Subtext | Transitional cities | #12
Where are you coming from? Where are you going? Sometimes it's better to not know the answer.
Is this real? Are you reading this? Am I finally doing this? It’s been eight months since I worked on the last newsletter. To be fair, I’ve been a little busy. (Little’s a codeword for A LOT) I’ve since written about India’s apex literary organisation, what books mean to us, and even reviewed an Oscar-winning film. But does it really mean anything, when, in the grand scheme of things—you—my most cherished reader, haven’t heard from me?
I wonder what you all have been doing. “How are you?” Is such a misconstrued and misconstructed question. Like all good, old-fashioned three-word sentences, perhaps it has also lost its depth. “Doing fine” is not really an obligation, you know?
It’s okay to be going through some stuff. These are crazy times, and most people, especially those with power—political, institutional, and social—are clamoring to keep the status quo alive to protect themselves. But the world has changed beyond recognition, call it my quarter-life crisis, especially in the last two years. And to pretend that none of it ever happened is to cage the natural movement of things. Like Virginia Woolf writes in her experimental novel The Waves:
Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets the light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of a candle. I dream, I dream.
These days I’ve been reminiscing a lot about meaningful things. (When do we not?) I’ve been thinking about cities—Kolkata, Ahmedabad, Bengaluru, Chennai, Mumbai, and Delhi. In fact, I am (was—as you might know, drafts tend to sit in my inbox for months together) sitting in the airport lounge of one of these cities, sleep-deprived, waiting for my flight back.
Quite recently, I discovered something called ‘Psychogeography’—otherwise called ‘the art of getting lost’. I’ve taken walks before but never have I thought what it meant. This video demonstrates how the entire concept works. I wonder about the ways the cities we have lived in have changed and shaped us, not just in interacting with its people and culture, but also its physical space.
I wonder how it will shape us, going forward. Oh yes, there’s a big change coming. But all that will be revealed to you in good time.
Till then, dear wanderer, I hope you have a good time reading this edition of your favourite newsletter, SubText.
Readings
A little something to keep you busy for a while. Perhaps to pass time on your journey to your office, or while you’re sitting on the commode, waiting for nature’s mighty call - we have you covered!
| Non-Fiction |
I leave an unlit cigarette on Akutagawa's grave. There are flowers here too, other cigarettes, coffee and sake. A pale girl sits by the grave, writing in a notebook. Crows scream in the trees, mosquitoes bite into her skin. Yards away, the corpse of a cat is being eaten by maggots and flies. But here Akutagawa is no longer alone and, thanks to his last words, neither are we.
Read | Last words by David Peace
A fascinating portrait of writer Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, who is considered the ‘father of short stories’ in Japan. My latest obsession with finding more Asian writers led me to his story, which is just as gripping as the things he wrote. If you’re a film buff, you might’ve heard of Akira Kurosawa’s seminal work Roshomon. As brilliant as the movie is, the story was, alas, written by Akutagawa. David Peace’s article doubles up as a profile and a tribute—his reverence for the Japanese writer lifts the crisp and moving narrative.
| Fiction |
She thought of the endless waves of pain that for some reason or other she and her husband had to endure; of the invisible giants hurting her boy in some unimaginable fashion; of the incalculable amount of tenderness contained in the world; of the fate of this tenderness, which is either crushed, or wasted, or transformed into madness; of neglected children humming to themselves in unswept corners; of beautiful weeds that cannot hide from the farmer and helplessly have to watch the shadow of his simian stoop leave mangled flowers in its wake, as the monstrous darkness approaches.
Read | Signs and Symbols by Vladimir Nabokov
Having read a few Nabokov short stories now, I can attest to his brilliance in bringing wave after wave of emotion until you submit to it. Russian literature isn’t something you read every day. I confess to abandoning The Brothers Karamazov, Notes from the Underground, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Crime and Punishment and Humiliated and Insulted midway, not because they couldn’t hold my attention. But perhaps the pacing is such that you want to take a break from it now and then. Coming back to it? Well, let’s not go there. But short stories are something that I can still digest. Nabokov is different from Tolstoy or Dostoevsky in his brevity, and man does he pack a punch.
This story of a wife and her husband contemplating the life of their son is a knockout.
There was a pause, during which Sasha was keenly aware of Coz behind her, waiting. She wanted badly to please him, to say something like It was a turning point; everything feels different now, or I called Lizzie and we made up, finally, or I’ve picked up the harp again, or just, I’m changing, I’m changing, I’m changing. I’ve changed! Redemption, transformation—God, how she wanted these things. Every day, every minute. Didn’t everyone?
Read | Found Objects by Jennifer Egan
This was my first encounter with Jennifer Egan’s work. And right after I finished reading this, I went to that website where everyone goes to ‘get’ their e-books (*clears throat*) and downloaded A Visit from the Goon Squad—the book that this story later became a part of. Never had I ever thought I’d feel such empathy for a kleptomaniac. But that’s Egan’s magic here. The humanity in her work will stir you to defend all sorts of wrong. This is perhaps one of the best story ‘turns’ I’ve read.
Egan’s story will force you to confront your greatest vices and secrets. And it will take you to the abyss and hold your hand as you stare into the darkness.
| Poetry |
Heavy
by Mary Oliver
That time I thought I could not go any closer to grief without dying I went closer, and I did not die. Surely God had his hand in this, as well as friends. Still, I was bent, and my laughter, as the poet said, was nowhere to be found. Then said my friend Daniel, (brave even among lions), “It’s not the weight you carry but how you carry it – books, bricks, grief – it’s all in the way you embrace it, balance it, carry it when you cannot, and would not, put it down.” So I went practicing. Have you noticed? Have you heard the laughter that comes, now and again, out of my startled mouth? How I linger to admire, admire, admire the things of this world that are kind, and maybe also troubled – roses in the wind, the sea geese on the steep waves, a love to which there is no reply?
Listenings
Dance to it, or have a cup of coffee and let it play in the background.
| Songs |
|| From the mainstream ||
Let me make this clear—I don’t like Noel Gallagher or his brother for that matter. (Mostly because his choice of footballing fandom, I’ve got nothing against the man) But the style of his music has me listening to it on repeat. Jazzy, grandiose, and classy—it’s got all the Right Stuff for sure.
|| From the deep end ||
Apart from being credited with being the first musician to release the first English rock and roll album in Iran, there isn’t much out there about Farhad Mehrad, at least in English media. But there’s something poetic about his songs—it feels like you could get away with reciting it in a mehfil.
DW calls him ‘Ray Charles of Iran’—one of the most respected and important contemporary Irani artists.
| Music |
Viewings
Some interesting tidbits for your eyes to feast over. Watch it as you eat your dinner, or when you just want to get your mind off things, or better still, watch it when you’re looking for something to quench your thirst for the good stuff.
| Shorts |
Welcome to commie propaganda. I am joking. Even if you don’t dig the political connotations of Russian animator Vladimir Tarasov’s 1977 Vpered; vremya!, you have to give it props for the work that has clearly gone into this.
As one Letterboxd reviewer writes: “I wish was more apart of the soviet milieu so this would hit harder but as it stands I am simply floored by the creativity.”
I couldn’t agree more.
SitCom Community on Netflix makes for a perfect viewing if you’re looking for something not too heavy. It’s refreshing. And the cast is sensational. Of course, like most TV shows, it runs out of steam and ideas by Season 4 (and the writers/directors could not have made it more clear). Let’s call the last 2 seasons ‘experimental’, shall we? But this particular clip is from Season 1. And it’s the highlight of the show. If didn’t foretell the musical genius of Donald Glover, I don’t know what did.
Science, bitch.
| Art |
Listen, for some strange reason, I don’t have many ‘art’ friends. I am not sure why. Maybe it’s because they’re a ‘little bit’ pretentious or it’s the ‘air’ around them that is— but regardless, I recently met a friends’ friend who did art. And I’ve got to admit, didn’t strike me as THAT pretentious. Anyway, the long and short of it is, I was quite impressed. So I am going to shamelessly promote his work. Brace yourself.
Perspective and symbolism—are two quintessential aspects of art that novices like me harp about. And ‘Van Gag’ (seriously man, you gotta think of a better name) brings both to the plate. Call it dreams in waking life. Perhaps it’s those CBD tablets he’s been taking. Nonetheless, for a self-taught artist (allegedly), accomplishing something like this is no small feat. From the first take on ‘still life’—alive in both the clock and the individual to the last take on a ‘fire drill’—it’s evocative, moving, and carefully considered. Take each element. Their position. The curvatures. How the alcohol bottles and glasses tilt with the heaviness of the potion inside them. How light enters. And long shadows are cast.
There are signs of genius here.
From the Archive
‘From the Archive’ features old but valuable digital artifacts from the depths of the internet.
The short film, based on a PC game that has somewhat of a cult following, does more than justice to the idea of immigration, State-sanctioned detention, and a looming threat of something more sinister.
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