Land of Lime

Watching Ashes live in England:
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David Hopps writes in the Guardian on the pleasures of watching Ashes from midnight to morning. Here is one juicy bit on reinvigorating oneself with a ‘power walk’ during the tea break.

4.30am: As part of the pre-Test hype, Sky TV paraded its own Ashes medical adviser, who suggested that the tea interval was the time to take a power walk to keep energy levels high. Is he kidding? The rain is throwing down. Anyway, you can’t power-walk around a village at this time of night. If you are under 30, someone will call the police, and if you’re any older you will be heralded as the local eccentric. Or, even worse, you could stride around the first corner and be met by a group of power-walkers chatting about the cricket. “Just getting a breather - what’s got into that Harmison?”

Laughing Politics:
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If you are tired of all the punditry on Democracy at work in America circa 2006, here is an entertaining musical: Greatest Hits of Election 2006 - an animated cartoon by Walter Handelsman. I assure you. You will not hear about America’s yearning for centrism, the victory of pragmatism over ideological extremes, so on and so forth. Enjoy.
Also this roundup of recent political cartoons by Bob Geiger will make you laugh. Or not.

From Iraq to Oakland, this thanksgiving has been a particularly violent one. Instead of reading depressing newspaper stories, here are a few paragraphs from Wendell Berry’s A Place on Earth. As in his other novels, Berry offers a vision of how individuals can live in community and what I quote here articulates that vision from the perspective of Jayber Crow, both the barber and the grave digger in Port William, Berry’s imaginary village and the location of all his novels. Jayber Crow is perhaps Berry’s most memorable character and I will write about my own fascination with him some other time.

In the face of Uncle Stanley’s devouring garrulousness, as confirmed and free a bachelor as he is, Jayber always finds himself taking up the defense of marriage. Not so much the defense of any particular marriage - not, by a long shot, of Uncle Stanley’s - but of marriage itself, of what it has come to be, for him, a kind of last ditch holy of holies: the possibility that two people might care for each other and know each other better than enemies, and better than strangers happening to be alive at the same time in the same town; and that, with a man and a woman, this caring and knowing might be made by intention, and in the consciousness of all it is, and of all it might be, and all that threatens it. At these times it seems to Jayber that, of all the men in Port William, he’s the most married - not in marriage, but to this ideal of marriage. He is bound in this way, as he is bound, beyond his friendships and his friends, to an ideal of friendship.

These are the last remainders of Jayber’s ideals. He holds to them against the possibility that life will mean nothing and be worth nothing. He is despairing believer in these things, knowing that everything fails. The ideal rides ahead of the real, renewing beyond it, perishing in it-unreachable, surely, but made new over and over again just by hope and by the passage of time; what has not yet failed remains possible. And the ideal, remaining undiminished and perfect, out of reach, makes possible a judgment of failure, and a just grief and sympathy.

In Port William, or beyond or above it, Jayber imagines a kind of heavenly City, in which each house would be built in a marriage and around it, and all the houses would be bound together in friendships, and friendliness would move and join among them like an open street. His living in Port William has been a bearing of the descent of the town from that ideal - as though at the end of each night, out of his mind and his desire, he gives painful birth to the new real morning and the real town - as though he watches the descent of all things from Heaven, like a snowball, into the aimless gap of Uncle Stanley’s mouth. But he is also the adulterer of his marriage, the servant of opposite houses, faithful to both and unfaithful to both-slipping away from his Heavenly City, to which he has sworn his devotion, to become the lover of all the perishing lights and substances of Port William and of the weather over it and of the water under it. After so long, it seems to him that he is the native and occupant of both places, and passes freely between them, and in serving either serves both.

Last week, as I was reading these paragraphs at the Gaylord’s cafe on Piedmont avenue, I witnessed a moving yet strange meeting between an uncle and nephew. Eighteen year old Melvin was driving on Piedmont Avenue and away from Gaylord. I don’t know what made him turn around and look at the cafe, which was on the other side of the street. But notice he did his uncle whom he hadn’t seen in ten years. So he stopped the car in the middle of the street, came running into the cafe and excitedly introduced himself to his uncle Jim, who couldn’t recognize him. How would he? The Melvin he knew was an eight year old boy.

It was very strange to listen to them. Here is a middle aged blackman, sitting in a cafe with his Powerbook and it was obvious that he had kept his distance from all his relatives. Apparently, Jim had fought with his sister but it was clear both he and Melvin liked each other and wanted to be in touch. They had spent the last ten years living in Oakland, within a twenty block radius of each other. I bet they both knew that too but seemed to have reconciled to never meeting. How the hell does that happen? What kind of disfunctional communities do we live in and why do we make peace with that?

Sure, Berry’s Christian roots are very obvious in the last paragraph but what I find striking about Port William and its inhabitants is a simple sense of worthiness and a commitment to keep it. It’s hard to describe it but i surely don’t use worth here either as something quantifiable nor merely in a limited sense of self worth. In Berry though, worth is quite organic and is tied to land, community and work. It seems to me that we quite often compromise on our own quest to achieve worth. May be, it’s hard both in Baghdad and in Oakland. The real rears its ugly head all too frequently but should we lose our ‘despairing belief’ in the ideal?

I don’t want to belabor this point. I just thought these paragraphs from Berry are perhaps worth reading, especially this weekend.

Ashes began yesterday. Last time around, I watched some fantastic cricket as England played brilliantly, competed with the Aussies and actually won the Ashes. Etched in memory is that exciting second test, as Lee and Warne fought back to almost win the game. Since then the Poms have regressed and this series will probably not be competitive. Still, I look forward to catch a couple of games on TV, hopefully beginning with the Boxing Day test match.

Ashes are cool for another reason. They produce good cricket writing. There is no greater thrill than watching Warne bowl. Imperious Ponting, destructive Gilchrist, explosive Flintoff and precise McGrath make watching cricket worthwhile. Yet, what I love about Ashes is simply reading Peter Roebuck, Gideon Haigh, Mike Selvey and others reconstruct each day’s play and comment on it.

Sometimes I wonder. Do we like sports? Or do we like the chatter about sports, on TV, newspapers and Radio, in stadiums, bars, chai stalls and other assorted places.

Speaking for myself, I love sports talk. In all forms and forums. Reports, both audio and written, columns, blogs and photos. If you too share that, here is are some places where I get my Ashes fix: Sydney Morning Herald and Guardian.

Also this new blog, Ashes Poetry, offers me a new goal: to emulate poet David Fine, someday. Fine will write daily postings, both in verse and prose on each day’s play. Not to be outdone, SMH provides a forum for amateur Aussie poets to compete.

I dig the idea.

Yesterday as I watched Michael Richards aka Cosmo Kramer unravel and go after against a heckler in LA, I was reminded of a Seinfeld episode in which Kramer accuses Jerry of being an anti-dentite. Kramer has a brief but eloquent comment on discriminating against marginal groups, including dentists in this episode.

This sickness within us. I am not sure when we will get rid of it.

Richards had to see the black man in that heckler. He couldn’t simply be the heckler. He had to be the ‘nigger’, who fifty years ago would have been held “upside down with a [expletive] fork up your ass”, for such impertinence. He would have been lynched.

Ah, what memories do we retain! Scratch the surface and all the good stuff will pour forth.

Watch the video. As many times as you possibly can. I did, until I felt sick.

In a class I am teaching on racism and untouchability this semester, we discuss the psychological aspects of racism. I constantly remind my students of our prejudices and their memories, which remain just beneath the surface. It isn’t in Richards alone, but in us all.

Let no one assert racism is history in this country.

The 16th century devotional poet, Purandara Dasa, sang:

Nageyu barutide enage nageyu barutide
jagadoLiruva manujarella
hagaraNa maaDuvuda ka.nDu.

Seeing the pandemonium
men in this world cause,
I laugh, I laugh.

Not me though, not after:

OJ returns to the oblivion:
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There was nothing funny about the now canceled OJ special - both the TV show and the book deal. It’s sad that the weight of American society was necessary for Rupertji to realize what an evil idea this was. Or was it the pressure of advertisers, Fox commentators (for once) and thirteen affiliates? I am sure Eugene Robinson’s powerful critique (Blood Money) alone wasn’t adequate! Hey, we will take it, however it happened.

Seriously folks, if a TV show has a line which requires the audience to have read a book, any book, even the bible, then it is unlikely to be a hit. See the response to Studio 60 on NBC.

Renaming Hunger:
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But we need to laugh at something right? How about this US Dept of Agriculture Sociologist, Mark Nord, who says:

hunger is clearly an important issue but lacking a widespread consensus on what the word ‘hunger’ should refer to, it’s difficult for research to shed meaningful light on it.

Well, I kinda thought hunger is this sensation that we all feel every now and then. We eat if we have food. We remain hungry, if we don’t have no food. For more read Elizabeth Williamson’s report (Some Americans Lack Food, but USDA won’t Call Them Hungry) and OPED (Ending Hunger) in the Washington Post but I have some excerpts here.

What’s actually funny is the social scientist in me gets what Mr. Nord is suggesting.

In assembling its report, the USDA divides Americans into groups with “food security” and those with “food insecurity,” who cannot always afford to keep food on the table. Under the old lexicon, that group — 11 percent of American households last year — was categorized into “food insecurity without hunger,” meaning people who ate, though sometimes not well, and “food insecurity with hunger,” for those who sometimes had no food.

That last group now forms the category “very low food security,” described as experiencing “multiple indications of disrupted eating patterns and reduced food intake.” Slightly better-off people who aren’t always sure where their next meal is coming from are labeled “low food security.”

The imprecision in defining our categories is not to be taken lightly. But the question is will the USDA take seriously the elimination of hunger?

Among several recommendations, the panel suggested that the USDA scrap the word hunger, which “should refer to a potential consequence of food insecurity that, because of prolonged, involuntary lack of food, results in discomfort, illness, weakness, or pain that goes beyond the usual uneasy sensation.”

To measure hunger, the USDA determined, the government would have to ask individual people whether “lack of eating led to these more severe conditions,” as opposed to asking who can afford to keep food in the house, Nord said.

USDA will not measure individual hunger anymore. I say this fits in with the priority of our times. When our cherished way of life itself is under grave threat from freedom haters, food security isn’t what we need to worry about. 96% of over 11 million hungry people don’t have enough money to buy food. Well, polls don’t reflect the reality, especially when we can change the reality. Just ask our Optimist-in-chief! How can there be that many hungry people in this greatest country on earth?

Wodeyar’s communions:
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This one actually requires a full fledged entry on a curse on the Wodeyar family, the rulers of Mysore but for the time being this Wikipedia story (scroll down the story for the section on curse) will have to suffice. Sometime in the 17th century, Raja Wodeyar coveted a beautiful, virtuous, married woman Alamelamma. As his soldiers pursued her, Alamelamma put the following curse:

Talakadu maralagali, Malingi maduvagali, Mysore arasarige makkalagadirali
May Talkad turn into sand, may Malingi turn into a whirlpool and may the kings of Mysore not have children.

Truth be told, Mysore kings have had problems begetting sons and producing heirs. So My favorite prince in the whole wide world, Srikantha Datta Narasimharaja Wodeyar, had this to say on his family’s misfortune. Read the DH story for more details:

The curse of Talakad on the royal family of Mysore seems to be slowly wearing off as I am now in direct communion with the soul of Alamelamma, the woman who had uttered the curse, nearly 400 years ago.

Spot on, dude!

I am glad you are in communion with someone, even if it is with a long dead woman.

How about communioning with us, your former and future constituents?

Cubs sign Soriano!
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Cubs reportedly gave an eight year, $136 million dollar contract to Alfonso Soriano. Now that’s funny.

Some months ago, I wrote about the friendship between Bhoja and Kalidasa. Here is another similar episode from medieval South India involving Krishnadevaraya and Allasani Peddana. A catu verse couched as a lament by Peddana offers a vision of the esteem that Krishnadevaraya had towards his favorite poet:

When he would see me on the street, he would halt his elephant
and help me up with his own hand.
For the mere asking, he gave me villages like Kokata, in any region.
On the day I dedicated my Story of Manu to him,
he himself carried the palanquin where i was seated.
He told me I alone was worthy to wear the anklet
of a triumphant poet, and it was he who tied it on my foot.
He called me Master of Telugu Poetry, Allasani Peddana, King of Poets.
Now Krsnaraya has died, and I couldn’t go with him
to heaven. I stay on,
like the living dead. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 157]

Of course, this isn’t as dramatic the Kalidasa-Bhoja encounter but as we read the Classical Telugu Poetry in my graduate seminar, I thought more about how the tradition seeks to honor and remember its cultural heroes. We will leave the analysis aside for another occasion but here is another excerpt from Appakavi, a seventeenth century poet and grammarian. Notice the self confident tone of the poet as he speaks of poety:

The wise say that poetry is the only form of knowledge.
Is there any doubt? Poetry is the ultimate
learning. To know it is to know the world.
A king is honored in his own kingdom. If he crosses the border,
he’s not worth a cowry shell. A scholar, though, is respected
everywhere. A pot is better still. As the saying goes,
“If you have poetry, who needs a kingdom?” This is true.
That’s why poets write.
It’s a joy when a woman or a poem
comes naturally to you.
If you force them, they bring you grief.
All the labor you invest in learning metrics and poetics
is a waste-if you are not driven to create
well-wrought poems in pleasing words.
The learning of a man with no ability to compose
never comes to life, like the shape of things at night
in a house without lamps. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 238]

In a lighter vein, here is another amusing verse by Tenali Ramakrishna on an ideal householder’s life. Here is Lord Siva himself responding to a question by Narada:

If the wife you married doesn’t nag
and your son doesn’t talk back,
and your brothers get along well with you,
and your daughter-in-law doesn’t grumble,
and your daughter doesn’t compromise her character,
and you are not burdened by debts,
and you don’t lose pride by serving others,
and you don’t suffer scandal,
and you can get rich honestly,
and you are gracious to guests,
and there is respect for the gods in your home,
there’s nothing better than a householder’s life. [Translated by Narayanarao and David Shulman, Classical Telugu Poetry, p. 202]

Prof. Narayanarao was in the Bay area earlier this week and gave a delightful talk at Berkeley. His presence was one more reminder of what a stupendous achievement this anthology of Telugu poetry is. There is nothing comparable for any other South Asian language.