On and for Steppenwolf

Dedicated to Thomas and his thoughts

No wonder the book is a masterpiece and I have no competencies or enough knowledge to analyze this classic, but still I want to write something to express how it feels to read what is exactly going in my mind. The book often seems like a mirror of thoughts, some words resound what is going exactly I have been feeling. How I see the world in these modern times and how my ideals actually want them to be. This conflict never ends and the life, then never seems easy. To live in this world and despise it too is a hard choice, and then like Steppenwolf we develop the infinite souls within us, one for every occasion.  For people at work, for people on the street, for family, for friends and one for our own, the one for our own is the most honest to us.. This one knows the dark secrets, the dark thoughts and the honest feelings; it is the best company we can provide ourselves with.  However at a point I found it scary when Haller condemns his solitude and his loneliness which has reached the point of no return, so much so that he cannot find comfort in the most beautiful of the company or with someone who understands him well, even if he wants too. The reason again I felt was his own thoughts which cannot completely resonate with anyone he met or the fear of things ending in misfortune, which would again lead him to further despair and one step close to the razor.

To mark one of my favorite lines from the book: “ For all things, what I hated, abhorred and cursed most intensely was just this contentment, this well being, the well-groomed optimism of the bourgeois, this lush, fertile breeding ground of all that is mediocre, normal, average.” Thomas said this is not as sharp and striking as it was in German but I still feel it hits the cord, and pretty well. For me the book has summarized its essence in these lines, the despair of Haller, the discontentment with the world around him and most of all why is that he cannot find contentment. He comes across as someone who does not hate the world but also cannot come to terms with the pretentiousness, the banality that had crept in among people and their lives.  I try to imagine what ‘his look’ must have been that the editor defines he gives during the lecture on seeing the pompous and flattering philosopher, which seemed to say and I quote, “Don’t you see what apes we are? That’s what human beings are like, just take a look! And all celebrity, all cleverness, all intellectual achievements, all humanity’s attempt to create something sublime , great and enduring were reduced to fairground farce.” Splendid! That look I think I know, I know from my own face, for the obscenity that life often shows on various occasions.

 The author Hermann Hesse noted that the book has been highly misunderstood (it isn’t really about sex, getting high on drugs and giving a damn about the world) and is not about negativity but for life and hope, and as the ‘immortal’ Mozart says to Haller in the Magic theater that why do you take life so seriously! So seriously that it makes one incapable of doing anything but just laments every single action around us. So much so that nothing can give you peace or nothing an please you ever to be happy unless it is a Utopia you have imagined.

After reading the book something that remained in my mind was the description of Haller’s room by the editor of his notes, when he described his room with all the books there was also a picture of Gandhi. Steppenwolf and Gandhi? Gandhi in Steppenwolf’s room and yet he is Steppenwolf, yet he is despaired. Probably Haller and Gandhi were not different in their ideals but yes Steppenwolf was. Or maybe that picture was there for Haller and not for Steppenwolf. Gandhi could have been despaired too but he wasn’t and stood up against every odd to claim his ideals and rights of the people. But the irony was that by the end of his life he was probably what Steppenwolf felt throughout. The one who lived and fought for his ideals was also in the end just had to take a bullet in his chest from some hardcore nationalist for whom peace meant nothing. Later only to be misunderstood that he caused the entire problem in the country post independence, he was weak, coward, appeasing, passive and various other adjectives that added to his name. I wondered while reading why he had to take so much pain to rectify what was wrong only to be despised later, or what would have been better that he would have been like Steppenwolf. Again the world failed his idea that world could be as perfect as it is always dreamt of, it is often happy in its mediocrity. Nevertheless I cannot imagine the hopelessness that there would have been if there wasn’t Gandhi and his thoughts and his courage and the will to stand firm on his ideals no matter what comes and goes. Like Hesse says Steppenwolf is a story of hope, I would still like to believe that there is still hope amidst all the hatred. Hoping something can still make things better, or at least not be the part of the flock preparing to doom the world.

Easily in Love - sun, sand and a good conversation

Maryam said to me, "you fall in love so easily."
I laughed and told her "yeah, I do"
"Problematic, eh?" she said.
"Always it is," I replied.

Love has always been so subjective and multidimensional for me, I guess it is for everyone. We love different people differently, at the same time or in different moments, but the fact that we love, remains common. The above conversation started when I was telling Maryam, dearly about my old flatmate from Berlin who I met and felt instant endearment for him after few conversations that we had. The moment was such that you help but simply feel love.

It was Palolem beach, Goa, I was walking back with Christoph to the beach hut where we were staying. We were walking back with our flipflops in hand, talking about the receding water from the shore and trying to find the scientific term for this. I cannot remember what lead to the conversation started but I asked him what subjects he will teach ones he finishes his studies to be a teacher.
He said history. I asked further if he thought history could be taught neutrally.
He replied, "of course not."
"But how can you have a perspective when you are teaching history, it will be like imposing your perspective on the students." I retorted
"You have to have a perspective, it is impossible to teach without it," he said.
I questioned him, "then what about facts, you cannot have an opinion about historical facts at least."
"Why not, you think facts are not distorted or facts not coloured with perspective. Some say that world war started on this particular date but some claim that the war had begun much before that. It always depend who is writing history."

After a long time I felt I had no answer or argument. I was outwitted.

I deviated the topic, and asked how will he then follow the given structure and history text which are taught in school and they probably will be from a perspective other than his own.

"Well there will be a course structure but I can still make the students think more and read more," he said while we kept walking on the sand. "I can relate the history texts with current situations, talk about similar issues or conflicts which exists today. Like while teaching Jewish history or the genocide I can talk about how things are today, what issues exists in Palestine. Ask the students to read about it. There are always a way."

I nodded in agreement. We kept on walking while I looked at him in awe and wanted to hug him and say "thank you," thank you for thinking like this. The inappropriateness of the action or may be the distance between us stopped me from doing this.

To carry on  conversation I told him that history is my favorite subject but no one really care about studying it seriously these days. I always feel people cannot understand anything about the politics and the issues today if they do not understand the past. He said that students are often disinterested but you can always teach in a way to make it interesting.

He was right. I looked at him and felt after a long time I was listening to someone who was talking about something  what I always thought but hardly hear anyone say it other than Freya. I thanked him again in my head for thinking the way he did. By the time we reached out hut, I was already awestruck by him. Basically, a conversation I haven't had with anyone in ages made me feel that I have an attachment with him. It was refreshing to hear someone talk about harmony while everyone around me is just extreme and speak of hatred.

Love is so diverse and always easy to happen anywhere and in any situation, probably all you need is a good conversation. So Maryam, now you know, what goes in my head goes to my heart as well.

The Headache

It is persistent, it doesn't go, it refuses to calm down, it keeps hitting hard till I give up. I give up and close my eyes, and there is just white light, a little more focus, then there are wires cluttered into each other. I look closely they are snakes wriggling together in an uneasy manner and each of them can see my in eye and I see them in the eye – each one at a time and as soon as I look they hiss and attack, I open my eyes.  The snakes are gone but the headache persists.

The headache is constant, it is hitting hard, it keeps hitting hard till I give up. I give up and close my eyes, and I see faces. Faces with no eyes, no mouth, faces which cannot see which cannot speak. They are just heads which are moving here and there aimless and helpless. I try hard to open my eyes too but I couldn’t, I try to speak, screech and scream but I couldn’t. In the swarm of the faceless head I am being pulled down and there comes a moment when I cannot breathe …I gasp but I am trampled over …I gasp and open my eyes. The heads are gone but the headache persists.

The headache is continual, it is hitting hard, it keeps hitting hard till I give up. I give up and close my eyes and I see the sea, the clear blue water with waves as high as cliffs, I feel better I step in, I can feel the waves pushing me I try to hold the ground but the waves are gigantic. They keep pushing me further in to sea, now I cannot feel the ground, I can’t swim, I try to swim but like a beast the waves keep taking me further making my hands impossible to move. I have no control, the sour water is in my eyes, I can’t see, my arms are tired… I am being pushed and pushed further and I now cannot breath, I am drowning, I open my eyes. The water drains out of my head but the headache persists.

The headache is invincible now and my eyes are strained. The redness bulging out of them, the look is heavy, I want to close them and I cannot. It hurts when I try to shut my eyelids like those red nerves are hitting each other. I keep my eyes open, it is impossible to close them – don’t you see there are monsters in my head and they never stop. 

How to Survive as a Woman in India

 I am woman in India

And I can’t do 'that' because I am woman

I know the fear of someone I don’t know

I know the strange touches

I know the feeling of disgust

I know a safe way back home

I know all the ogling eyes

I know all the ‘right’ clothes

I know the every right behavior

But today I unlearn everything I am told

I stand against all that I ‘know’ 

And only KNOW that when you are a woman in India, everyday that you exist in your body without apologizing is Activism! 

Manto was not great; Manto was Manto

My first introduction to Manto and his writings was through a book my brother gave me which he had finished reading. My first thought after reading few of the stories was very obvious, (obvious because everyone who ever read Manto must have thought this); I found the content to be very explicit. Since I was reading an English translation of the stories it somehow seemed more acceptable than it would have in Urdu (just like abusing in English seems cool but all despicable in Hindi), I was a bit embarrassed to be reading it in front of my brother knowing he must have read all that too. This was years ago and I was much younger that time but I still remember being startled by the honesty of few stories. I vividly remember being shaken by one story about a minor prostitute who was pimped by her own mother and how she thought that it was perfectly normal what she was doing and all other girls of her age did the same.

Manto definitely, like he claimed, wrote about how the world was, without any cover whether it was the premise of the story or the language he used. Both are capable of surprising you to the limit where you deny what you read and do not wish to accept that our society is stranger than fiction. Reading Manto now is definitely revolutionizing for my mind. At this age when I am aware of the atrocities of life, I have seen ups and downs and the entire emotional trauma, Manto makes more sense than ever. Now even I fall in the category of those who consider him a great writer, no matter if initially I loathed him.

I understand now that it is not just an open or liberal mind that is necessary to understand Manto but a certain level of courage where you are open to see the society stark naked, without the cover of fancy language or words which could make its savagery subtle.  

I read a letter which Ismat Chughtai wrote to a Pakistani publishing house, who wanted to commemorate Manto on his 20^th death anniversary; the letter was not less than tragic summary of the writer’s life; though she claimed she did not intend to do that. I was crying by the end of it. I have never read anything more powerful and fitting reply to all those who want to put up a spectacle of hypocrisy by doing something they do not believe in. We always tend to loath and ignore the ones who are not like us or think like us. If Manto was alive today I am sure the death threat which he received then would have been committed already. I was hurt when I read that he had to leave Mumbai because of the communal hatred which engulfed the country post-partition. For a humanist it is the tragedy of the worst kind. I am sure he did not look for any sort of social confirmation but also didn’t expect what he got – persecution.

Today he is great; great writer, great thinker, reformist and humanist. However if suddenly Manto comes alive and start writing again he would face the same persecution. I feel people find him great now because he wrote in the past and does not write now to show people the mirror of reality.  There are probably few like Manto today who people hate to read and listen because their reality does not match the illusion they live in.

Manto was not great, Manto was Manto, and he was no philosopher, not a thinker or a reformist. He was simply an honest courageous man who did not fear writing what he felt. If only the world then and now could respect people who have that courage and not have to suffer segregation or seclusion and die tragically only to become great and famous later.

Ismat Chughtai couldn’t have put it better when she wrote, “Look carefully to see if there is any Manto among you. Is there anyone among you who talks nonsense, who is extremely sensitive, who makes lots of silly mistakes and blunders, and who says things that no one understands? Is there anyone among you who thinks that no one understands him, who goes on showing his obstinacy, who sticks like a thistle on the hem of every passerby until he becomes unbearable? Is there anyone among you who thinks he's a great writer, but nobody is willing to admit it, a pauper or beggar who asks for money, properly and improperly, someone people try to avoid because he is alone? Beware of such a fraud, for if he dies tomorrow, you might have to bow your heads before him. You might be compelled to write articles; you might be compelled to hold gatherings in his honor.”

Certainly you cannot make Manto great if you cannot accept people telling you things the way they are or telling you the naked truth of the society and if you still think he is great then you are just a hypocrite.

Beyond the border lives a part of my soul

I am not really a patriot or a nationalist either; I wouldn’t really go and enjoy the beating retreat at Wagah and enjoy shouting praises for India as if it is a standoff with Pakistan and come back feeling victorious by displaying the best of my patriotism. Although today I feel different, I want to go to Wagah sit on those stands and get a glimpse of some people on the other side. It has been long since I have seen them. 

For Mariam and Amna: I remember it was one heavy winter evening in Bonn, Germany, which was adding to my depression, when I met the two of them.  We bonded over a discussion on Humsafar (Pakistani drama on TV) and our friendship never looked back. The worse of my days in deep depression and gloom I was with them, in a small room of a dormitory we would do whatever possible to feel better.  Cooking, watching films or roaming around in Sarees on the streets on Cologne. Often relations are built on circumstances, needs and whatever is missing from your life but our relationship built on the fact that we could think beyond the obvious. We believed in being above religion and politics or any other things which separates people from these two nations. I am glad we did for I never felt as close to anyone as for the two of them. Apart from anything what sustained us was the desire to share, when they say music and literature bond people, they are not wrong. We shared all good things that we knew, be it books, poetry, music, films and yes food! None of us is in Germany today, we are again divided by borders but yeah the social media keeps us united and going. We still share our happiness and gloom like we never said good bye.

For Sophia - Peshwar ka Ladhki: She says we can be the perfect couple. I agree. It will be the best relationship ever, breaking all social and religious boundaries – a hetero-homo-open -live in relationship. Wow! How revolutionary it sounds. And so is she. I give credit to myself that we got to know each other, I was a recruiter and she was an applicant. For strange reason I reached out to her to get a job (I guess I was on a promotional spree that Asians must get European jobs) and we ended up becoming friends and flat-mates later on. I still remember the first day I met her; it was like we knew each other for ages. Interestingly again it was hard times that brought us so close and not even ones I felt that she was different, and I believe we were intelligent enough to handle our differences. I remember reading out to her a good bye note I wrote for someone I love and crying while she was consoling me like my sister would have. We did part ways when I left Berlin but not single day went by thereafter when we didn’t speak. It doesn’t seem that we are away – and how beautifully Gulzar has put it I guess just for us - Saath rehnaa aur rozmarraa kii zindagii me milnaa zaruurii nahii, kuchh rishte ek dusre ki izzat aur ehteraam se bhii bante hain (It is not necessary to be together in everyday life, some relationships are built on respect and trust)". 

When I heard about the blast at the Wagah Border, I thought about my friends there and how I haven’t seen them for ages. There is absolutely nothing that can happen which could possibly turn me away from the three of them.  The blasts,  terrorism and all other things which stand between the two countries are oblivious for us and this is the reason we are together. We randomly planned to meet at Wagah and wave at each other, since there will be a swarm of Indian and Pakistani flags on the respective sides, we have decided to take a German flag  and wave so that the very odd ones can be spotted easily. 

This is why I want to go to Wagah, I might not be able to see them closely but a glimpse will be enough for it has been long and I don’t know when I will be with them again. I also want to tell the haters that some bomb blasts won’t scare me or make me hate for I was born only to love.

Agony, embrace and love - Aaj Sajan Mohe Ang laga lo

I have always maintained that songs in Indian movies are a part of story telling and its roots are age old, nothing new that Bollywood started. I was listening to an interview of Prasoon Joshi (poet) on Vividh-Bharti, where he said that Bollywood uses their songs as a medium to convey things which they cannot formulate in dialogues and give it a more subtle form, like the song “aaj sajan mohey ang laga lo”. For a moment I was mesmerized when I heard this, the video of the song was floating in front of my eyes and I thought, "wow!, really any dialogue wouldn't have done justice to entire scene and the emotions behind it if this song wouldn't have been playing in the background."

The song which literally means, “embrace me in your arms, my beloved,”  from the movie Pyaasa (1957) is one my favorite song. It not only pours out the misery of a woman who is apart from her beloved (or seeking to be loved) but also the passion and essence of submissive love.
The song comes in the movie at a time when Gulabo (played by Waheeda Rehman) realizes her love for Vijay (played by Guru Dutt), who despite the fact that she is a prostitute respects her and saves her from a harassing police constable by telling she is his wife, which leaves gulabo surprised by this gesture of the poet she secretly admired.The devotional song being performed by the baul singers in the background while Gulabo is manifesting her emotions for Vijay. Their romantic relationship is given a spiritual dimension by the director, where he simultaneously shows a baul singer singing the song with full devotion (probably for Lord Krishna) and while Gulabo sees Vijay as the person whom she loves and he is the man who can pour all the unconditional love on her.

Taken the words literally,  they might not sound the same, I remember how my friend and I sang a remix version of the song and fell down laughing because it sounded so sleazy. Putting things in a different context can really hamper the meaning but to listen to the song a only makes you realize the profound love, passion and bliss the song has.Not only is it the brilliance of song and the music but also the direction, which makes the song come alive, as if the bauls are singing knowing the misery Gulabo is going through.

There are moments in life where one need nothing but a hug. Miseries, agony are not seeking anyone's advice but just a hug to assure that you are not alone in it.  But this song is like a Eureka moment when one realizes true and infinite love for someone and knows that the comfort to all miseries is in the love that  beloved can give.

*I wrote this in 2009 but publishing here after ages with some editing.