Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah is a song that I like.

While reading a blog posting yesterday morning, I came across a link to one of my favorite clips from The West Wing, where it was used for the final episode of the third season. Sorkin used the Jeff Buckley version, which I prefer slightly over Leonard Cohen’s. I have been playing various versions all day, partly to escape from writing a conference paper for this weekend. YouTube is awesome. Ain’t it? Especially if you want to not work.

I thought some of you might like to watch it.

Here is the Leonard Cohen version. Then two more versions by Jeff Buckley, live in Chicago and NPA Live ‘95. Both are good. Here is a link to the lyric and some interesting factoids.

See how easy it is to pick the YouTube reality over American Idol (although on occasions they don’t seem to be much different) and the TV West Wing over the real one that George W Bush presides over.

Hallelujah.

Time to write a proper Land of Lime Makara Sankranti post. If I feel inspired by this afternoon’s trip to Kyatanahalli, in lush green Mandya district, then I will write an entry on how farmers in southern Karnataka celebrate the harvest festival.

In the meanwhile, greetings to all. Sankranti Subhashayagalu.

Good day. A man, who was in construction, last year ‘kicks‘ our Chicago Bears to NFC championship game. One game away from Superbowl. Good job, Robbie Gould.

On being declared (non) Indian
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For some years now, Archaelogical Survey of India has been charging higher entry fees to foreigners, to enter monuments under ASI control. Since most of the tourist attractions are managed by the ASI, foreign tourists sometimes pay as much as thirty to forty times more than Indian nationals.

Until this past weekend, we always wondered how the ASI gatekeepers would determine the nationality of visitors and assumed that color would be an obvious marker. But at the Taj, I was suspected to be a non-Indian / outsider and challenged to produce an Indian identity. I wasn’t carrying my passport (who would on a day trip to Agra) and my driver’s license was being renewed in Mysore. So bereft of all Indian identity, I was declared equal to thirty seven and half Indians and made to buy a Rs 750 ticket to enter the Taj.

But the explanation the ticket checker at the gate offered was interesting. He apparently challenges those whom he suspects of being outsiders. He wouldn’t elaborate on how he would make that judgment but simply asserted he knows. A few yards away, at the security gate, the policeman too took one look at my wallet and asked me to show my NRI ticket. My two companions were highly amused and couldn’t stop teasing me about my non-Indian status.

Taj is a postcard.

From every angle.

Delhi in Winter
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I love Delhi in winter months. One could be outside and walk everywhere, sip endless cups of chai and eat enormous quantities of food. Me and my friends know where to eat and what to do, which makes visiting a city truly fun. A light jacket or a sweater are adequate for survival, although some South Indians Delhi-ites might disagree.

I spent much of my time on the road, visiting neighborhoods and markets, bus and train stations. My new project is to build a photo archive of unusual sights in Delhi, which I want to use in a ‘Biography of a City’ course that I teach on Delhi. Unlike in Agra, this time, my companion wasn’t amused at being taken to the Interstate Bus Terminus (ISBT) and the Sabzi Mandi at Azadpur. Well, they aren’t on anybody’s tourist map. Our cab driver desperately tried to put us back into the tourist circuit and take us to Lal Qila. But the call of Sabzi Mandi was too powerful in the end.

Oxford and Oxford
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Oxford Bookstore is a superbly designed bookstore on Barakamba road in Delhi. Different sections and subjects are located in neatly divided superbly lit circular spaces. Bookshelves are cool and it’s fun to just sit around. Oxford University Press showrooms aren’t. At least the one in Bangalore isn’t. People struggle to find books and staff have no clue about catalogues. Some book sellers seems to be intent on killing the fun in buying books.

Agamben in Delhi
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Yesterday, Italian philosopher Giorgia Agamben delivered the B.N.Ganguly Memorial Lecture at the Center for the Study of Developing Societies (CSDS). I missed the talk since I had to return to Bangalore yesterday morning. Hoping to catch a report on it in the blogosphere but none seem to have surfaced so far.

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.

From Munnabhai to Kris Kristofferson, Gandhi seems to be the flavor of the times. Here is a song by Kristofferson (thanks Rajeev for the link) for your viewing pleasure.

Mahatma Gandhi - music video

Is any commentary necessary?

Last saturday, I finally succumbed to the ultimate California attraction: the farmer’s market on Grand and Lake in Oakland. You know the deal. Support the local growers and buy the imperfectly formed, organic vegetables and fruits. Nice food and good music. What more could one ask for? According to reports, I didn’t even notice friends, as I soaked in the new experience and bought enormous quantities of vegetables, fruits and cheese.

I did make a new friend though: Chef Dennis Bell, who runs Shakespearean Sweets. His brochures as well as pastry stand are filled with sonnets from the old master himself! Pastries are named after Shakespearean plays. Needless to add, I didn’t expect to run into a Shakespearean chef in a farmer’s market. Let us sample Dennis’ wares.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING is wine poached pear with pastry cream, promogranate seed sauce set in a tuile cup on a bed of sweet shredded Greek pilo dough.

ROMEO & JULIET’S ADDICTION is a flourless chocolate cake with a minted strawberry sauce, tuile butterfly and dark chocolate cigarette.

TAMING OF THE SHREW, LITTLE EGYPT, OTHELLO & DESDEMONA’S PASSION are the other appealing options while THREE WITCHES is among coming attractions.

You buy a box of truffles or a dessert, Dennis will throw in a love sonnet quote from Shakespeare, which he guarantees will ‘impress the one you love’.

As I rode back home, charting a course avoiding the steepest of Oakland hills, here is what I wished: chef Dennis would assure us that his pastries would impress the ones we love.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the written word as much as anyone who has ever breathed. Still, on occasions I suspect I want to take refuge in chef Dennis, than in the master poet.

My favorite poet, W. B. Yeats, the hopeless romantic and ferocious humanist, would have approved my sentiments. Oakland sure is filled with cool poets, as I have noted in the past. Dennis too makes it a cool place to be.