'Oreal that don't do anything even remotely close to what Body Shop preaches through it's product advertising? Sorry, perhaps I expect too much. But I don't agree when it is alleged that the government might not listen, but corporates will for whatever motive. History shows otherwise. We must remember that at the end of the day, the government is a non profit organisation - which means it will do whatever necessary to govern the country and that won't happen if the country is going up in smoke. I know I said I'd keep it short. Blimey!
I also received a very well thought out, valuable comment on some of my economic points in a Comment to the original post.
This post is getting rather long though, so I will summarize my arguments for and against all three responses in a separate one. Keep the arguments coming!
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