We Never Make Mistakes

Alexander Solzhenitsyn is probably the most notable example of what it means to be a writer and a prophet in the 20th century. In fact, I'll be so bold as to say he was the greatest living Russian writer of his time. His entire works were done to accomplish one purpose - exposing the atrocities of the Soviet Regime. The Gulag Archipalego, a sprawling narrative written in the epic style akin to War and Peace, depicts the harshness of the Russian government and Russian life for much of the 20th century in highly nuanced and sophisticated prose.

We Never Make Mistakes combines two of Solzhenitsyn's best known novellas: An Incident at Krechetovka Station and Matryona's House. The first is the story of a Soviet lieutenant working at a railway junction during Hitler's offensive on Russia. The station happens to be just behind the front line of the battle and, much to Lieutenant Kotov's chagrin, he must remain where he is and attend to administrative responsibilities. What he really wants is to be out there in the trenches fighting the good fight. He is an educated man, and a moral one at that. Yet, one fateful night, he meets a stranger who puts his education and morality to the test. Kotov will come to realise that perhaps morality isn't as simple a thing as he had thought it was.

The second story is that of a man staying with the widowed Matryona in a small town where he works as a teacher. Written from the perspective of the teacher, the story simply presents snapshots of the life, struggles, pleasures, and hardships of Matryona.

The genius behind these stories is that they are not at all polemic in nature. The image I have is of Solzhenitsyn as a painter, where he's just painted a picture of touching beauty, even though it doesn't seem to say much at first sight. Then he turns around and walks away from the painting. Just like that, as if to say, 'This is sufficient.' We see normal people living normal lives, or at least trying to, and therein lies the indictment against Lenin, against Stalin, against Soviet Russia. The circumstances and the hardships speak loud enough. I don't think any passionately worded argument would hold as much power, truth, or conviction. The prose, even though translated, reads beautifully, particularly with the story of Matryona. I think truly beautiful writing always carries over no matter how many translations it undergoes.

Just earlier this year, in August to be precise, Alexander Solzhenitsyn passed away at the age of 91. Yet his prophet's voice carries on, because his work will always speak for justice, truth, and human dignity.

Ode To The Drum by Yusuf Komunyakaa

Gazelle, I killed you

for your skin's exquisite

touch, for how easy it is

to be nailed to a board

weathered raw as white

butcher paper. Last night

I heard my daughter praying

for the meat here at my feet.

You know it wasn't anger

that made me stop my heart

till the hammer fell. Weeks

ago, I broke you as a woman

once shattered me into a song

beneath her weight, before

you slouched into that

grassy hush. But now

I'm tightening lashes,

shaping hide as if around

a ribcage, stretched

like five bowstrings.

Ghosts cannot slip

back inside the body's drum.

You've been seasoned

by wind, dusk & sunlight.

Pressure can make everything

whole again, brass nails

tacked into the ebony wood

your face has been carved

five times. I have to drive

trouble from the valley.

Trouble in the hills.

Trouble on the river

too. There's no kola nut,

palm wine, fish, salt,

or calabash. Kadoom.

Kadoom. Kadoom. Ka-

doooom. Kadoom. Now

I have beaten a song back into you,

rise & walk away like a panther.

This is one of those poems I wish I and not the original poet had written. Sounds selfish, I know. And if I could steal it, I probably would, he-he.

The Kite Runner - A Beautiful, Wounded Smile

There are stories that remain with me weeks after I've read them, haunting me, as it were. The Kite Runner is one of such.

Amir grows up in an Afghanistan of the 70's alongside his childhood friend Hassan, who is the son to his father's servant. They fire slingshots at unsuspecting victims and sit in the shade of a pomegranate tree, where Amir reads stories to the illiterate Hassan from a book of old Persian tales. And in the winter, they fly and run kites on the streets of Kabul. Yet, one seemingly auspicious winter brings with it victory that ends up being completely overshadowed by a life-shattering event. It scars Amir for life and haunts him until, years later, a phone call from an old friend presents Amir with a chance to redeem himself.

'There is a way to be good again.'

This is a heartwrenching story, full of the kind of pain that 'hurts good.' Hosseini writes with the poise of an ancient Persian poet, and his prose and descriptions come in dainty morsels of a choice and stately meal. For instance, he chooses these words to describe our hero's encounter with a 'slim-hipped beauty': 'She had thick black eyebrows that touched in the middle like the arched wings of a flying bird...Her eyes, walnut brown and shaded by fanned eyelashes, met mine. Held for a moment. Flew away.'

What remains with me till now, and perhaps for a long time to come, is the description of the relationship between Amir and Hassan, as well as the angelic character of Hassan. It is something so beautiful, almost holy, meant to be preserved and cherished. But it is abused,ravaged. And such blatant injustice, for me, is what gives heart and soul to The Kite Runner. Perhaps the same is true of all the real-life injustices that enrage our hearts. In a sense, they help us rediscover our humanity and help us to feel the pain and sorrow of others, give us a voice to speak out on behalf of those who have no voice - because they are injustices characterised by one essential thing, which is the desecration of humanity.

Hosseini clearly has a deep love for his homeland. It shows in his writing, which truly is an expression of who he is. From his style, to his subject matter, to his content. There may be Afghans out there that consider him a non-Afghan, 'a tourist in his own country', as someone describes Amir in the book. But it is only too evident that a man who can write about his homeland with such passion and honesty after being away from it for so long is one that carries a great piece of that homeland with him wherever he goes. Khaled Hosseini, in my opinion, is an Afghan in the truest sense, fighting the good fight in the best way he knows how.

The generosity of this story more than makes up for its two or three unlikely coincidences, which may or may not bother you as a reader. Personally, I have chosen to overlook them.

The Kite Runner is a new addition to my list of favourites. The story of a deeply wounded heart. A heart that smiles nonetheless.

A Wrinkle in Time

It still surprises me that, as a child growing up, I never came across certain classics that have been the staple young children's imaginations for decades. For instance, I only discovered the Chronicles of Narnia in my late teens, the Lord of the Rings somewhere around the time the movies came out, and Madeleine L'engle and her stories...well, even later than both. I can't say why this has been the case, and I would really hate to blame it on my family.

Anyway, the last words I read with my head on my pillow last night before I closed my eyes were from A Wrinkle in Time. It is the story of the Murry family (comprising of Meg, Charles Wallace, the twins, and Mrs Murry) whose father has been missing for nearly two years. It is left to Meg, little Charles Wallace, and their new friend Calvin to rescue Mr Murry from the clutches of an evil entity in a distant (very distant) planet and bring him back home. They receive plenty of help from the mysterious triad delightfully known as Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which.

They travel by 'wrinkling' or 'tessering' through dimensions, and I won't bother to explain because I would do a very bad job of it. The book describes it quite sufficiently. What's important here is that they do travel, and in the course of their adventure, Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin are tested beyond their strengths, which means they win in the most unexpected way. In the end, it is left to Meg to pull things through and overcome the evil that seeks to destroy them all.

I had heard of this book and how good it was before I had read it, of course, which is why I was surprised by the writing style - simple, crisp, and straight to the point. But the fact that it is a story written for children makes perfect sense that it is written in this way (this made me realise that much of the literature out there today that we call Children's Literature is really literature written for adults). Furthermore, the writing does not get in the way of the story but rather propels it forward.

For a children's story, the characters are complex and come on strongly, particularly little Charles Wallace, whom I absolutely love but still don't understand, which is to be expected, since even his own mother does not fully understand him! The story is rich with metaphors and allusions to God and references to biblical scriptures.

What this book celebrates are the values that make us human - words, literature, music, art, wisdom, freedom, science - and the ways of a loving, sovereign, and powerful God. Whether there is a connection between the two, I'll leave that for you to decide. But I believe there is a connection, and that there would be nothing without this connection.

A simple, instant, and unpretentious classic that is truly deserving of the status it holds in the hearts of not only young book-lovers, but even older ones. After all, Madeleine L'engle believed that if something was too difficult for adults to understand, then you were to write it for children.

Quantum of Solace - What's So Not Solacing About It?

I watched Quantum of Solace two nights ago, after which I had to go back and rewatch Casino Royale to refresh my mind. Having done that, I can only end with the conclusion I had started out with in the very beginning, one that was still at that early stage, to me, a hypothesis, now confirmed.

Quantum of Solace has disappointed most of the movie-goers I've spoken to or have had the privilege of overhearing, and something tells me they're not the only ones. It could be for any number of reasons. I shared similar sentiments fresh out of the theatre, but I won't go so far as to say I was disappointed. At the very least, I was actually quite entertained; if Quantum of Solace is anything at all, it is an action movie in its own right. That aside, I have a few things to pick at, which I'm sure most fellow movie-goers would identify with.

Whatever heart Quantum of Solace may have aspired to have, I feel it was misplaced nevertheless. The story supposedly picks up from where Casino Royale left off, Bond hot on the tale of his lover's killer. We see a severely more ruthless Bond here, and probably the toughest Bond to ever streak across the screens of our imagination. His armour is fully back on, with avengeance, and he kills as easily as he breathes the air around him. Yet underneath that toughened, brazen armour is a centre still tender from his last brush with love - at least that's what the film tries to show. In my opinion, it doesn't come off too well. Bond seems to be more of an assassin than a spy, what with his careless and detached demeanour. The story as a whole (and one might add, the character even) seems so far removed from that of Casino Royale, and one finds herself asking from time to time, what is Bond after again in this film? Is it revenge, or is it the bad guys, or is it both? But it can't be both. What the filmmakers succeeded in doing is stuffing two plot lines, each with the full capacity of being a story on its own, into one film. Therefore, it feels overloaded, rushed, and even sometimes, contrived.

Overall, however, I believe the main weakness of Quantum of Solace (and that most probably perceived by audiences, hence their reactions) is simply that it follows after its predecessor and older brother, Casino Royale. The latter redefined the Bond series in a rather heart-wrenching way, leaving viewers with the bittersweet taste of something deep, meaningful, fresh, and unheard of. In all probability, this is what viewers were expecting a second time, but alas, they didn't get it. The James Bond of Quantum of Solace is completely different and unorthodox (by classic Bondian standards, of course), but Quantum of Solace itself seems to me a return to orthodoxy in terms of plot and character development. With so much to live up to, Quantum of Solace probably could have come at a better time (which of course would have been an impossibility).

Once again, an entertaining action film in its own right; but one that lives in the shadow of a bigger and more daring success.

Am I Not a Child?

Something I penned a few weeks ago in response to this picture, whose image has remained with me ever since I saw it about a couple years ago:

Am I not a child
Whose limbs are sticks,
Whose face is a mask
Of bones?
Why are my eyes like dice
That roll in my head,
Opening and closing,
A physical plea,
A pitiful cry for mercy,
And I pray they fall on any number
That will be the vision of my salvation,
And I close them, and when they open,
Still I remain as dead?
Am I not a child?
Then why must I worry about death
And food and vultures?
Do children not have fat cheeks
And laughing eyes
Or greasy lips and chins
That form mischievous grins?
Are children not restless
And naughty and bright
And sprightly?
Why does my open mouth
Do nothing but plead
For simple nourishment
If I am a child?
If I am a child,
Why am I alone?
Am I not a child?

Watership Down - The Quintissential Feast of Story

Who would have thought that a handful of rabbits would rise up in the vast field of literature and become heroes in the true sense of the word to me? Rabbits, not humans that look like rabbits, but rabbits that are truly rabbits. And what would make a man sit down and write a 500-page saga about rabbits roaming about in the English countryside? Well, something did stir Richard Adams, and the result is Watership Down, a novel that tells a story.

The story picks up without much ado and moves along, and for the first few pages, I tried to snuggle with the fact that the next 400+ pages I would read were about rabbits and nothing more. Seriously, what could be more boring than that? And how could you sustain a story like that for so long?

How wrong I was.

Richard Adams has taken the legend of the animal kindgom (I'm reminded of cunning Tortoise racing proud Hare to the finish line - yes, I grew up around such stories), crafted it around rabbits, and magnified it a hundred times. Thus, the story isn't simplistic. It is about a motley and unlikely group of rabbits trying to survive against all odds. But at its thematically simplest, the story is about leadership, and many a leader (man, not rabbit) would do well to pay attention and learn from these rabbits.

We meet Hazel-rah, the Chief Rabbit - brave, unsure, inexperienced, but wise and tactful. We meet Fiver - gentle, pensive, thoughtful, and clairvoyant. We meet Bigwig - strong, oppressive, fearless, and reckless. We meet Blackberry - intelligent, perceptive, and innovative. We meet Dandelion - fast, witty, and shy. I could go on and on; the point is that we meet a whole bunch of rabbits, each a distinctly drawn character, and we fall absolutely in love with them. We route for them, we hope for them, we laugh with them, we cry (for the record, I never cried while reading this book) with them, and we (believe it or not) enjoy the comforts of the burrow and the flavours of the grass and vegetables with them. Such is the life that is sparked into being in Watership Down.

This is an adventure that is sure to suck you in and never let you go - and in ways that even stories about humans never did. I promise you that. Adams takes his time in painting a summery portrait of the English countryside - what with all its plant-life (think figwort, loosestrife, fleabane) and birds and sounds (having been in England myself this past summer, I miss it all with nostalgic passion). And after having read of the exploits of Hazel and Bigwig, of the insights of Fiver, and of the speed of Blackberry and Dandelion, you will close the book with a big smile and think to yourself you are a better person for having read the book.

I know I did.

IRONMAN

Living in an exotic part of the world such as Hawaii affords you the luxury of being close to big things, things people would probably only talk about where you come from, and that is if they even heard of it. This weekend, I got to witness one of such things: the IRONMAN Triathlon, here in Kailua-Kona on the Big Island.

What happened was that nearly 2000 people in a number of categories competed in an endurance test of swimming, cycling, and running. They started off early in the morning with a 2.4 mile swim across Kailua-Kona bay, immediately followed by a 112 mile (180 km) bike ride through the lava desert and back. To finish off, the triathletes had to run a 26 mile (42 km marathon. And all of this they had to do in 17 hours.

What was most amazing about this was going down to the finish line and seeing the runners come in one at a time, like bone-weary soldiers on a glorious homecoming. It was wonderful. Many of them practically dragged themselves in, but you should have seen them and heard the things said about them. Wheelchair-bound people, people with prosthetics, people with only one arm...and their ages were spread across 18 (the youngest guy in the race) to 73 (actually the highest I had heard the commentator say about someone, so there may have been older folk). Men and women, different sizes, postures, and shapes. Businessmen, scientists, professors, lawyers, doctors - the race had them all, and it was such an inspiration to see them come in the way they did, hear the cheering from the cloud, and hear the commentator welcome them and say, 'You are an IRONMAN!' Their determination and courage took on a solid form as they approached that finish line - you could see it, feel it, almost touch it.

This got me thinking about where I come from, and a certain culture that we have, or do not have (depending on how you look at it) with regards to exercising and keeping fit. As I heard the ages of the arriving triathletes being yelled out, I searched my mind for any person in my parents' generation (and they aren't that old) that would be able to participate in something like this. Of course, that's a lot to ask of someone who hasn't trained deliberately in preparation for this. But these triathletes have run many countless races before now in preparation. They already had a lifestyle of keeping fit even before the IRONMAN came along; this was just an extra, more grueling stretch. Yet I can't really think of any of the people I grew up admiring and respecting even being in a position to consider beginning to train for such a thing as a triathlon. Most of the 73-year olds I know either carry a walking stick (and I am not being facetious) or like to rub in the fact that they are old (and they respected for that, rightly so). And I kept thinking, Wouldn't it be great to be able to do something like this at 70? 

I am not saying that the older people back home should start participating in events like the IRONMAN. I'm just wondering how only a handful of them would be able to even come to close to it. Physical fitness and exercise really aren't much of a value where I come from. Generally speaking, we lack the discipline and perseverance. And needless to say, I think we are worse off for it. I am implicating myself as I write this, aren't I? Don't worry, I have it in mind to buy a new pair of running shoes and begin training for IRONMAN 2015.

Great Expectations (WARNING: may contain spoilers)

Great Expectations is the story of Pip, who, as a young boy, runs into an escaped convict one fateful morning and gets the fright of his life. This experience is to mark his life in a way that even he never imagined. Along the way, Pip falls in love with the beautiful Estella. Part of the story is of how Pip deals with this intense, senseless, and fiery passion that has gripped him and refuses to let go. Perhaps needful to say, the story has quite a climax (or a number of climaxes) that either leaves one thought-ridden, satisfied, or doubtful.

This is the first Dickens book I've read, and within the first few pages I was laughing to myself as I sat alone in the room. However, the dry humour abates as the story progresses, particularly as Pip journey into higher society. Riddled with memorable characters, in true Dickensian fashion (such as the sagacious Wemmick, whose mouth is forever referred to as a post-office and never a mouth; Jaggers the ruthless lawyer, who 'washes every client off' with soap and water as though it had been a surgery'; Joe, Pip's slow but noble and beloved brother-in-law; Uncle Pumblechook, who continually admonishes Pip to be grateful to 'them that brought you up by hand'), Great Expectations is a sweeping masterpiece that tackles not just the life of a helpless little boy who grows up to be a man and learns from having it all and having nothing at all, but the injustices of life as were perceived in Victorian England. From the state of prisons to the education of country folk, Dickens pulls no punches.

Charles Dickens certainly was a master of the novel, and I not only tip my hat but bow to him. His characters in Great Expectations are so well drawn, with the most unforgettable tags ever. Many of them are connected in rather unusual ways, but these 'coincidences' serve to make the story even more heart-wrenching when I think about it. But it essentially is a tragedy, although not a tragedy in the traditional sense of the hero dying. It ends on a dark and sad note, that's all, but with the promise of hope.

Father and Mother

He walked to school along the path

That his father had taught him,

Where just beyond the rocky outcrop

Was the land he had inherited.

One day, just one day,

When he became big and strong,

He would farm it

And feed from it

And live long

For those he loved.

Something had come into their home

And had taken their father away.

No one saw it.

But it came, sure as night,

And they only saw what it did.

Father’s face, Father’s chest,

Father’s legs, Father’s stomach

Father had failed, and the light

In his eyes had died,

And Father too had died.

He counted the years,

Ten of them to go,

Then he would be a man

And wipe away Mother’s tears.

If Mother lived that long.

Because something had come into their home

And was taking their mother away.

No one saw it.

But it was there, sure as night.

And they now saw what it did.

Mother’s face, Mother’s chest,

Mother’s legs, Mother’s stomach.

Mother was failing, and the light

In her eyes was dying.

And Mother too was dying.

Mendes the Revolutionary

The man that gave us American Beauty and Road to Perdition is back, this time with a rather smart pairing promising to make history as it once did eleven years ago with Titanic. Yes, the man I am talking about is English director Sam Mendes, the pair, Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet, and the movie, Revolutionary Road. As though that were not enough, there is more flavour in this curious mix: Kate Winslet and Sam Mendes have been married for five years, which I'm sure provided for interesting and awkward moments on set. Sam Mendes, as the oscar-winning, first-time director of American Beauty, has always succeeded in romancing critics over to his side. No matter the subject matter or premise at hand - be it a middle-aged man disillusioned with his life but in love with his daughter's best friend, or a gangster father determined to protect his son from the damnation of his violent life, or an idle army in the middle of the Arabian desert - Mendes proves adept in portraying the struggles and dilemmas of his characters. And English as he is, the man seems to love America. All his movies have been either set in America or have been about America, including Revolutionary Road.

Revolutionary Road is about an American couple determined to escape the trappings of middle-class suburbia and the lack of fulfillment that such a life brings while at the same time risking their marriage. The question the film asks is: Can two people break away from the ordinary without breaking apart?

The movie doesn't get released until late December, possibly early January. Watch out for it, and by all means, when the time comes go see it. I have a hunch Mendes is about to outdo himself once more. And he really should pay me for the kind of publicity I give him. Check out the trailer:

http://www.revolutionaryroadmovie.com/

Bella...I wonder....

Just watched Bella, and I am mellowed and inspired. It's a simple story about 'broken' people, as Eva my friend put it. For those who haven't seen the movie, I won't ruin it for you. But I wonder how many women considering abortion, if they had an opportunity to go into the future and see the child they might give birth to, no matter what the child looks like or how it turns out, to hold and caress that child, to feel its breath on their face or neck or shoulder - I wonder how many such women having had such an opportunity would go through with their decision to abort that child. I truly wonder, because I don't know. Bella simply made me think about it. All round good film. Watch the trailer:

Call and Response

I watched a documentary on human trafficking a week ago. It shows how modern slavery in the form of the sex trade (as well as in other forms) continues to thrive. However, what made this documentary different and very interesting was its employment of music. The whole thing was essentially a concert by a wide range of artists singing against human trafficking, with interspersed comments by experts, actors, and other celebrities. The reality portrayed in the film was very sobering, so I went back and wrote the poem that follows in response to it.

Call and Response is a very decent documentary, and when you sign up for it, just know that you're in for plenty of music from artists such as Talib Kweli, Matisyahu, and Natasha Beddingfield. Interesting, I hear you say. Absolutely. One thing about the music for me was that sometimes, the artists didn't seem to be singing directly about the issue that the film was about, human trafficking. But then, I realised, they didn't need to, because a thing as universal and pervasive as music does not need to be so direct and logical. Just the fact that they were singing their songs on that screen, and the music I heard, was a strong enough message to arouse my passion and fury against human trafficking. The music certainly carried the spirit of the issue at hand.

This is what that music and those images inspired:

VISIONS OF LIGHT

Through my eyes and into the world I see visions

That run through dark streets and splash into

Moonlit puddles. Through alleys of despair

And corners that reek of dreaded fish that

Has been the staple of the mouth beneath my eyes.

My visions are fraught with hope that frightens

But also enlightens, that tightens the lashes

Of conviction and constriction, or consternation

For a ruined nation. Such are my dreams, 

Fleeting like a cool breeze in the desert.

I live in darkness, but not despair; I live in pain

But I do not wish for numbness. Dumbness seeks

To assuage my soul, apathy that preys on

The senses. In a shrinking world, a global nation

I live, and dare to hope. In pain, I dare to hope.

In fear, I dare to hope. In men, I dare to hope.

In God, I dare to hope. Because through

The darkness I see bright dreams and visions

That shine with the light of a thousand sunrises

And vanquish with the light of a thousand angels.

For more on  Call and Response, visit: http://callandresponse.com/