Sign of madness.

Ujwal has been telling me that her mother used to say talking to oneself was a first sign of madness. If that were so, I wonder, what about all the Marathi playwrights of yore who used to make their characters talk to themselves or in asides to facilitate plot development? I'm sure this device is used by writers elsewhere even now. I remember in my childhood reading what used to be called natyachhata in Marathi, usually one-page monologues that unfolded a complete story, usually ironical and humouous. In other words, it was a sort of a capsule sitcom. Diwakar (Shankar Kashinath Garge), the pioneer of this dramatic genre, used to work as a clerk in Baroda. Later, he became the headmaster of the Depressed Class Mission's primary school in Pune and, afterwards, worked as a teacher in Pune's well-renowned Nutan Marathi School. http://tinyurl.com/6mo27t. One of his pieces was called Pant Meley, Rao Chadhley (When Pant died, Rao got promoted) told the story of a head clerk's death, the promotion of one of his subordinates to his post and the subsequent change in the latter's attitude and behaviour. In another little masterpiece, Wordsworthche Phulapakharu (Wordsworth's butterfly), the poet's fan waxes eloquent about the little creature's beauty but doesn't hesitate to promptly burn a bug he catches. In Eka Natache Atma Natya (An actor's soliloquy), the protagonist talks about the tragedy of an actor's existence and kills himself by swallowing poison. Similarly, Phatato Patang (A kite gets torn) is the dirge by a tattered kite of which the career ends when it is literally soaring at its zenith. Diwakar was a friend of the poets Keshavasut, Madhav Julian and Yeshwant. I remember studying their poems in school. He was also a member of the well-known poetry circle, Ravi Kiran Mandala. Apparently, Diwakar, a keen student of English poetry, found inspiration for his new genre from Browning's poems. Diwakar was a master of spoken everyday Marathi. There was nothing artificial or stilted about his language. Perhaps, Tukaram's abhanga "Words are the only jewels I possess, words are the only clothes I wear, words are the only food that sustains my life, words are the only wealth I distribute among people" aply describes Diwakar's contribution to literature. (I wrote about Tukaram's abhanga earlier here: http://tinyurl.com/663s3c.)

Willing suspension.

Coleridge, Wordsworth, Horace and Shakespeare had hit the nail on the head there. It hit me hard when I was watching High School High (1996) yesterday. It’s a parody of the dedicated-teacher-raises-grades-of-"lost"-school-kids genre with Jon Lovitz (Richard Clark, the dedicated teacher) and Tia Carrere (Victoria Chappell, the eye candy) in Marion Barry High run by hoodlums. In one scene, Clark saves Chapell from near rape. Question: How did she looking the way she does survive rape thus far in the hell hole? In another, Clark shows his reluctance to make love. She pipes up: “Don’t worry. You can be on top.” Question: How did she know that’s what was worrying him? I know, I know. It’s the comedic touch. But still… Lovitz hardly looks the sort of chap Carrere would want on top of her. I know, I know. It’s only a movie and a send-up to boot. One more question coming up. In the climax scene, how does Mr A, the drug lord, who is turns out to be Principal Evelyn Doyle (Louise Fletcher) and her henchmen readily believe that Clark and Chappell are the drug runners? I know, I know. Apart from it’s only a movie, the answer may well be that a crook would willingly believe everyone else is a crook too. That’s extending the Coleridge-Wordsworth-Horace-Shakespeare poetic premise to the participants within the drama itself, of course. Maybe we are in Wittgenstein’s fly bottle all the time. http://www.texaschapbookpress.com/magellanslog8/disbelief.htm.

A host of golden daffodils? Scrub, Willy, scrub.

I have a cute little bottle of bath gel (they call it Smoothing Shower Scrub: Daffodil Fields) with a cute little insouciant kind of notice at the back warning me that “This finished product not tested on animals”. Simpatico and fool that I am, I naively assumed that this intimate confession was meant to prove once for all how gentle the Shower Scrub makers (aptly named Bath & Body Works) and, by implication, their Smoothing Shower Scrub, were. The truth is far from simple. The gel really lives up to the second part of its descriptor. When I coax the lazy fluid on a loofah and start scrubbing as I’m supposed to, the lavish lather really scrrrrubs me up. So I look at the label again and there it is in small undecipherable print for me to squint at: “Cleanses and polishes skin.” (Emphasis mine.) It figures. Apparently, they forgot to remove the not-too-well pounded daffodil seeds before bottling the concoction. Do you think any self-respecting guinea pig would stand for getting its skin peeled off in the interest of consumer welfare? Every time I read Wordsworth’s Daffodils, I used to wonder what it would be like to dance with “[a] host of golden daffodils”. Now I know. Sort of. Second hand. http://www.blupete.com/Literature/Poetry/WordsworthDaffodils.htm.