South Asia and Beyond: Mao: The Unknown Story

Showing posts with label Mao: The Unknown Story. Show all posts

Friday, June 24, 2016

Reading Mao's biography(?) is so painful; how painful must have been life under him?

This is not the first time I am reading about Mao Zedong. Or about China.

China featured very prominently in Nehru's 'Glimpses of World History'. The so called 'Opium Wars' had vexed me then.

When the same wars were portrayed brilliantly in Amitav Ghosh's 'Sea of Poppies', I was further enthused to learn about them and the fate of China over the past few centuries.

Then came Pankaj Mishra's 'From the Ruins of Empire: The Revolt Against the West'. That has coherent historical threads about the time when the old dynastic rule collapsed in China to give rise to a modern--albeit shaky--republican system.

Months back, I was reading Frank Dikotter's 'Mao's Great Famine'. Though I lost the book when I was midway through it, I'd got the message of the book well.

Mao was not normal human being. Most agree on this: for his supporters and admirers, he was THE GOD and for his detractors and critics, THE MONSTER, with the blood of highest number of human beings in history on his hand.

He had a zeal for power. Communists seem to believe that he ruled for the best of 'proletariat' and still rue the fact that power was taken by 'revisionists' after his death.

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विजय कुमारको खुशी पढेपछि

जीवन, खुशी र अहंकार

जीवनमा अफ्ठ्यारा घुम्तीहरुमा हिंडिरहँदा मैले कुनै क्षणमा पलायनलाई एउटा विकल्पको रुपमा कल्पना गरेको थिएँ, त्यसलाई यथार्थमा बदल्ने आँट गरिनँ, त्यो बेग्लै कुरा हो । त्यसबेला लाग्थ्योः मेरा समग्र दुखहरुको कारण मेरो वरपरको वातावरण हो, यसबाट साहसपूर्वक बाहिरिएँ भने नयाँ दुख आउलान् तर तत्क्षणका दुरुह दुखहरु गायब भएर जानेछन् । कति गलत थिएँ म !

Why I write...

I do not know why I often tend to view people rather grimly: they usually are not as benevolent, well-intentioned and capable or strong as they appear to be. This assumption is founded on my own self-assessment, though I don’t have a clue as to whether it is justifiable to generalize an observation made in one individual. This being the fact, my views of writers as ‘capable’ people are not that encouraging: I tend to see them as people who intend to create really great and world-changing writings but most of the times end up producing parochial pieces. Also, given the fact that the society where we grow and learn is full of dishonesty, treachery, deceit and above else, mundanity, it is rather unrealistic to expect an entirely reinvigorating work of writing from every other person who scribbles words in paper.

On life's challenges

Somebody has said: “I was born intelligent but education ruined me”. I was born a mere child, as everyone is, and grew up as an ordinary teenager eventually landing up in youth and then adulthood. The extent to which formal education helped me to learn about the world may be debatable but it definitely did not ruin me. There were, however, things that nearly ruined me. There came moments when I contemplated some difficult choices. And there came and passed periods when I underwent through an apparently everlasting spell of agony. There came bends in life from which it was very tempting to move straight ahead instead of following the zigzag course.

Twenty-eight years of solitude

Some reflections on life

BP Koirala starts his Atma Brittanta with a peculiar statement that yet it was not time for him to write about himself. Of course, that is his greatness and great people are always more simple, straightforward and as BP himself says, emotional. That book is at par with Nehru's autobiographical works, particularly with respect to portraying the society and political upheavals of that time. Unfortunately, BP Koirala passed away too early and we are now deprived of more illustrious books in Nepali history.

The point now is, should I shun writing about myself citing BP's explanation; given that I am one of the thousands of self-advertizing people of our era and have done little to nil for larger society? This has always been the question before me whenever I sit down to write about myself. Should I burden the readers with my boring words about a parochial past that interests very few? Am I writing something really meaningful or am just writing for writing's sake? If I have sorrow, frustration and unfulfilled yearning in my life, should I share that with others who do not necessarily share parallel realities in life? If I have a miniature happiness every now and then, is that worth sharing with others? And finally, do my writings have any meaning in the longer term; say for the generation to come?

To me, every person beyond a certain level is a secluded entity. One may elaborate and express oneself to whatever lengths and depths but, at the end, there remains something that cannot be shared or expressed. Sometimes that seclusion becomes a prison, especially when one is going through tough times, and the person suffers. Other times, that becomes like the imagined world of paradise when the virtues of success and liberty abound in one's life. But the latter is a very infrequent happening in my experience. Over all, the secluded and solitary self of a person is a place where one is pretty vulnerable to recurrent to persistent bouts of ill-being.

Some of the geniuses of our times have adapted to that omnipresent solitude in a productive way. That way the seclusion results in a productive life. But even to them, sometimes it becomes unbearable and the whole episode ends in a tragedy; the monumental example being the tragic suicide of Bhairav Nath Aryal, the legendary satirist of Nepali literature. The tragic end of Michael Jackson's life could be another example when success, fame and money cannot even scratch the melancholy that tends to boil inside a person.

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अपूर्व रमाइलो एउटा तिहार

औंशी हिजै थियो तर अन्धकार आज पनि उत्तिकै थियो । ब्यारेकमा आज महिनौंपछि पहिलो पटक स्यालको रक्सी आइपुगेको थियो । बाहिरबाटै झिकाएको मृगको सुकुटीसित त्यो रक्सी खाएर मेजर रणसिंह शमशेर जबरा सुतेको थियो तर निद्रा आउने नामै लिइरहेको थिएन । मरेको भतिजको अनुहार झल्झली आइरहेको थियो । साथमा ऊ मारिएपछि घर जाँदा आफन ो खुट्टामा छाँद हालेर रोएकी उसकी युवती विधवाको अनुहारले पिछा छोड्नै मानिरहेको थिएन ।

मेजरले कोल्टे फेर्यो । घोप्टो पर्यो । तर कुनै तरिकाबाट निदा आएन । ऊ जस्तोसुकै भयानक युद्धको बीचमा पनि आफ्नो अन्तस्करणलाई डग्न नदिने मान्छे आज भने भित्रभित्रै काँपिरहेको थियो । आक्रोश, क्षोभ, पश्चात्ताप, बदलाभाव आदिले एकैचोटि उसको मथिंगल खल्बलाइदिएका थिए ।

भोलिपल्ट भाइ टिकाको दिन थियो । अघिल्ला वर्षमा झैै यसपालि पनि दशैं तिहारका लागि गरिएको युद्धविराम कायम थियो र देशभरका सैनिक र प्रहरीहरु विरल चैनको निद्रा सुतिरहेका थिए । तर मेजर जबराका लागि भने अघिल्लो सालदेखि हरेक तिहार अभिषाप भएर आउने गरेका थिए । देश युद्धमा फसिसकेपछि सबैले विरोध गर्दा गर्दै पनि उसले एक मात्र भतिजलाई सैनिकमा भर्ना हुन चार वर्ष अघि आश्वस्त पारेको थियो । तर अघिल्लो वर्षको तिहार मनाएर घरबाट फर्कंदै गर्दा उसलाई विद्रोहीहरुले आक्रमण गरेर निर्ममतापुर्वक मारेका थिए ।

भाग्यले भनौं वा दुर्भाग्यले, केही दिन अघि मात्र तिहारकै मुखमा कताबाट हुत्तिएर एउटी दुश्मन फौजकी केटी यो ब्यारेकमा आइलागेकी थिई । सादा पोशाकका मानिसले महिनौ.अघि पक्रेकी भनिएकी यो केटी खै कुन काकतालीले हो यो ब्यारेकमा तिहारको मुखमै पुगेकी थिई । देख्नासाथ मेजर जबराको रगत उम्लेर आएको थियो तर खै किन हो त्यसको भााग्य फैसला गर्न हिच्किचाएको थियो र त्यसको भाग्य के हुने हो कसैले अनुमान लगाउन सकेका थिएनन् ।

खै कुन घडीमा हो मेजरलाई निद्रा लागेछ । बिहान ब्युँझँदा छर्लंग उज्यालो भएको थियो । हिउँदको घामका कलिला किरणहरु जताततै पोखिइरहेका थिए । दिन साविकभन्दा बढी उज्यालो लागिरहेको थियो । ओसेपमा अझै पनि शीत चुहिरहेको थियो तर पारीपट्टि दक्षिण फर्केको पाखामा खरको शीत सुकिसकेको थियो । गोरेटोको छेउमा लगाएका केतुकीका पातहरु टल्किरहेका थिए । वर्षाभरि घाँस काटेपछि खरबारीमा छाडिएका गाइबस्तुहरु चर्न बाटोबाट झरिरहेका थिए ।

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The Stagnant River

It was a not-so-cold day of early December on the southern plain of Terai. The fog had just started descending to the land from the sky but the cold proper was yet to grip the population majority of which lacked the adequate clothes to tolerate it. The day was thus warm and pleasant from the morning. The river which had a dam built downwards was in slow motion as if to share the calm of the surrounding. The small bubbles and other tiny particles of debris were floating glittering bright with the rays of light that fell on them at acute angle. The warm yet cool rays of light traveled in bands between the Sisau trees that lined the eastern bank of the river. The images of the trees in the water seemed to touch the blue sky at the bottom of the river.

A crow flew across the river to sit on a branch of a tree on the other side as few others were heard crowing at distance interrupting the calm of the morning. The distant rumbling of the speeding vehicles with their blazing horns reminded what a rush was there in the real life in the city. A cartoon like sketch of a human being lay there in front of Ramesh, carved in a block of concrete probably meant for keeping the belongings of the deceased before they were cremated in the adjoining cemetery. The sketch looked pretty distorted despite the utmost effort of the artist to make it look like a human being; this is probably why so few among the people are successful artists.

The 'Ghat' or the cemetery bore a deserted look as the morning sun made it look perfectly tranquil. The partially burnt wooden logs scattered beside the river made it clear at least one corpse was cremated in past few days. A piece of cloth was seen revolving along a small circle in the water close to this bank. Ramesh was suddenly filled with sympathy for those who died planning throughout their life and failing to implement even a single of them. Even those who died after aging adequately kept planning for years, let alone the unlucky ones who are forced to leave this world earlier. This gloomy reality reminded him of the desperation with which he had exited his room to take refuge of this cemetery in the early morning; quite unusual by any standards. The tranquility in this remote corner of human dwelling had almost made him forget the sorrow that was there in his personal life. 'How can an unfortunate creature like me afford such pleasant moments?' he ruminated as often.

The sun was now closer and warmth was growing. And this warmth in winter was an uncommon commodity in this section of earth where the fog ruled almost the whole of the winter. The shadows of the trees were now shorter and the floating particles in the river seemed to travel faster. More crows were now flying tree-to-tree and the chirpings were of more variety. The dew drops on the leaves of grasses began to vanish though the leaves in the shadows of trees were still wet.

Suddenly a beggar appeared as if from nowhere. He was probably of Ramesh's own age but looked much older with the wrinkles gifted by poverty all over the face. He wore a dirty grey shirt that was probably white when new with a pair of pants that most have been black when they were bought by some benefactor. He had a long face with untidy beards looking longer than they actually were by the emaciation that made the facial bones protrude. He was also wearing a rusted thin jacket that was unable to cover the front part of his trunk as there was no working zipper. As he came nearby, it turned out that he was not a beggar instead did the precious job of scavenging the useful things out of the waste: there was a huge sac made by sewing many pieces at his back that contained the plastic bags, papers and many other materials collected from the heaps of the waste. He walked stooped burdened by the weight of the luggage and was apparently moving to other location from the city and had taken the unusual short-cut through the cemetery.

"He is probably more unfortunate than me," Ramesh guessed and hoped to get some solace by talking with him. He politely invited this prematurely aged man to seat beside him. The man hesitated at first but eventually obliged as probably this was his time to take some rest even otherwise. After making little formal talking, he began a query about the past of this strange man. This scavenger was probably having difficulty speaking with a gentleman and was frequently looking for excuses to leave. Ramesh was able to coax him into telling part of the story. He was from a family of relatively good fortune until a terrible disaster befell on them erasing all those fortunes, but he was apparently unable to explain what exactly the disaster was.

Commentary

2073/3/17, 1 July 2016

Int'l/Turkey

The chicken come home to roost. The disastrous bombing of Istanbul airport add a bloody chapter in Turkey's relationship with extremism. Personally, I was relieved that Erdogan desisted from blaming the Kurds straight away for the carnage. Erdogan's authoritarian bent was already too much for the Turks, now the added burdens of worsening IS attacks and bloody conflict with the Kurds is going to push them to the edge of the cliff. My sympathies.

Nepal/Media:

Annapurna Post decided to jump the Lokman ship in time so that the sycophancy and mock journalism will pay suitably. With the convenient scapegoat--a lady so ambitious she is ready to discard integrity for a petty 'gain'--ready to do the trick, it has started the campaign to belittle Dr. KC. How miserably they'll fail, only time will tell.

2073/3/16, 30 June 2016

Movie:

One daily's review that 'Lukamari' was a 'mediocre' movie had held me back from watching it earlier. After a personal recommendation, decided to watch and did so yesterday. It is not as finely made as 'Tulke' or 'Kabaddi' but is much better than the average mainstream Nepali movie. Hugely entertaining. Sadly, Nawazuddin Siddiqui's 'Raman Raghav 2.0' has left the halls before I could watch it.

2073/3/8, 22 June 2016

Nepal:

The heartrending cries of the relatives of those killed in Kabul attack have left the TIA gloomy. A stark reminder of the price a country like Nepal--with negligible stakes in geopolitics of Afghan war--has to pay inadvertently for the economy-saving remittances.

India:

1) The announcement by Raghuram Rajan, the governor of RBI, to leave the job at end of the current tenure months from now, raises fears of the potential triumph for unscrupulous business tycoons in India. Tinge of apprehension at home and abroad accompanies a sense of jubilation at Subramaniam Swamy camp. For me, he'll remain an exceptionally clear-headed intellectual.

2) Things may not be as dramatic as depicted in 'Udta Punjab' but India is in a race against time on 3 fronts: droughts and related problems, skewed sex ratio leading to demographic distortion and drugs. Pessimism should not overwhelm us, though.

Venezuela:

Food riots reminiscent of medieval times. Ethiopia, once the poorest in the world, has fended off the past year's huge drought much much better averting a famine while Venezuela, sitting atop the world's largest oil reserves, has nearly 90% of its citizens now without enough money for food. Stark reminder of the human folly at play. Wonder what Hugo Chavez would have done to avoid this abyss if cancer had spared him.

Personal:

Enthused by a better-than-expected response for my Thorong-La travelogue, plan to write couple of similar pieces on same journey soon. The comprehensive essay will go for a book that I plan to write some day though! (Don't believe it fully though) Also expect a piece on 'Nakkali docotors' soon.

South Asia and Beyond

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Friday, June 24, 2016

Reading Mao's biography(?) is so painful; how painful must have been life under him?

Axiata’s choice: a ‘clean’ Ncell or a ‘tainted’ Ncell that purportedly cheated Rs 1150 for every Nepali citizen

एनसेल, ब्राण्ड-बिल्डिंग र कर छली

विजय कुमारको खुशी पढेपछि

एमालेकरणको बहस

एमालेकरण र समृद्ध नेपालको भ्रुणहत्या

एमालेकरण र समृद्ध नेपालको भ्रुणहत्या

Read more from Dashain Issue

Debating partition of India: culpability and consequences

Why I write...

On life's challenges