Archive for the 'Uncategorized' Category

‘A carpet is like a good piece of music’

Sean McLain reports from Lahore on Tariq Mirza, the master carpet weaver. From The National:

When the curators of Historic Royal Palaces in London needed a carpet, they contacted Tariq Mirza. The charity that cares for Britain’s unoccupied royal palaces needed to decorate King Edward I’s bedroom with a Spanish carpet from the 13th century. The problem was that the technique for making this sort of carpet died out hundreds of years ago. This was part of the appeal for the man who calls himself a “medieval craftsman”. “The more challenging, the more difficult, the more research involved, the more I love it.”

That carpet now lies in the Tower of London, but few people know its story. One cannot tell by looking at it that it took six months of painstaking labour by Mirza and his master weavers in the Pakistani city of Lahore to complete it.

“We could have made a Spanish design carpet in any weave. When it is on the floor, you would not be able to tell. It is only close examination that shows this.” But that would not have been good enough for Mirza. The project turned out to be more complex than even he anticipated. “The museum wanted a Spanish weave carpet, which was current in the 13th century. They wanted it technically woven in that way. That weave has been dead for ages.” To meet the demanding specifications, Mirza first began with research. He contacted museum curators and anyone with a Spanish carpet from that era to rediscover the lost art of their making. Using their analysis, his own guesswork and several high resolution photographs of the weave pattern, he began to reverse-engineer the carpet. More:

An unknown slice of Kerala

In Mint-Lounge, Parizaad Khan reviews The Surian Kitchen by Lathika George:

The Suriani Kitchen by Lathika George; Published by Westland

There are lovely stories of ritual baths, paeans to coconuts and a story about Kerala Kalpam, an ancient Sanskrit manuscript on agriculture which outlines the ideal way to tend to the fields—only men with a calm and orderly disposition should do so. Bulls should be enticed with song instead of being prodded by sticks and while sowing seeds, a song should be on the lips and in the hearts of farmers.

George’s recipes, thankfully, don’t seem this demanding. Though the non-vegetarian ones dealing with beef, pork, poultry and seafood are all lip-smacking, the sections for the vegetarian recipes and accompaniments are a delight. Fresh Cashew Sauté, Wild Mushroom Sauté, Spiced Cooked Buttermilk, Jar Soup and Dried Shrimp Chutney all look simple enough for amateurs to try. More:

Kajra Re on ice

From The New York Times:

American ice dancers Meryl Davis and Charlie White thought their Indian-themed original dance program could be popular.

Little did they know it would become an international sensation, thanks to YouTube.

A video of their program, from the Rostlecom Cup last October, has drawn more than 220,000 hits.

White and Davis, the 2009 Grand Prix champions as well as the reigning national champions, have received e-mails from fans in India and South Asia, who are pleased with their routine. They have had interview requests from Indian and Indian-American media outlets, wanting to discuss the program. More:

[Below, the original from the Bollywood movie]

The quest for Bombay Time

Bombay Time was one of the two official time zones established in British India in 1884. Vikram Doctor tells the fascinating story in the Economic Times:

The seeds for the second battle over Bombay Time were set in Washington DC in 1884. This was at the International Meridian Conference which established Greenwich in Britain as the Prime Meridian, from which all other time zones were set. This was a huge step towards establishing the primacy of standardised time over local time, but the politics that accompanied it were an indication of how difficult the matter would be. France, for example, was so furious that it refused to acknowledge Greenwich time at all.

For years it stuck with Paris Mean Time, only finally capitulating in 1911 when it standardised this with the universal time zones – but by saying they were delaying Paris Mean Time by 9 minutes, 21 seconds and still refusing to admit that GMT existed. The Irish, who were fighting for Home Rule from Britain were similarly unwilling to take direction from Greenwich, and set Dublin Time as 25 minutes ahead of GMT, rather than the usual half hour difference.

In India the meridian selected for setting the time zone was 82.5° East, which was five and a half hours ahead of GMT. But the Viceroy’s government knew that the problem in moving from Indian Mean Time (IMT, the old Madras Time) to what would come to be called Indian Standard Time (IST) was that the calculations for Bombay and Calcutta would no longer be the simple half hour less or more that people were used to making when adjusting for Railway Time. More:

Saw this, Liberhan?

A team of TV journalists recorded what happened — and what didn’t happen — on December 6, 1992, in Ayodhya. Madhu Trehan in Hindustan Times:

babriIt should have taken 60 minutes — 30 minutes to watch the footage from Newstrack, the old video magazine, and 30 minutes to write the report. Newstrack’s December 1992 edition gave a minute-by-minute account of what happened in Ayodhya on December 6, 1992. And yet, M.S. Liberhan took 17 years to come up with what he came up with.

Mritinjoy Jha along with his team were in Ayodhya from November 23, 1992. Thousands of pumped-up, slogan-shouting people were pouring in, carrying pick-axes and other equipment. Manoj Raghuvanshi, with another Newstrack team, had pulled the story together. In his voice-over, Raghuvanshi spoke about “a chief minister who spoke from both sides of his mouth — promising the Supreme Court that no construction would take place on the disputed site — and a prime minister who trusted everybody, including his central forces sent ostensibly to defend the masjid”.

The recordings captured Hindu leaders, including Tyagi Maharaj and Acharya Dharmendra, exhorting the crowd that the masjid must be destroyed and a temple built. Uma Bharti in her speech made three crucial points by demanding answers from the crowd: “Will you restrain yourselves when the leaders ask you to? Will you maintain peace and observe rules? Will you obey your leaders?’” The crowd bellowed a yes. But did the BJP really believe that it could control the kar sevaks, the RSS volunteers, the Bajrang Dal and the Vishwa Hindu Parishad after its own passion-rousing rath yatra? More:

Grassroots journalism

A group of women from underprivileged families in remote, rural India have set up Khabar Lahariya, a village paper. The paper, whose name translates into English as News Wave, covers local news, educational features, and information on campaigns for Dalit rights.

Farah Naqvi tells their story in her book, Waves in the Hinterland: The Journey of A Newspaper (Nirantar and Zubaan Books). Gillian Wright on the newspaper and the book in the Hindustan Times:

The Book, Waves in the Hinterland, and the newspaper, Khabar Lahariya

The Book, Waves in the Hinterland, and the newspaper, Khabar Lahariya

Recently, there was a very unusual book launch in Delhi. Two women from underprivileged families in rural Bundelkhand addressed a packed audience at the India Habitat Centre and told them what it was like to be a neo-literate woman reporter on a local Bundeli language newspaper in two of the most backward districts of Uttar Pradesh — Chitrakoot and Banda.

Their colourful eight-page weekly appears in both the Chitrakoot and Banda variants of the lilting Bundeli language, and their stories expose corruption and injustice affecting the same villages where the paper is read by some 25,000 people.

For standing up and telling the truth, they have been sexually harassed and frequently threatened — at one point with a

masked man with a gun. Attempts have been made to buy all copies of the paper to keep news from getting out, to buy the whole paper and to close them down. But Khabar Lahariya — News Wave — keeps on making waves. More:

The numerologists of Mumbai

Vikas Bajaj in the New York Times:

After seeking help from him and other numerologists, actors have added or dropped letters from their names — the actor Ajay Devgan recently became Ajay Devgn. Filmmakers have deliberately misspelled the titles of their movies — “Singh is Kinng” was a recent hit. And companies have redesigned brands and logos.

Recently, a travel company started a luxury train service, The Indian Maharaja – Deccan Odyssey. Mr. Jumaani had recommended adding the word “The” and hyphenating the name. Sajivv Trehaan, who heads the tour company the Travel Corporation (India), said the maiden trip was sold out and he believes Mr. Jumaani’s wordsmithing helped. He says Mr. Jumaani’s counsel has been a key to many of his business successes.

“The world has changed for me since then,” Mr. Trehaan said about the time seven years ago when Mr. Jumaani suggested he change his name from Sajiv Trehan. “We were a small company at the time. Now we have seven offices overseas. And I live in Switzerland.” More:


Babri Masjid demolition was meticulously planned

Maneesh Chhibber in the Indian Express:

babri The Justice Manmohan Singh Liberhan Commission of Inquiry has indicted former Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee along with current Leader of Opposition in the Lok Sabha L K Advani and former BJP president Murli Manohar Joshi, among others, for the demolition of the Babri Masjid on December 6, 1992.

Citing the evidence it gathered, which includes witness statements and official records, one of the key conclusions of the Commission is said to be that the entire build-up to the demolition was meticulously planned. And there was nothing to show that these leaders were either unaware of what was going on or innocent of any wrongdoing.

The one-man Commission probed the “sequence of events leading, and all facts and circumstances relating, to the occurrences at Ram Janmabhoomi-Babri Masjid complex on December 6, 1992” — the day the Babri Masjid was brought down by kar sevaks. More:

Read the followup stories in the Indian Express here and here.

Previously in AWWho demolished the Babri Masjid?


Apocalypse New Delhi

Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta reviews Cyberabad Days by Ian McDonald (Orion Books):

cyberabad_days The new and thought-provoking SF from Ian McDonald, Cyberabad Days, is set in the India of 2047. In McDonald’s dystopian vision, bitter wars are fought over water; crime, terror and separatism are rampant; divides between the few who have and the millions who have nothing have deepened to dangerous levels; and the nation has broken into fragments. Even human identities are becoming fragmented as more and more ways of escaping to simulated versions of reality become available. One and a half billion people struggle to live through interminable conflicts, chemical warfare, military occupation, a dangerously skewed sex ratio, and more. Most of all, they struggle to cope with social and technological changes that have engulfed them with fierce suddenness. More:

And some more reviews at scifi sites: scifiwire.com and sfsignal.com

Crossed wires

Excavating the call centre’s private stories, Saritha Rai in the Indian Express:

For ever so long, India’s call centres have been portrayed as glamorous workplaces where fashionable young men and women work crazy schedules and lead fast-paced lives. Their workers have been depicted as brash spenders and year-round revellers.

Now anthropologist-couple Purnima Mankekar and Akhil Gupta, both from the University of California, Los Angeles, say their joint research titled, Refashioning Selves, Reimagining Futures: Media and Mobility in Call Centers in Bangalore’s back office companies shows how not-true these portrayals are.

For a study funded by the American Institute of Indian Studies and the Fulbright Program, Mankekar and Gupta have spent the best part of this year uncovering and understanding the lives of back office workers. More:

The Abbey Road to Rishikesh

India had a tremendous influence on the Beatles and their music. Many a song came about just hanging around the Maharishi’s ashram at Rishikesh. So the Beatles’ double album is really a hymn to India. Bill Harry, the founder of Mersey Beats, the magazine that made the Beatles famous and introduced the band to manager Brian Epstein, in the OPEN magazine. Above, The making of Sgt. Pepper (circa 1992)

white_albumIn 1966, George began studying the instrument under Ravi Shankar and continued to be inspired by Indian music, recording several numbers incorporating Indian instruments or using Indian musicians to accompany him. Another example is Love You To where he played the sitar like a guitar and featured instruments such as tabla and tambura.

George also recorded the track The Inner Light at EMI Studios in Mumbai while one of his contributions to the Sgt Pepper album was Within You, Without You. John’s Across The Universe featured George on sitar and tambura. The Sanskrit phrase, ‘Jai guru deva, om’ features in the chorus, which roughly translates to ‘victory to God divine’.

The Beatles were to be inspired by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and transcendental meditation and set off for the Maharishi’s ashram in Rishikesh, a journey which became one of their most fulfilling creative adventures during which they composed 32 songs. More:

Exchanging one cliché for another

Akash Kapur in the New York Times:

My first memory of being Indian in America was being called an “injun.” This was around 1980. I was visiting my grandparents in rural Minnesota. The boy who called me an “injun” punched me in the stomach; later, his friends would call me a “communist.”

Those were particularly crude reactions but they were characteristic of the distance that separated India and America for much of my life. I grew up between both countries, the son of an Indian father and an American mother, but my two homes always felt very far apart. For much of my childhood and early adulthood, India and America were literally — but also culturally, socially, politically and experientially — on opposite sides of the planet.

When I moved to America in the early 1990s, India was little more than a cipher in the American imagination. Many of my new friends were uninterested in and uninformed about the country that I desperately missed. India was defined by the broadest, and usually most unflattering, of brush strokes — stereotypes about poverty and corruption, images of crowds, maybe a vague sense of what Indians in America used to call the “three C’s”: caste, cows and curry. More:

A roadway from hope to sorrow

The East Coast Road has created jobs, strained the area’s environment and brought death to this part of southeast India. Akash Kapur in the New York Times:

E. Vinayagam remembers when the country road outside his village ran through a forest. When Vinayagam, born in 1947, was a boy, he and his friends were scared to go to the road at night; the forest was thick, and it was rumored to be haunted.

Vinayagam remembers when the road became a highway. A group of surveyors showed up one morning with their equipment. They were marking what would become the East Coast Road – an ambitious highway project, financed in part by the Asian Development Bank, that runs nearly 800 kilometers, about 500 miles, along the southeast coast of India.

The East Coast Road, or ECR, was built in the late ’90s. Vinayagam was an impoverished agricultural laborer at the time. The highway changed his life. He set up a thatch tea shop by the side of the road. It was a humble establishment, but traffic was picking up, and the thatch hut was soon a two-story concrete structure that served branded cold drinks and fresh fruit juices. More:

Hope Diamond goes naked

The Hope Diamond was mined in Golconda, India. It was sold to King Louis XIV of France in 1668. For the first time in its 50-year residence at the Smithsonian Institution, the diamond has been taken out of its setting, giving the public a rare look at its bare beauty. From the Washington Post:

hope-diamondAt a morning press conference, with the doors locked and security personnel glaring, a jeweler wheeled a trolley out from a workroom. Atop it was the Hope Diamond covered with a white cloth; the cloth was taken off with a flourish by museum director Cristián Samper. “This is a new chapter in the history of the Hope Diamond,” said Samper, facing a lineup of camera crews. “We wanted to celebrate this legacy by giving people a look at the Hope Diamond in a new way.”

The 45.52-carat gem, which was donated to the Smithsonian on Nov. 10, 1958, by the firm of Harry Winston Inc., has been one of the most visited objects at the Smithsonian. More than 5 million people a year peer into its enclosure. More:

[Read more at the Smithsonian]

Arieb Azhar – Husn-e-Haqiqi

Husn-e-Haqiqi means true beauty

[via 3quarksdaily]

Nowhere man

Aarti Virani in the Wall Street Journal:

About two months ago, armed with a range of artifacts that served as visual testaments to our love and commitment for each other-a monstrous wedding album, the lease to our New Jersey condo and a range of mementos that chronicled a two-year courtship-my husband and I appeared for our green card interview. Inside a gritty government building in downtown Newark, I regurgitated my personal history to a surprisingly patient officer with a generous smile: I was born and raised in Japan, to Indian parents. With the authoritative thump of a stamp, our 15 minutes came to an end. Before bidding us goodbye, the officer innocently asked whether I’d become an American citizen. Perhaps the fuzzy look in my eyes gave it away, but she instantly and amiably dismissed the question, shook our hands and wished us well. On our drive home, I quietly mulled over whether I needed to add another country to the growing list of places from which to feel estranged.

When I first arrived in the United States almost seven years ago, trading in the temperate winds of my hometown, Kobe, for the exponentially icier climes of Syracuse, New York, hardly a day went by when I didn’t have to map out my seemingly puzzling background for a fleeting acquaintance, forgetful friend or even a prospective employer. In those moments, brimming with frustration and a keen sense of displacement, I would think of my late grandfather’s good-natured chuckle, urging me that it was possible to straddle cultures as he had so gracefully done. More:

A hapless South Asian and his American border-buddies

Ruchir Joshi in The Telegraph:

All the other passengers have gone, passed through immigration and customs without incident, but two US customs officers have taken the young South Asian man to one side. They make him open his suitcase, they make him take everything out and they spread it across the inspection table like entrails from a dead patient. As they feel through the man’s possessions they grill him, one officer passing the ball to the other, interrupting each other sometimes, interrupting the passenger often, changing tack, moving through different gears of aggression and insult. The young man is nervous, eager to go out and meet his girlfriend who he has no doubt is now waiting for him with growing anxiety. At some point one of the officers asks the man what he does and he replies that he is a freelance journalist. The officer picks up a new diary the man has bought in London, during his stop-over. “Journalist, hunh?”, “Yes, freelance.” The Boston Irishman fingers the obviously fresh diary. “So, is this for your thoughts? Can I read through this?” The fact that the dairy has only one paragraph of very personal writing jotted during the flight from London makes the Asian man go cold. But then the sneer loading the word ‘thoughts’ makes the man’s blood boil. “Sure.” He shrugs. “Whatever.” The customs guys don’t like this change of tone and they ignore the diary and ask the man to come to a separate room.

Inside the room, one of the officers lights up a cigarette and the man is grilled again, asked repeatedly whether he has any connection to the smuggling of drugs, whether he has any sort of illicit connections in the US at all. On the table in the interrogation room there is an unopened pack of surgical gloves; throughout the questioning there is a clear threat of an anal examination. Unsaid, but clearly stated is this: “Not only will you answer our questions but you will be polite to the point of servility unless you want to provoke us further.” Genetically unwise, the brown man stays with his seething anger but somehow keeps his English clean and crisp. Later, he will realize that his ‘Indian’ accent had a double function: that of provoking the hard-wired ire of working-class American Irish against anything remotely ‘English’ and ‘posh’, while simultaneously saving him from a ‘search with extreme prejudice’. The officers make the man take off his sneakers, one of them desultorily kicks the shoes over with his boot to see if they are loaded with contraband, but they stop at that. Clearly this passenger is less than slim pickings but they’ve met their quota of people examined. Their afternoon coffee-break beckoning, the Uniforms ask the man to pack his bag and be on his way. As the Asian guy stumbles off with his suitcase, he feels like a stick of sugar-cane that’s been put through the wringer. From behind him, one of the officers jovially calls out: “Welcome to the United States!” More:

The British left India six decades too early

On India’s Independence Day, Aakar Patel in Mint-Lounge:

indian_flagThe British left in 1947, and they left too soon. We celebrate Independence Day, but another six decades of dependence as Great Britain’s colony would have been good for us. We could have learnt how to run cities. No harm in admitting what is obvious for all to see: We cannot even manage traffic.

Mumbai, not Hong Kong, would have been the centre for finance in Asia, instead of the second-rate city it has become since the British left.

Delhi would have more bits like the ones the British built, the only elegant parts of the city, just as British South Bombay is the only elegant part. Cities such as Surat and Ahmedabad and Hyderabad and Indore would have become civilized. Under English and Scottish bureaucrats, architecture, certainly civic architecture, would not be as ugly as it is.

Justice would mean something. Gandhi and Nehru repeatedly got arrested voluntarily because, correctly, they trusted British justice. Today’s politician resists arrest even though he may be innocent, because he’s liable to get stitched up, like Omar Abdullah.

What else would be better? Education, through the Macaulay plan.

Europeans, of course, told us who and what we were. After 3,000 years of illiteracy, we learnt of the existence of the Indus Valley civilization from John Marshall in 1924. The identity of our greatest emperor, Ashok (died 232 BC), whose lion capital is our emblem, whose wheel is on our flag, was revealed to us by James Prinsep 175 years ago. More:

Mumbai has that sinking feeling, yet again

It never rains in Bombay (Mumbai) as it pours. Why do the people of this once great city have to put up with waterlogged streets and traffic jams, year after year after year? In DNA, Sandeep Ashar reports

cc/Mohit.Ed

cc/Mohit.Ed

Incessant heavy rain since late last night caused waterlogging at several places in Mumbai and threw life in the city out of gear.

Office-goers had to brave traffic jams and diversions on several routes for the best part of the morning. Public transport and suburban railway services were badly hit.

Several parts of the city were flooded. Among them were the area outside the GPO, the Mahalaxmi Temple junction, Dr Annie Besant Road at Worli, Maratha Mandir, St Mary’s School at Byculla, Sleater Road, Sewree, Hindmata, Lilavati Hospital at Bandra, King’s Circle, Jain Society at Sion, Wadala, Juhu, and Andheri. At many of these places, the floodwaters were more than 2 feet deep.

The crucial Andheri and Milan subways in the western suburbs were under almost 3 feet of water and were closed for traffic. Roads leading to the airport witnessed massive traffic jams with waterlogging at several places.

more

Track Mumbai’s floods on Twitter here.

The Joy of less

Pico Iyer in the New York Times:

“The beat of my heart has grown deeper, more active, and yet more peaceful, and it is as if I were all the time storing up inner riches…My [life] is one long sequence of inner miracles.” The young Dutchwoman Etty Hillesum wrote that in a Nazi transit camp in 1943, on her way to her death at Auschwitz two months later. Towards the end of his life, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “All I have seen teaches me to trust the creator for all I have not seen,” though by then he had already lost his father when he was 7, his first wife when she was 20 and his first son, aged 5. In Japan, the late 18th-century poet Issa is celebrated for his delighted, almost child-like celebrations of the natural world. Issa saw four children die in infancy, his wife die in childbirth, and his own body partially paralyzed.

I’m not sure I knew the details of all these lives when I was 29, but I did begin to guess that happiness lies less in our circumstances than in what we make of them, in every sense. “There is nothing either good or bad,” I had heard in high school, from Hamlet, “but thinking makes it so.” I had been lucky enough at that point to stumble into the life I might have dreamed of as a boy: a great job writing on world affairs for Time magazine, an apartment (officially at least) on Park Avenue, enough time and money to take vacations in Burma, Morocco, El Salvador. But every time I went to one of those places, I noticed that the people I met there, mired in difficulty and often warfare, seemed to have more energy and even optimism than the friends I’d grown up with in privileged, peaceful Santa Barbara, Calif., many of whom were on their fourth marriages and seeing a therapist every day. Though I knew that poverty certainly didn’t buy happiness, I wasn’t convinced that money did either. More:

Water under lock and key

waterAt Dhoni village in Gujarat water is so scarce that they not only lock up their wells but sleep over the wooden lids as well to ensure that nobody steals their water. During the day women and children keep a watch over the small village pond. Parimal Dabhi has a report in the Indian Express. Photo: Javed Raja.

God on sale (buy one, get one free)

What started off as a Rs 300 investment is now a Rs 20 crore business of idols, books, music and more. In Mint, Priyanka P Narain takes a trip to the world of religious retailing.

pujaIn the basement shop of Giri Trading Agency in Mumbai, Usha Sreedharan and her husband happily trawled through hundreds of religious, spiritual and self-help books, compact discs (CDs) and curios before emerging with the music they wanted.

They picked up CDs of a Carnatic music recital, the Gayatri Mantra and the Rudri chant and other Hindu hymns.
“My husband is the managing director of the Bank of Baroda in Ghana and is posted there for two years. He wanted to buy some music that will help him feel at home while he is there. So, of course, we came here,” Sreedharan said.
The Sreedharans, regular customers of Giri Trading for almost a decade, cannot stop gushing about how much they like its concept of organized religious retail. “They have such a lovely collection. Any book, any music, any idols, we don’t need to go all the way to Chennai. We get it right here in Mumbai. They even get idols sculpted for you from Chennai artisans.”
[Pic: Caitlinator's Photostream under the Creative Commons License]

Another nuclear anniversary

Pervez Hoodbhoy in Dawn:

Some had imagined that nuclear weapons would make Pakistan an object of awe and respect internationally. They had hoped that Pakistan would acquire the mantle of leadership of the Islamic world. Indeed, in the aftermath of the 1998 tests, Pakistan’s stock had shot up in some Muslim countries before it crashed. But today, with a large swathe of its territory lost to insurgents, one has to defend Pakistan against allegations of being a failed state. In terms of governance, economy, education or any reasonable quality of life indicators, Pakistan is not a successful state that is envied by anyone.

Contrary to claims made in 1998, the bomb did not transform Pakistan into a technologically and scientifically advanced country. Again, the facts are stark. Apart from relatively minor exports of computer software and light armaments, science and technology remain irrelevant in the process of production. Pakistan’s current exports are principally textiles, cotton, leather, footballs, fish and fruit. This is just as it was before Pakistan embarked on its quest for the bomb. The value-added component of Pakistani manufacturing somewhat exceeds that of Bangladesh and Sudan, but is far below that of India, Turkey and Indonesia. Nor is the quality of science taught in our educational institutions even remotely satisfactory. But then, given that making a bomb these days requires only narrow technical skills rather than scientific ones, this is scarcely surprising. More:

My experiments with cooling

Aditya Dev Sood at 3quarksdaily:

coolerThis is Delhi in its glory. Hotter, even, than when I knew it as a child, the temperatures these days scratching past the 45 degrees Celsius that were their absolute threshold then. Every day the earth baking, every night the atmosphere billowing in response, plumes of invisible heat unsettling the skies, a sudden imbalance and extreme of the natural order, corrected by crazy dust storms in the late afternoon, whose special, threatening light, one knows, will never break to rain. The dust is everywhere. On window sills and on the floors of my home, on doorknobs and banisters, and even hidden atop curtain rods and high shelves. The body is always tormented by the heat, always seeking respite, coolness, moisture, a wet towel, ginger-lemonade, the direct draft of an air-conditioner.
Last summer, when I was remodeling this house, I had six air-conditioners installed, one for each room, most of them split units, their umbilical tubing buried within the masonry. When we moved in, at the end of September, they seemed excessive, perhaps even a bit of a waste. This month, they seem barely adequate, and my family’s warnings prescient — don’t skimp on the aircon or you’ll regret it in the summer, when you most need it. The units loom over each room, promising Singaporean efficacy, but delivering Patna levels of cooling.

In the center of the two-storied house is a kind of small atrium, or large shaft, which stretches from plinth to roof. My neighbor has one just like it — it is mandated by local zoning. The idea was, in those pre-aircon-days of the Raj and early Indian post-coloniality, that air would circulate through the house, gathering heat from the groins and armpits of its wilting inhabitants, before entering the atrium and rising up as hot air must, but also following Bernoulli’s principle, that fluids will accelerate as they pass through a narrower channel. The logic of air-conditioning, sadly, runs so directly counter to this ecological understanding of architecture, as a coordination of air flows from outside the building, in through its interiors, all the way out its top. More:

Rough guide to transformation

Pico Iyer reviews “Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi” by Geoff Dyer. In the New York Times:

jeffinveniceWhen Martin Amis gave a central character in his scabrous, compulsive novel “Money” the name John Self, he was showing (or showing off) the impenitence and outsize ambitions of his satire on materialism and the ego. When Geoff Dyer, in his profoundly haunting and fearless new novel, gives his protagonist the name Jeff Atman – invoking the Hindu word for the true and universal self – he’s doing something much more subtle and original. Dyer’s trademark wit and uniqueness, in fact, surround you before you’ve even turned to the first page: the first half of his title, “Jeff in Venice,” at once offers a quippy come-on and announces he’s going to subvert and update the classic novella by Thomas Mann (putting the self, or anti-­self, in place of death); the second half, “Death in Varanasi,” alerts you that he will extend his hyper-­contemporary search all the way to classical India, playing off one Old World city of palaces against another and propelling his story into the domain of Allen Ginsberg and all those other loose-limbed seekers who have turned that holy city of Hinduism into a backpacker’s Vatican.

More:

Shoe attack on Indian minister

Taking a cue from the Iraqi journalist who threw his shoes at George Bush last year, a Sikh journalist in New Delhi hurled a shoe at home minister P Chidambaram during a press conference in protest against the acquittal of a senior Congress politician accused of leading anti-Sikh riots in 1984.

The shoe narrowly missed the minister, who calmly told his guards to “Take him away, gently,” and added, “the emotional outburst of one man should not hijack a press conference.”

The journalist, Jarnail Singh, who works with a leading Hindi daily Dainik Jagran, was later released by the police. “I just wanted to ask him how justice will be done, but he was not interested in answering the questions,” Singh told CNN-IBN. “I don’t think it was the right way, what I have done, but the issue is right.”

Singh was angry at the acquittal of senior Congress leader Jagdish Tytler, accused of leading attacks on Sikhs following the assassination of the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi by her Sikh bodyguards. More than 3,000 Sikhs were killed in riots in Delhi.

Jagdish Tytler is currently campaigning for re-election to Parliament.

Remembering Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto

Photo circa 1972:  Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto (hanged 1979), India’s Prime Minister Indira Gandhi (assassinated 1982) and Bhutto’s daughter Benazir (also assassinated 2007). (From PPP website)

Photo circa 1972: Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto (hanged 1979), India’s Prime Minister Indira Gandhi (assassinated 1982) and Bhutto’s daughter Benazir (also assassinated 2007). (From PPP website)

Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was the President of Pakistan from 1971 to 1973 and Prime Minister from 1973 to 1977. He was the founder of the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP). Bhutto was hanged at Central jail, Rawalpindi, on 4 April, 1979. Thirty years on, Dawn website has a special section, “Remembering Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto.”

From the newspaper’s report of the hanging:

The funeral was attended by relatives, including his two uncles, Nawab Nabi Bakhsh Bhutto and Sanlar Peer Bakhsh Bhutto, his first wife Shirin Ameer Begum, friends and residents of the area’.

Begum Nusrat Bhutto and their daughter Miss Benazir, who are detained at Sihala, about 16 miles from Rawalpindi, had been informed that all the mercy petitions, which had been made to President Genera) Mohammad Zia-ul-Han, had been rejected. They had a three-hour meeting with him yesterday in jail. More

Dawn columnist Irfan Husain on “Living with Bhutto’s Ghost:”

Exactly30 years ago today, I was driving back with friends from a weeklong fishing trip in Azad Kashmir.

We did not have much luck with the fish: locals told us army officers had decimated entire streams by using explosives to stun all aquatic life, and scooping up the fish that floated to the top. But we had a lot of fun exploring the upper reaches of Neelum Valley with its fast-flowing river, and its snow-covered peaks.

That afternoon, we stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant and learned that Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, ex-prime minister of Pakistan, had been hanged in the dead of night by Gen Zia and his henchmen. More:

What’s the problem with Pakistan?

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A Foreign Affairs roundtable discussion on the causes of instability in Pakistan and what, if anything, can be done about them. Participants: Stephen P. Cohen, C. Christine Fair, Sumit Ganguly, Shaun Gregory, Aqil Shah, Ashley J. Tellis

Click here to read the first two parts:

Who Rules?
Who holds power in Pakistan today? What is the relationship among the government, the army, and the intelligence services?

The Military’s Worldview
What do the Pakistani security services want? How does supporting political violence and extremism fit into their agenda?

A personal history of Pakistan on the brink

Moni Mohsin in Boston Review:

It was December 2007, and General Pervez Musharraf had declared a state of Emergency in Pakistan. He suspended the Constitution, banned all independent television channels, and sacked the country’s senior judiciary. The streets were thronged with protestors raising their fists and chanting, “Go, Musharraf, go!”

In London I took part in a protest outside the Pakistani High Commission. It was a smallish demonstration, mainly comprising Pakistani undergraduates at the University of London. We chanted slogans against the General and called for a return to the rule of law. Then a student in a beanie took the microphone and sang a poem. Written by Faiz, the great Pakistani poet who spent four years in jail under General Ayub Khan’s martial law, the poem, “Hum Dekhain Gay”-”We Shall See,” has become an anthem of resistance for the people of Pakistan. As I stood on that chilly pavement and listened to the young man’s full-throated voice, I was filled with profound sadness. More than twenty-five years ago, I had sung this very song on the streets of Lahore. I, too, was an impassioned student then, and I, too, had protested the tyranny of a military dictator. I, too, had believed that that would be the last martial law we would experience.

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Once upon a time in Lahore…

In The Indian Express, Khaled Ahmed, a consulting editor with The Friday Times, on the beginning of the Talibanisation of Lahore.

But things were different once. Lahore was known as a tolerant city with a big heart that set cultural trends. It published all the books and magazines that mattered in India and Burma. Jats and Rajputs belonging to Muslim, Hindu and Sikh communities formed cross-communal “unionist” governments that disallowed entry into the province to both Congress and the Muslim League. It was a Mughal city with the pluralist stamp of Emperor Akbar who made Lahore the capital of the Mughal Empire from 1585 to 1598. The great Mughal king was here for 14 years.

Lahore is the city where the popular story of a quarrel between Akbar and his son Jahangir is said to have taken place and of course, Jahangir lies buried here as does his queen, Nur Jahan. The city also carries the mark of Shah Jahan, the great builder king. He built the most beautiful buildings in Lahore, then turned to Delhi and repeated the feat in Shahjahanabad. Aurangzeb turned eastward and the death of his brother Dara Shikoh sent Lahore into eclipse.

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The Cambridge chaplain fighting fanaticism by radio in Swat valley

John Butt, a Cambridge University chaplain, came to Swat in Pakistan in 1969. He liked the valley’s rugged beauty and its people, converted to Islam, trained as a mullah, and has lived there ever since.

Angus McDowall of The Telegraph, UK, met Butt “fears the arrival of a warped form of Sharia heavily reliant on corporal punishment.” Butt has set up his own radio station to counter the militants’ message and for those who do not like their beautiful homeland being turned into a Taliban mini-state.

Photo by Heartkins

Photo by Heartkins