Indian Writing

The 80-year old elephant at Rajaji National Park, Uttarakhand, has been in pain after a multiple fracture and is due to be euthanised very soon. A sad end, but it’s the right thing to do, to put her out of pain. More here, here and here.

Update: Arundhati succumbed to her injuries yesterday.

Outlook has this Q & A with Ashish Nandy:

Will the loss of Test cricket be lamented in India?

We have lost the language of lament in modern India. That is why Indian creativity in social knowledge has been so cramped. Modernity can become creative only when you have thinkers like Nietzsche or Dostoevsky, who recognise what we have lost in being modern. That sense of loss humanises society. We Indians are only supposed to celebrate the gains of progress, not the losses. I doubt if many will miss Test cricket.

…

Why do Bollywood and cricket unite India?

They do so because only three areas of our life—cricket, cinema (Bollywood) and crime—recognise capability wholeheartedly and unconditionally. Unlike other channels of social mobility, these have no caste or religious prejudices and are least bothered about social background and polish. That’s why all three areas have become so important for so many Indians and have acquired a pan-Indian presence. They are the three most popular professions today.

Today, October 2, is the International Day of Non-Violence.

A poem by Wislawa Szymborska:

The End and the Beginning

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa-springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we’ll need bridges
and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.