Of Mangoes and Memories

I travel everyday to work in a bus. It is a white bus with clear glass panes. I usually sit by the window, on the last seat, at the very corner, so that I may all the better see the river when we are on the bridge. It has been very wet the last few days. We have been having what I can only call English weather. It rains at ungodly hours and in inordinate amounts, with neither rhyme nor reason, nor any intelligent design. The drops are all of varied size and neither in keeping with the mood nor the time of day.

Like Shei Shonagon, I am writing of and analysing the weather and I feel it is worthwhile, for it is something that is always going to be out there and is probably one of the most primitive, primal influences on our lives. When I abstract from my life, all things contrived and art-ificial, I am left with very little to talk about but the weather and hence it is oddly calming to be conscious of the weather around me and talk about it. Maybe the conveniences of modern architecture that have served to insulate us from the weather have done us a disservice, by heaping another spadeful of the earth of comfort on the grave of our true selves. The weather still remains outside our homes, howling like a gale or calm as a summer day, carrying on irrespective of us not noticing its presence. I have always thought of weather as a big old mad woman, with gray locks and dressed in patched rags, shaken by alternate bouts of fury and benevolence, of lethargy and energy. Incidentally, that is how God was pictured in a book, I think Jose Saramago's The Gospel According To Jesus Christ, although it may have been an angel or a god, and it was a man, but other than that all the particulars were the same. Well this Weather Goddess i conjure up may have a bit of Diana in her, Diana of the three faces, three in one and one in three. I probably have modelled her on Diana the old crone, the third fury, the third sister who cuts our threads of life. It is to her that the weather belongs and she does not care that the days of Shonagon are past and my days are come. She does not seep into our lives through paper screens and chinks in the woodwork, concrete serves to keep her out. My Goddess still rages on barely noticing that I rarely notice her.

But I have been noticing her quite a lot these days. It has been raining as I said and it rains without any propriety or aesthetic sense. You expect a fine drizzle in the morning, with the sun just over the horizon and a bit of dappled and wet sunlight on the grass, like fresh cream on toast, ill formed and fluid light that makes me chary to step in it for fear of slipping. Instead what I get in the mornings are dark heavy clouds and a steely grey light that casts a pall on my mood and makes me hate getting up, and then there is the rain. It rains with obscenely large drops and a dark glumness, a heaviness that is positively surly. And such a downpour is particularly inopportune as it is in the mornings that I have to leave the comforts of my home for the questionable comforts of the Goddess' arms. An invigorating experience no doubt but not one conducive to much comfort, a short euphoria maybe but definitely no great joy when the inevitable cold follows, bringing in its train a runny nose. In the nights when I like to sit in the porch and watch the moon, again am I disappointed as then the goddess decides to bring on fitful showers with a fine drizzle that shows no signs of ever abating. On a dark night it is fitting to have heavy rains with a consistency like that of treacle or liquid shimmering glass, something through which you could not see even if there were light. It accentuates the feeling of loneliness that is the flavour of a dark night, gives it a distinct character, when the rain intensifies the darkness and makes you feel cut off from the rest of the world, covered on all sides in a thick velvet curtain of the colour of dark inky blue, soft and yielding to the touch but impenetrable, immeasurably thick, all encompassing.

I remember the dark nights of my youth when I would watch just such a rain from my bedroom window and feel keenly my loneliness; my being the sole spectator of the spectacle, I being the only one partaking on a dark night of a feast of the senses and the mind, prepared only for me. The taste of the experience still stays with me to this day... I have forgotten a lot of my youth but those long nights and the sound of the rains on leaves in the garden remains. Indian rains are always heavy rains... those delicate drizzles are essentially foreign, English maybe, they have a nagging quality, particularly in the night when they obscure the sky and don’t relent as a heavy shower does after it has run its course... and then what joy as the full moon rises and I walk out barefoot, the porch wet and slippery under my foot and the effluvia of the rain, leaves and prematurely fallen fruit crunch under foot and a shimmering silvery light like the robes of Diana, Goddess, covers all. And I remember and will forever remember those nights of my youth, when it would rain on summer nights and the mango tree was laden with fruit, not yet ripe but large and hard like pebbles and the rain would pelt the fruit down into the courtyard and later in the moonlit night as I would walk out to reconnoitre, I would find the courtyard paved with the living stones of bruised green fruit. I would never be able to resist walking out on that carpet, oozing the characteristic scent of green mangoes and my feet would be coated in the resin that the bruised fruit prematurely broken oozes. Ah such joy. Rarely have I felt so alive.

But maybe I can still find something to appreciate about the morning drizzles. As I sit by my window in the bus and the tiny drops hit the pane, first slowly, a drop here, a drop there, and then the volume increases. The world suddenly grows dappled, maculated, speckled with little light coloured drops. Drops the colour of glass, like little drops of light imprisoned in a glass phial, and of a strange sharpness, crowned with a tip, almost painful in its pointed ness. Painful because it brings back memories of youthful afflictions of chicken pox, when I was similarly dappled and speckled with spots, sharp, painful and pointed, although the spots were of an angry red, making me look like a monster of the deep. It is as if the world is afflicted with the pox and grows spotted and then I feel an overpowering desire to wipe out the drops. The desire to free my vision of this spotted ness is overpowering but I also feel a revulsion at the uncleanness that I am about to touch. Anything that is spotted and maculated is primally associated with uncleanness in my mind, and there is an insane and irrational fear of contagion, as if by touching that pane splattered by rain I will end up transferring to myself those spots that I wish to wipe out. Finally I get over my revulsion and wipe the pane clean and not a moment goes by before the pane is splattered again, but strangely the way the pane gets splattered now in the full force of the rain is exactly the same as it did when it first started raining. First a few drops, a drop here, a drop there, and then the drops covers fresh, clean skin and then before long the whole is covered with spots. And again that internal struggle, whether to wipe or not, and wipe I do, and again it is spotted before long.

On the Baron and his Vices (only loosely)

If I am to choose a character in Proust who I find the most captivating, the most charming and the most worthy of my ruminations, it has to be Le Baron de Charlus. Charlus is said to be based on the well-known, well-placed and well-connected aesthete Count de Montesquios-Fazensac, a man who claimed descent from the most exalted personages and who held the exalted position of the toast of Paris society of his day with much of his characteristic elegance and acerbity.

In Proust, all characters, at least all major characters, have such a ring of truth about them, such a facility and variability of passions, such vitality that they convince you against your better judgment that they are actual, historical personages and Proust instead of writing fiction is infact documenting history. I was so taken in, on first reading him, by this seeming veracity that I embarked on a futile research trying to find who the characters were. Imagine my consternation when I found that what I was reading was not an autobiography but rather fiction. The ability of Proust to convince his readers of the truth of his tales is probably his greatest success as a writer. It is not just that the characters are varied and alive; some, surely, are stock figures but even these do not stick to a stereotype and rather subvert all that is expected of them. Each character has the vibrancy and the uncertainty of life itself, making it well-nigh impossible to say how he would react under certain circumstances. This uncertainty, this subversion of those very stereotypes to which the character ostensibly owes its existence, this is what lends credence to Proust's work, makes all he says ring true.

But is all he writes but a figment of imagination? Not so. It has become quite apparent that all his major, most believable characters are pastiches of people he met in the years when he was a regular in Paris Salons. He takes the habits of speech of one, the wit of another, the beauty of one, the blemishes of the other, the sins and failings of diverse acquaintances and blending all together creates a character one comes to know better than a friend. Put the character through the rigmarole of the Proustian world, and see which way the Frankenstein of your creation goes. It’s almost a social science experiment and Proust the researcher. He is the demigod in this universe; here he creates men, puts them in varied situations and watches their reactions, carefully recording his observations, so that when I his reader see a whippet thin man, with waxed moustaches, possessed of a dazzling but biting wit, a mordant tongue, a colossal pride and a settled, unshakeable belief in his own importance, well read, with a conversation graced with old world charm and graces long out of fashion, it is then that I exclaim- “He is a veritable Charlus!” There is no room for doubt. I recognize a Charlus or a Cottard with as much precision as a celebrated doctor of long experience recognizes a disease by a mere glance at his patient. There can be no doubt, for Proust has created, defined and charted out the whole history of the type, like a progression of a disease is documented in medical journals.

So, as I was saying, Charlus has a large part of Count Montesquios-Fazensac in him, but he is not the Count Montesquios-Fazensac. Charlus' story does not parallel the Count's. They go their separate paths, but they share certain defining characteristics. They both conform to the stereotype of the aesthete or the dandy. Both are extraordinarily witty, often at the expense of others. Both are convinced beyond all doubt of their overweening importance as men and their central position in contemporary society. They are equally, the repository of lost social graces, mannerisms and qualities which are lost in their world, but which they have inherited from some dead forbearer and which they proudly but unconsciously still display as a badge that blazons forth their exalted birth and ancient lineage. Both are extremely offensive in speech, passing edicts which they expect to be followed without question and in the end both lose credibility because they used (abused) their hold on people too often. And both are homosexual. But there are aspects of Charlus that I cannot trace back to the Count, at least to the Count as I get to know him on the strength of sundry biographical articles. May be more biographical information is needed.

Charlus has a certain overtly sentimental, tender streak that I can not find in the Count. His love for Morel is deep and obsessive. He flies in the teeth of society trying to get Morel to stay with him, to the point of wanting to adopt Morel and even bestowing on him one of the many titles in his keep. He tries his best to keep Morel's affections, puts up with Morel's constant infidelities, lies and insults, makes for him concessions he would not make for anyone else. The depth of feeling, the all consuming passion he feels for the object of his affection is a mark of Charlus' character and in the end the most significant factor of his history too, as it is this affection of his that drags him to the depths of ignominy, the social redundancy and ill health that plague his last years as a pathetic old man, humbled by that cruel tyrant - Time. It is not a slackening or a loss of his faculties that plague him, no, it is a deep malaise of the heart, a wounded and spurned love that festers and turns poisonous, that drags him to the violent passions, the passions of blood and suffering. It seems that the particular appetite for sado-masochistic violence that the Baron starts evincing towards the end are, it seems to me, the perversions of a thwarted love, a love that is the source of indescribable pain and seeks its fulfillment in pain. Probably all sado-masochism is in itself but a perversion of love that cannot fulfill itself. At least for the Baron we can safely say that it is after his final rejection by Morel that he sinks to the depths.

I often wonder, how much of Charlus' degradation is voluntary. It seems as if he is not out of his senses. His mental faculties are as sharp as ever, even at the very end. He has a perfect memory, and shows a remarkably agile and reasoning mind as seen in the last meeting of the narrator with him. This leaves me with a disconcerting feeling that the last years are the Baron's long, protracted and premeditated suicide; it is as if he were preparing his funeral pyre for the final immolation. Love in the end is a disease, an infection. If not cured, but left to rankle and fester it grows poisonous and drives us to untold degradations. The disease breaks out as a rash, a vile excrescence on the face of a serene life. We are convinced that the Baron is beyond cure when we see him at Jupien's Brothel and find that the Baron has funded the house of ill-repute. It is as if the secret pestilential sores of his disease are laid bare to us and we can finally see the gangrene that has spread unseen beneath the pale, unblemished skin. Nothing more could be done. It is there that we stare aghast for a moment at the fall of a titan, a veritable Zeus armed with thunderbolts and see him decrepit and wallowing like a pig in filth and aghast we draw over the offensive scene a curtain of discretion. We leave, with Marcel, our hearts heavy and minds abuzz, with bowed head, through the shower of bombs. The German bombs dropped on Paris as Proust leaves the brothel parallels the shower of fire and brimstone that rained down on Sodom. Paris hence is the Sodom of the day and Proust is its sole survivor, walking through the hail of fire. With him we leave Sodom behind, and with it our friends, and walk forth into the dark streets of war-time Paris. We do not see the baron again till on the eve of the last party.

Homosexuality is in itself not degrading. It is not as if being homosexual means that one is destined to plumb deeper and deeper depths of misery and perversion, as Proust seems to think. It does not guarantee a life of sorrow, of lies, of fractured identities. What causes all this is secrecy. Secrecy is the bane of the homosexual through the ages. In certain societies, like in ancient Greece, where homosexuality was institutionalized and had its social function as a peer system for the training of the Greek youth, there was no malaise attached to it. There Sappho could sing of her love, the lovers Harmodius and Aristogyton could free Athens from the tyrants, the Theban band could sacrifice their lives to the last man in the Phillipic battles led on by the bonds of love. Venus and Mars are joined together, there is nothing effeminate, but it is a love that gives the strength for sacrifice, for struggle (See Carpenter, Symonds et al). If homosexual men and women today, cannot name their love or who they love and what they seek, if they have to constantly lie and act a part they know is false, if they have to constantly impersonate what they are not, there can be no healing for them. Love will turn into a curse, into a disease, as it did for Charlus, who inspite of everything had not the courage to name his vice (I do not think of it as vice, I merely follow the usage of Proust). If homosexuality is no more a cause for shame, and has no stigma attached to it, and men and women have the courage to say that they are gay, then will there be no heavy doom attached to being born a homosexual, then will there be no curse of Sodom and Gomorrah. And there will be healing and completeness for many fractured lives and many noble natures. And there will be more joy in the world, more happiness. I hope to live in such a world. Let us hope we get there.

I was ensconced in my house for the last twenty days and had not been out at all. I stayed in and read and watched movies and did not feel the need to go out. Think of it as my shot at eremitism at which I find I am surprisingly good. Maybe now I should look at a career as a Trapppist monk.

That puts me in mind of Victor Hugo's rant against eremitism in Les Miserables ( I think). I read the book when I was 16 and at that time I was seriously considering joining the Jesuits. And then Hugo came and shat all over my ideology, I was justifiably incensed. You would think that with age as the romantic sheen I had cast over the Jesuit order faded I would begin to see the justice of Hugo's critique but I never did. If I remember aright his objections were mainly sociological and impressive, not because of their logic but, because of his undoubted literary prowess. He pours forth his considerable literary powers to convince the reader that anyone who desires to take on a life of contemplation in a religious order and willingly hems himself in by the myriad rules and regulations that attend on such a decision is ipso facto a social misfit and a masochist. Maybe a profound distrust of the religious life became a characteristic of post-revolution France which colours Hugo’s thought as well.

I remember feeling a deep unease at that time at what Hugo was saying and how he was saying it. I was uneasy because I felt that he was trying to whip up a frenzy which would perforce lead to an uncritical agreement with his point of view. Hugo was a great artist, a master craftsman of prose and he is very well equipped to do what I felt he was doing. I was, almost carried away by the stream of impassioned prose that bordered on poetry and my admiration may have led me to uncritically agree with and unconsciously accept what he had to say. But there was that hint of suspicion in the back of my mind which could not be put to rest. It was like listening to Saruman. I was overpowered by the sweetness of the voice and I felt a consuming need to agree with what it said and thus appear wise myself, but there was that feeling of being under a spell, of not being in my right mind, that vague feeling as if something was not right, as if the perspective was skewed. That unease, that feeling of being possessed by someone or something else was like a thorn in my side, constantly calling for attention inspite of the art that was being put forth to numb the pain. That was my first encounter with this specific kind of argument, a kind that I have heard a number of times and maybe even used sometimes. It is the impassioned argument, the mad, frenzy inducing argument. It does not call attention to facts but seeks to blind you with emotion. Rarely is it done with the finesse of Hugo. His prose is sublime art even if I do not agree with his ideas. I cannot say the same thing about the arguments of the Hindu fundamentalists in my country. The BJP, VHP and their ilk use nothing but this kind of argument to hold on to power and relevance. Their appeal is emotional and not logical. And the saddest thing is, it is neither good prose, nor good oratory.

Anyways, today I went out into the city after a long time. The rains were here meanwhile and the city is washed clean. The river in front of my home, which was choked with green weeds has swelled up and swept away its green skin and flows with a swirl of brown muddy waters with a carefree and impetuous lilt. I have a curious ritual with the river. I cross it everyday on my way to work and I check everyday for the extent of the river surface encroached upon by the weeds. If it is all choked up with the vile growth the day will be all choked up with work and if the river shakes it self free and washes away the weeds then I will be free all day to do what I desire. The curious thing about this little superstition is that I never actually look back and see if it actually, truly did forecast the nature of my day, but I still look at the river everyday and look for a happy sign of the day to come. And since now there is not a trace of those weeds anymore, maybe I shall be free for as long as the rains last. Or maybe, I will be fired from my job, and believe you me, it is a possibility. Maybe, getting fired will not be that bad.

Poona is beautiful in the rains. Those barren hills I told you about, have turned green. its mostly small shrubs and bushes but still from down here it looks verdant and refreshing. And from my room I can hear the cuckoo. Its weird, my genes are probably hardwired to read all that into a cuckoo-call that Indian poetry is supposed to read into it- love and longing, specifically a lovelorn cry for someone special who has gone far away. Is this a cultural construct that I am submitting to, or is it universal, something all human beings feel on hearing this sound? The cuckoo here is a harbinger of spring. Spring is weird in India. There is infact no spring... winter seamlessly merges into an Indian summer. Maybe a week or two at most can be called spring. Spring is long over now and it is the rains but the cuckoo puts me in mind of an old spring custom. Kalidasa says in the Shakuntala that when one hears the first cuckoo one knows its the spring, and then must one go looking for fresh mango blossoms and with these mango blossoms one must make an oblation to Madana, the God of love. Well, I guess I must be off now to look for mango blossoms. I hope you come back for another slice of my ravings soon.

Proustian Reverie

I am going to be twenty-three in a few more months. Twenty-three!! Fuck, I am growing old. With every passing day, slips away any chance I may have of a precocious undiscovered talent unexpectedly blooming in me; slipping away like sand through the fingers of time. I often ask myself, if I am indeed worth remembering after I am gone.

Proust asked himself the same thing. In his opus, among other themes, probably the central theme- the thread that holds the whole story together, from inception to its closure- is that of Proust's struggle with his creativity, his struggle with his realisation of a lack of talent and against chronic procrastination. He constantly struggles with the book he feels is burgeoning within him. He compares the growth of the novel to the growth of a foetus in the womb. You feed it, nourish it, are weighed down by it; it seeks constant attention, is impetuous and unreasonable in its appetites; you love it, live for it, feel as if you are the shell and the novel/foetus is the real organism, the 'life'. And then you hate it as well, you hate its constant plea for attention and its eating away at the root of your existence, your being wants to reject this new being which is sucking the being-ness out of you. For poor Marcel, it’s a constant struggle, this incubation of the novel. As he reaches the last volume you can almost feel his labour pangs start. He becomes short-tempered, out of sympathy with his characters and his readers; he begins to write with a ferocious quality, with a hate engendered of his irritation with the onerous task of carrying this being within him. He feels the novel sapping his vitality away, slowly killing him, and he rushes on towards that dread end with unparalleled ferocity and hate. He wants to be rid of it.

In the last volume of the Search Proust is at his supremely acerbic best. All the threads, all the nebulous ideas he has engendered and explored in the previous five volumes he evokes again, for a last time and with all the threads firmly in his hands he expertly, with a last flourish ties them all together to give form to the nebulous story he has been telling. In the last few hundred pages is the resolution of all that was proposed and like a piece of music, say a grand classical composition, ends in a crescendo that takes you to the heights of ecstasy and leaves you feeling dizzy, like such divine music the novel ends in a crescendo of pain, poised on the brink of existence and non-existence, leaning into the future precariously.

In the end Proust feels confident of his talents, discovers what his unique approach to literature is, makes a break with the past (as represented by the episode with the Goncourt pastiche) and decides to write the book we read. In the process he has killed or brought down to utter humiliation the characters I had grown to love inspite of all their faults. He himself is conscious of this when he says, if I remember rightly, "my characters will descend to great depths and I will have to follow them there". And follow he does to the very depths of humanity. And in the end I see that all the characters I loved and whose degradation pained me are slowly forgotten and in the failure of collective memory they find a fate worse than mere disrepute. I mean, when I see Madame Verdurin as the Princesse de Guermantes and when Proust shows that the Verdurin infact fits into the role of the Princesse, as if the title were no more than play acting, no more than a template that can mould anyone to fit its grooves. The dazzling original Princesse is forgotten and in a sense identified and merged with Madame Verdurin. This forgetfulness of people and slow but inexorable change in the history of those being forgotten wipes out the whole social structure that Proust had built up in the course of six volumes.

The destruction of all that was created strangely parallels the Indian conception of sacrifice. The whole of creation has its inception in the sacrifice of Purusha. His limbs are apportioned to form all that is. The whole of creation, life and all its concomitant occurrences are a part of this sacrifice and in the end when the ritual ends all this is wiped out and nothing is left behind. Ritual consumes itself and leaves behind only an indefinable essence, an 'uchchista', something that remains behind when all is gone. When a Hindu ritual is performed, the ceremony generally involves selecting a suitable place, purifying the location and lighting a sacred fire. There are precise rules for all this. The ritual finally ends, the fire is put out and the altar is dismantled. The ground is smoothed out if it was dug. All ritual accoutrements are removed and the place is swept. What remains behind is a clearing in the forest, a few grains of rice maybe. This left over after everything is said and done, when action has consumed itself is the 'uchchista'. It is the indefinable essence left behind when the world ends. In it is the seed of a new world, of new life and action.

I often think of Proust's work as a sacrifice or a ritual. All the characters, the Baron de Charlus, Oriane, Jupien, Albertine, Duc de Guermantes, Swann, Gilberte, Robert and everyone else are creatures created by the genius of Proust to dance this macabre dance of death, of forgetting, of sacrifice and to be finally consumed in the fire of time. What remains behind after this sacrifice must be the essence of the universe. But what it is, is a question to which I scarcely have an answer.