Comparisons, or such

I have just finished reading The Fountainhead, recommended to me by a significant someone, whose opinions I really greatly value...and I recently re-watched Ray's Aguntuk, (translated as 'the guest,'), a film I remember watching with my parents as a child, when I was too young to appreciate the subtle brilliance of Ray's last work...and I will try to compare Howard Roark, the protagonist of 'The Fountainhead,' with Mitra, the protagonist of the film by Ray. Let me begin with Aguntuk, a film which Ray adapted froma short story he had written, bearing the name 'Atithi,' which also means guest...my father always maintained that out of Ray's brilliant corpus of work, this one resonates the most with him...I am sure scholars of great erudition and excellence have written reams about this particular film, but I would like to do what the literary critic I.A. Richards termed 'practical criticism,' without reading any critical material on it (comprising of a close reading and incisive analysis of the core text)... How to read a film text like 'Aguntuk' closely? It is analogous to a multi-layered desert,whose sands have built up over the journey of time...indeed, it seems to be a textured culmination of the many beliefs Ray might have acquired over his years as a director, writer, artist and indeed thinker. Debate is crucial to this film...and indeed there are a number of binaries which Ray explores, through the eyes of the protagonist played by Utpal Dutt...and these binaries, which are seeming oppositions, are critically challenged, and their lines are blurred through the course of the film... "Civilisation" and "savagery," are pitted against one another, by a seemingly suave but ultimately narrow-minded barrister, where civilisation seems to stand for unprecedented scientific and technological progress, such as the triumph of NASA...and much of this is attributed to the West...whereas "savagery" is condemned as primitive, regressive and indeed lascivious...Dutt's character, howver, challenges these simplistic views and speaks of the presence of many Native tribal groups who live in the "West," and recounts his encounters with the natives of South America...he distils the notion of urban hegemony which is always associated with the West ,in favour of a more inclusive world view,and an objectively critical analysis of "civilisation," which is capable of performing savage and brutal deeds like waging nuclear warfare, annihilating masses of people and obliterating certian histories while favouring others...for him, science and technology are not the sole prerogatives of those residing in the urban space...he speaks of the different invenetions created by tribal groups, and how their contributions to science are of no less importance...the idea of cannibalism,attributed to 'savages,' is also decimated by Mitra (Dutt's character, as sophisticated civilisations are no less hungry for human blood (wars, wars and more wars)...one wonders if Ray had the idea of the "Noble Savage" ('The term noble savage is a literary stock character that expresses the concept of an idealized indigene, outsider, or "other" who has not been "corrupted" by civilization, and therefore symbolizes humanity's innate goodness.' Source: Wikipedia) in mind, and if there is a certain idealisation at play...are chracters like Mitra and Howard Roark analogous to this concept, somehow? At the core of the film is a deep awareness of the problems embedded at the heart of humanity, of how institutionalised religion is employed as a tool to divide members of the human race, and Mitra consciously compares this with the caste system, an artificial, deplorable and hideous method of categorising human beings with hierarchical labels...who decides these systems? People. Why? To oppress and rule, to literally divide and rule. The whole film, then, is an indictment of, a criticism of, the easy stereotyping we have become increasingly prone to, the tendency for us to generalise without a deeper probing of the several issues at hand...and it is also a hymn to open-mindedness, which is why Mitra refuses to be a 'frog in the well,' he would rather be a 'guest' who renounces the idea of a permanent home and makes the entire world his home, and yet not his home, all at once...home suggests permananence, but to Mitra, the idea of a fixed Home implies stagnation, complacence and an attitude of narrow-mindedness...it is when one is willing to explore the unknown facets of the world, and keep rolling like the moss-less stone, does one realise, at some level, the real meaning of being human, being grounded and being universal...he refuses to be labelled, refuses to be constrained, refuses to fall into any one strict category...he chooses to live in a state of tentative learning, to build his firm convictions, he chooses to remain the 'outsider' the 'eternal guest... And this brings me to Rand's 'The Fountainhead,'where one encounters the fiercely individualistic Howard Roark, who refuses to conform to pre-conceived notions of architecture and wishes to break free of the jaded 'canon' of architecture, if one may call it that...in his endeavour to establish a unique and idiosyncratic style, in his attempt to extablish creativity over hackneyed replications of past monuments, he refuses to compromise on his artistic ideals, to a point of economic failure, where he renounces the idea of a stable job, as that would compromise and weaken his professional views...to him, the idea of his designs are sacred to a point where he refuses to bend and adapt them to suit the needs and requirements of clients and colleagues, whose needs and requirements have also been shaped by the dictates of society, and not by individual intellectual thought...so, can a comparison be proposed? Both Mitra (from Aguntuk) and Roark (from The Fountainhead), choose to remain outsiders, strangers to the mainstream, 'normative' notions of society, they choose to remain unsettled, wanderers of the world, (Roark moves around from place to place, with his work too), both remain uncompromising in their individual convictions but have a vision of society, a vision with a lot more clarity and analysis, than those living at the very heart of the system, people whose minds are dictated by artifical conventions, by narrow-minded prejudices, and by a staunch refusal to accept change? In a section of 'The Fountainhead,'Gail Wynand and Dominique have a conversaion about the idea of 'homelessness,'a conversation which brings both Mitra and Roark to mind...while one travels and studies anthropology, the latter moves around because work is home for him, he flows with his work, refusing to 'settle' for anything which will marginalise his creative prowess...even if others consider the work 'demeaning' and 'beneath him,' which he never does... Roark and Mitra both learn through thir travel, their wanderings, Roark exploring unchartered territory through trying out different modes of work...but both retain the essential 'goodness' of human essence...Roark is ever willing to help climbers like Peter Keating, because the idea of contributing to architecture is more important to him than the petty competition of human egos...and Mitra is willing to sacrifice a large sum of money, which he could have put to use, to a niece he hardly knows... Both characters are liable to be misunderstood, as they consciously define themselves against what is deemed as 'acceptable'according to conventional social standards...both are viewed with varying degrees of suspicion and fear, as they have the potential to disrupt the comfortable notion of the status quo, the complacent hidey-hole which we like to keep our heads buried under...like the dynamite which Roark literally uses to demolish a particular construction, both characters may be viewed as metaphorical dynamites, waiting to blow pre-conceived prejudices away. Suspicion seems to be common to both these works, suspicion of the 'unknown' and this suspicion breeds from pure ignorance, from a limited view...in the case of Ray's film, of a limited understanding of the lives of others, for example, the lives of rural tribes, who are easy to label, and in Rand's work, the limited knowledge of architecture beyond the brainwashing and promotion of the tried and tested styles from the past...quite forgetting that Renaissance art which is endorsed by mainstream architecture, was also the result of a creative re-awakening from the stale stupor of the Dark Ages...and not a mere imitation of art from the past...this brings out another common theme...the hesitation to try something new, the reluctance to let go of 'safe' traditions in favour of that which is changing...Roark and Mitra are seen as subversive elements, dangerous to the illusion of stability... The idea of brainwashing is also seen in both texts, film and novel...in the former, the character played by Mamata Shankar, finds it hard to resist the lair and lure of suspicion as she is convinced by her more cynical husband ( and the husband is a symbol of the world in general, cynical to a point where all are guilty until proven innocent), of the potential for peril in Mitra...and in the latter, 'thinkers' like Toohey are shown to wield immense influence over the masses...and people are willing to adopt these views without careful thought or consideration, judging those like Roark without attempting to understand his philosophy, vision or work ethic... Which brings me to a final reflection for now...that on identity...what is identity? How is it defined? Can it be restricted to the pages of a passport? Mitra from Aguntuk says it cannot...identity is revealed through time...and his ultimate act of altruism, where he donates his inherited property to his niece, is testimony to his character...Howard Roark's identity is revealed through his work...the work which will stand the test of time...his personality is engraved in his buildings, and hence his identity transcends the trappings of labelling, and soars, literally in the forms of his buildings, unparalleled and uncommon, over the skyline of the city... ne could go on, but this is hardly an academic paper...it is just an outpouring of thoughts and reflections, which needs much work,much revision and much more careful thought...

What being Bengali means

On days when I sit alone in my room,here in distant Singapore, I feel a sense of wonder at where I am, why I am here and sometimes indeed, who I am...how do I define my identity? To what aspects is it inextricably tied? What does it mean to be a girl? What does it mean to be a twenty something in the realm of education? What does it mean to be a Bengali? I think back to a story I had written as a teenager, something quite preposterous, really, to the effect of aliens from some far off galaxy taking over the world, and how the world was forced to unite as one to ward them off...and display an alarming degree of unity in diversity which is seldom found today, where battles are fought on a daily basis based on human created divisions...why then, am I so passionately attached to the language I inherited from my parents, the "cultural inheritance" I stepped into, by the mere virtue of my birth, my geographic location, the space of the universe which I had been chosen, without consulation to inhabit. Sometimes I ask this question: am I a Bengali solely by chance? A spin off of probability, a result of the many probable permutations and combinations of possibilities? Perhaps...but did Einstein not once say that 'God does not play Dice?' Am I Bengali for a reason? Do I have something to live up to? Do I need to learn something? Do I need to rectify something about this abstract notion of culture? Let me dwell on what I perceive as being Bangali...I don't think concrete answers are feasible...maybe It consists, in part, of long ago mornings when I would cling to my father's fingers, and he would slowly wrap his fingers around that thin little wrist, and take me to the bazaar...the streaks of silver, gleaming in the early morning sun, reflecting off the bodies of the fish being sold, always dazzled my eyes...the streaks of blood as they were pried apart on a 'boti,' the scales flying helter skelter, the sellers wiping their foreheads with the backs of their hands, tired after their several transactions, the stray cats hovering around, in hope of a scrap or morsel or bone...the visits to numerous sari shops with my grandmother, how she was friends with all the salesmen and women, how they would ask me which class I was in, while my grandma admired and admonished the quality and textures of the complicated (they seemed complicated to me at that time, because they reminded me of bed sheets)...how the colours would dizzy me almost, the textures varying in degrees of softness as I tentatively touched a few...the visits to the houses of guests and relatives with my mother, being force fed sweets,in keeping with the stereotypical (perhaps) hospitality, being called too skinny, being asked to recite poetry, being scrutinised, occasionally praised,always entertained... Learning the Bengali alphabet, the beautiful letters, and in my opinion the most beautiful language in the world, though I acknowledge the greatness of every other, writing the letters wrongly at first, being reprimanded... my school, Calcutta International School, Mrs. Chatterjee's pedagogical approach,Mrs. Lal's goodness and nature worshipping, (how we buried a butterfly which no longer had the life to flutter by),the early morning school bus rides, the conductor uncles, the cosmopolitan feel of mutual respect of those from varied communities... Dakshinapan, the quaint shopping complex, the store which sold me a defective toy near Park Circus, the inexplicable and delirious joy derived from Durga Pujo, the smell of the season of Shorot, the blessing of unfurling and unravelling the songs of Tagore,the mesmerising beauty of his emotions and feelings, presiding over this City, almost uniting it, in its grasp of deep thoughts, simple feelings and ultimate connection. The December mornings of awakening to hot tea, the quick evenings, the lngering nights... Jadavpur University, where cigarette smoke (which I hate) mingled with 'adda,' the quintessentially Bengali term for conversation...where we learnt the complex theories of literary analysis, where we made friends, where we forged connections, where we broke our hearts when connections did...where each of us harboured a secret crush,perhaps, where I was too shy outside the classroom,where I never bunked a lesson and thought I should on the last day and just sat outside the class and watched others copying notes...copious cups of iced lemon tea and those evenings on the grass by the Jheel, a little lake,as evening descended in circles of pink, and our day was coming to an end, and the time for spending at home was approaching... The city, my city, which always welcomes me by default, where I have been born, a decision I have not made, I have not consciously taken, but a decision which I will strive to live up to...the enlightenment of Ramkrishna, the way in which he acknoweldged and respected multiple religions, the social awakening of a collective conscience by Vivekananda, the altruism and compassion towrds women shown by those such as Vidyasagar...the beautiful smile of Mother Teresa, who realised that home was where one chose as well...the crisp prose of Leela Majumdar,the movies of Ray, oh, everything, there is so much to live up to... And these make me Bengali...

It's so nice to be able to see words flow out, from their abstract state of formless diffuseness in my mind, to the tangible reality of typed words...how thoughts can become ideas, form themselves into outcomes, whether measurable or not... because one can't live off ideals alone...one needs to give them shape and mould them into aspects of reality... in other news, I just came back from home, and am suffering the pangs of lonesome homesickness, which faithfully fly back here with me each time...when I go home each time, I begin to fear that I'm moving further away from it...the change is not necessarily noticeably discernible...the house looks the same, the TV hasn't moved, a microwave may have been changed, magnets might have been added to the doors of refrigerators...ouch, I miss the feeling of thankful abandon I feel when I go home...it's like I can slip into a state of pre-lapsarian peace the minute I put myself down on the nearest chair... My mind is inclined to recline in happiness...