Styles, Habits of Navokov and Hemingway

Earnest Hemingway had a house in Florida. In his fishing trips he wrote many stories. Hi picture of a boxing bearded man with safari shirts and iconic beard makes me imagine his' Old Man'. Many famous writers had odd habits when writing. Capote always wrote in supine position with pencil in one and wine in other hand. Hemingway wrote in morning about 500 words each day, according to himself, he used to get 1 page of masterpiece in 99 pages of shit. Some writers wrote naked, some wrote immediately after waking up from dreams.

V. Nabokov used 3*5 index cards. 'Lolita' was such a controversial novel and I read a Nepali  translation of it in teenage. First I thought it was ridiculously imaginative, profane, evil and cheap like those cheap erotica novels sold on Bagbazar Street openly. I soon changed my position after reading the English version. I saw the prose style, melancholic, artful presentation, and very sympathy demanding Humbert. I thought the inclusion of such a incest story, profanity and trying to  make it appear to be artful literature is simply pathetic and demeaning. But I didn't for once realize the writer was not Humbert himself. He was not endorsing any position and he was not an addict. He focused more on details and style rather than plot development or the content itself. One of the reasons why Lolita's narration looked like clattering tools of unrhymed poem verses was the fact that he wrote numerous notes, plots, dialogues, details of characters in index cards and he used them wherever he wanted. Not very organized for my liking but, nonetheless, excellent. A great point of view again do describe a sincere but sexually addicted, incesting stepfather who was obsessed with a twelve year old Haze, who he nicknamed Lolita for her nymphomaniac nature.

Hemingway liked drinking but he said he never wrote while drunk. Navakov would be catching butterflies while writing. He wrote Lolita when he was in a Entomology trip in west US. He never typed, or even edited. All his edition, translation, writings, driving was done by his wife and his son. He was, in the beginning, very reluctant to publish Lolita. He once tried to burn all the manuscript, but Vera, his wife/ex-wife, saved it. He was also famous for plotting himself in the story but not as a major character who influence the story much just like he appears in Lolita out of nowhere, but may be that is a slight guilt, a hideous attempt to cover that he was not the Humbert himself who was sick in mind. I am not sure. He disliked Freud's psychoanalysis. He didn't believe in such things. His love and translation of Russian and English literature from and to one another is another remarkable talent of his.

In Hemingway's writings, I always found a dark, melancholic, depressive tone. Even before I knew about his personal life, I guessed that he had been a suicide planner all his life. I hate depression and I hate suicide planners. I am a Tagore admirer. I do not want dark, cold, lonely, fearful nights. I like to have Tagore's world.

'Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high 
Where knowledge is free...

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way 
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee 
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom...

Now coming back to Hemingway, as people are celebrating his birthday, I am  always amazed by wonderful expression of sadness in his stories and his connection to suicides. I remember one such story. I can't remember the title ...could be Old Man or Suicide. I just remember the plot. A bar attendant is curious about a old man, who comes in his bar regularly and sits in a dark, cold corner and drinks. He never talks much and he has no friends. When inquired with another customer, he finds out, that old man's daughter has committed suicide few days ago, and that old man tried killing himself unsuccessfully few days ago; and perhaps planning a next one.  After the bar is closed, the old man leaves. The bar-attendant also heads for home. When the attendant was  in the bar, everyone saw him smiling, happy, and in lighted part of the building whereas the old man was drinking in the dark corner. But as soon as bar attendant leaves, a darkness creeps in the street, silent road but distant howling foxes, stars in the sky but not enough to lighten him. He looks at his life, remember his home and realized he has nothing exciting to look forward to. He also has darkness waiting for him at home. Depressing, cold, silent, tired night... Excellent plot, and very clear picture of what the real 'Old Man' was going to do, very soon. 'Papa' Hemingway, the hunter, the story teller who was his own hero, Santiago, the Old Man who imitate himself in his books, short and sweet was his style, a parody unto himself, once wrote a six word story which he call his best work of all.

"Baby shoes, for sale, never used.

July 21, 2012

Irving

BP, Ego and Enemies

Human body is very flexible, not just physically but psychologically too. Only few years ago, I ran for 4-5 miles easily, every day without any discomfort of any kind. But when I quit doing it, it is even hard for me to run for 5 yards for minutes without suffering, what looks like an asthma attack. Body has gone dull, very passive, lot of fat and laziness has accumulated. Two days of fun soccer and whole body is sore. Our body can be trained and we can somersault in the air, and we quit doing it, we get heart attack when we bend to pick up something from floor.  As kids, we used to see note books in stationery shop that has “Health is wealth” on the cover. Fitness means prevention of most of lazy man’s diseases like obesity, varicose vain, embolism and so on. Motivation is needed to get back in shape, somewhat.

Last time I was writing about a fat black prostitute girl in Kenya, Beatrice. I just had to finish it for my own note and memory. It is very hurtful to be betrayed by someone who you trust the most. When the rich young guy, on whose chest Beatrice cries, falls asleep ignoring all her life-story, she gets absolutely furious. Human nature is such. Love is such a thing our heart desires, and on scarcity of love, or a denial of compassion or because of non-acceptance of the surrender of love to the beloved, the mind goes mad. Ego is hurt. Anger is the only verdict. When people are angry, they go blind in all senses. A chaos, conflict, a turmoil is created and only way out from these, (concluded by human mind in such situation) is revenge. Ego is a very dangerous thing. It is better when kept in closest. But when ego comes out of closet because of bible reading or by a philosophical investigation, or mystic examination of self, or just by everyday happenings like wife’s gossiping, it can destroy the world.

All the political, tribal, ethnic wars in the human history, all the internal conflicts, all hatred between people are because of ego. People are evolved in such a way. Although Darwin’s famous discoveries like Natural Selection, Survival of the Fittest, Struggle for Existence have overwhelming presence, evidences and examples, in the core of my heart, I really do believe that it should not be our way of life. We should not create world around us based in such foundations. Although, I know in my heart, it is impossible to make ‘Superhuman’ that Nietzsche has famously described in all his writings, especially his famous book “Thus Spake Zarathustra”, I can’t see how a guy or some group claiming to have God’s revelation can dictate the whole of God’s divine plan in funny books. Ego is there, believe it or not, in all levels in all humans in all stages of life. Ego is evident. Beatrice had a hurt feeling because someone played with her trust. She decided to take revenge.

Now suddenly my mind jumps to another great story by B.P. Koirala. Almost all Nepalese read this story in school or college: Satru (Enemy). I love BP’s writing. I think I can write books about his stories. When I found out in school that BP Koirala is not just a politician but he writes too, I was surprised. I hated politicians and I thought that all he wrote probably was his stupid ideologies or anti monarchial philosophy or some Mao or Karl influenced junk. When I started reading his books, I could not believe his fluidity, genuine dialogues, everyday characters, unimaginative story setting, simple yet significance of life’s particular events, and omission of political ideologies of all kind in his writings. His story Sannani (Little Girl) is one of my all- time favorite stories. I have read the story about 100 times and the last paragraph of it; I have probably read and 1000 times. He could have not written it better and he then established the telepathy with me, although he died much earlier, even before my birth. I could not agree more, I would not have expressed it differently. I was so involved in it. For many people it is like another simple story and people have compared my love of that story to expression like “for Arsenal fanatic, Robert Pires was (some day) the ‘winger of the century’”.  ‘Narendra Dai’ has parts of Sannani repeated in it, if I remember it right, even the dialogues. I believe it is a true story. Most of his stories were based on real people; on most occasion his own life events. ‘Hitler and Jews’ is another book, not as popular as the tittle may suggest but brilliant in my eyes. In short, he is one of the writers for whom I didn’t start with great deal of opinion but totally changed my position. His story Satru (enemy) is a classic one. If I say: almost all Nepalese consider it to be one of the bests, it won’t be an overrated statement.

Mukhiya Baje, a gentleman, a chief judge and a pious man is satisfied with his life, and content in thinking that all he has done is good to people, serve the justice system, help poor, defended weak, adopted orphans etc. He is proud within, that he has no enemies at all. He never did any wrong to anyone. One day when returning to his home in the evening, a stick drops out of nowhere and breaks in front of him. He starts to wonder- “Is that targeted at me? Is someone trying to hurt me? Does the stick just fall by itself?” He always thought he had no enemies. So he starts reevaluating the incident. It is dark, he cannot see anyone. He starts to think who could be his enemy. He always fought for the right side on right cause, helped the needy, and had compassion for women and children. What could have he done wrong to infuriate someone that they would attack him to hurt him? He thought he was AJAT SATRU. He starts remembering his life like a movie; let us call it ‘flash backing’. He remembers many incidents which I don’t remember here accurately but vaguely and I will use my own version here, which will serve my purpose of explaining.

He was a judge in a case where someone tried to scam an innocent guy, so he judged against the former. That guy, Harke, I will call him here could be his enemy. His ego must have hurt. He called Turke ‘stupid’ at panchayat meeting, may be many years ago, probably in childhood, who could have been seeking revenge. His wife could be plotting against him to kill him and elope with her lover. Birkhe could be trying to hurt him because Mukhiya may have called his wife ‘beautiful’ in general conversation but Birkhe thought that it was in lust. Furke must have hated Mukhiya’s idea of building a temple close to his house because women would come early and ring the bell in the temple to worship, which would disturb Lurke’s sex life. Surke must have been angered that Mukhiya’s son is following his daughter in village. Churke must be seeking revenge because Mukhiya’a father had sexually abused Churkre’s brother when he was young.

“Why would not my adopted son try to kill me?” thinks Mukhiya, “he is not my real blood.” He might be seeking to get all my property after my death or claim insurance etc.” Mukhiya got bitter in heart. He concluded- no one can be aloof, devoid of enemies. Any action on any things will create enemies. This is a general lesson: Humanity 101. We live in a world where even people like Jesus are crucified. Even God has enemies. Enemies are just created because of ego, mostly for nothing, irrelevant, small issues. Just a stick is dropped from nowhere we can realize how many enemies we have created. We cannot avoid it.  Another famous and my personal favorite story, ‘Enemy’ by Anton Chekov is a brilliant one. We do not require a big border issue to have enemies or brutal murder of family member to seek revenge.  No mass murder, no terrorism, no money conflict, no wife dishonor is needed. We are stupid enough and its just destiny that enemy are created here and there, right and left, at work, at park , at coffee shop, in a religious meeting, even during a  lunch break.

I look at my life and see enemies everywhere. I have made them without even trying. I have accepted challenges from enemies without even knowing what the challenge is about. I have been stupid. I have been indifferent and silent and it has not helped. I have created more and more. I don’t know if someone from my childhood is still angry at me because I pushed them in a line, or caused someone to bruise their knee or argue with someone on who was the best singer of all or accidently a spit bubble from my mouth landed on someone’s bald head during a conversation or I eve-teased some girls by my Galli? Who knows how many enemies I have made?

Stories and Morals

As a kid, my favorite subject in school was ‘Moral Science.’ A story followed by some commandments…it was literally making sense to ask what is the moral of the story? Teachers would read it to us and tell us to analyze and write a ‘short summary-type moral code/s’ from the story. I was impressed with the subject so much I started looking for morals in every stories I read. Making comments, analyzing, bringing out morals and examining character’s moral standard became my hobby.

This morning as I woke up fairly early, and Kundan has been complaining about the noises I make, and the songs I sing in the shower, I tried not doing that but quietly check on my story list that I have postponed reading because of time constraint. This was my moral substitute. The ‘Moral science stories’ were simple, everyday life like this one. Anyway, Wanjiru, in the story ‘Few Minutes of Glory’ is neither Biblically moral nor worldly Good. Read this months ago, recommended by my professor friend, Dr. Seleey.


Her name is Wanjiru, but she like her Christian name Beatrice, it sounded more pure and beautiful. But she was not pure. As the civil war broke and the invaders were slowly moving out of Kenya, Kenyans were still figuring out how to rebuild the country. She was a Mary Magdalene, to be fair to her. Some suited booted Jesus came in her life, told her to give freedom, full cup of life, money, wedding and salvation. She believed. She gave herself for the first time in a hotel room in his comfortable arm, she cried. She ran away with him from a poor home, and probably her family were happy. But when she woke up next morning Jesus has left the building, nowhere to be found.


She then, moved from city to city, from bars to bars, from Tiunku, to Nagairiga, Rironi, wobbling around to find love, gifts of flowers, beer, a more closer and long lasting look than just a turning of head of those wealthy customers, when the bar attender call her name ‘Beatrice’ . People would turn around to see the bearer of the beautiful name and were disappointed immediately. Nobody flirted with her, nobody wanted to get into her, and nobody wanted to spend the few minutes of glory with her. She was the customers’ last resort if all other girls were booked and taken, or if some poor customer was too drunk, he would have no choice to come to her. A prostitute who was disappointed with customers, disgusted with fake smiles of other girls in the bar, their ugly wigs and uplifted chest areas, provoking clothes, their powdery skins, and more wigs wigs wigs ….blond, brunette, china women…. She could not understand why customer would die for Nyaguthhi, who was bored, impatient, disrespectful and insulting to customers.  I personally think Beatrice didn’t know about ‘Dirty Talking’, but that is not the moral of the story here.


Back to the story; Beatrice tried, she was original, smooth, black skin, big healthy body, and lots of love to give. In fact lots of hunger for love of someone who would truly appreciate her original self. But nobody ever noticed her. But one day a guy came, and thereafter started being a regular customer of the bar, who was handsome, young, often mocked in the bars by other wealthy people, nevertheless would come and spend the nights Beatrice. He thought he was ‘good’ in conversation with other men in the bar and ‘good’ with her. Seeing and pitying him little, she became accustomed to him, his stories of success. She would listen to his exaggerated success stories, his boasting of wealth and manhood and what not. She confided in him. She thought for a while that this is the man who she can tell her story, and one night resting on his chest she started telling her ‘Life Story’, and how she ended up there. As she was honest, not exaggerating, not boasting, not trying to impress, she was upright telling him her survival stories, her poor family, her sick mother, her longing from home, her desire of love, her faith in God, her desire to have a home someday… yes without make up, without bargains, she was telling him her story. She was open, shamelessly naked, and crying on his chest, only to look up to his face after finishing that he was sound asleep already, no idea when. She thought he was so deeply saddened, and sympathetic that he wasn't even interrupting her to ask questions, because in pure listening, unintelligent listening, there are no questions asked.
  

Well the story does not end there, but my time is running out here. Pay day is waiting and I am really excited and looking forward to see ‘goat lambs jumping sideways’ at work today. 

Dreamland and Sad Faces

Tomorrow is the payday. Every payday I see people so excited, the gloominess of their faces turns white, whiter than their skin, they walk around happy, collect money and order a big delivery from a expensive restaurant nearby. Just for a day or two they dance and sing from their heart, and it reminds me of a newborn goat lamb which jumps sideways in excitement, with its  long ears so thrilled in the air. Alas! it is short lived, next Monday the same co-workers will be asking me 'gas money'. I can't help to feel bad, it is innate in me. Seriously, does compassion has any limit and irresponsibility has any boundaries? What kind of society, government, culture and family standards we boast by living here in America. I put myself in one side of the scale, and them Native (not Indians)Americans in other. I am always in survival mode. In all my actions, my behaviors, my conversations, I present my honestly, and expect more often than not, unconsciously  or in vain sometime, that  something better will happen, I have done my best with my available tools, my knowledge;  with my labor, I have tried to reap the fruit produced. Their mode is survival mode too, but of  different kind. They don't know any better. They have not seen both banks of the river. Has anyone ever noticed why vending machine technology would be extraneous in Nepal, India and any such countries? Here, people have a dollar in pocket, they immediately run to a vending machine and buy a candy. If a quarter is saved, they go ask their coworker if they have another  so they can  get a mountain dew from it.

Because in Rome, we do as the Romans do, and I am afraid that I am so becoming like them. I call my routine  '5-2' these days. Five days work, 2 days off, wait for Friday, feel like dying on Monday, count till payday only to spend all of it on hundred of ridiculous bills, fighting in court, paying for water than I didn't drink, giving in my hard earned money for criminals in constipated jails to have them conjugal visits,  fighting frauds with credit card companies, scared of daylight robbery, absolutely dumb fold,  numb and  unconscious that years and years have passed by with no progress, but with more bald spots and more gray hairs.

Every off days I have tons of things to do, including, what I mentioned, unnecessary arguments with credit cards, car dealers, banks, insurance companies, replying to emails of cell phones and laptops demanding best friends and cousins in Nepal, playing FIFA on a slow internet,  reevaluating the greates books, reading Bible and such to find the unfindables;  and worst of all talking with stupid nurses when at work covering for someone else.  Ahh life! what have I become?

When I came to USA, I had energy. I had dreams, although it was so forced on my mind by parents and the society. My thoughts and aspirations, aim of life was just to BECOME better than few privileged cousins, or in somewhat self respected quote, I can say- to avoid them  and to stop them to consider me as a competitor, I was/am/will be never interested. Coming to America was an escape from thugs, stupid competitions,  Maoist terrorist, Nepal's bribery-full, uncontrolled political system, hopeless and incurable poverty . I sure expected US to be a land of opportunity, a hope for the dreamers. 

To flashback and remember and to be bluntly honest to myself, I have to admit: in 2005 in Waverly, Iowa Walmart, we went to buy phone cards to call home to tell them that we have arrived at the land of hope, in pursuit of happiness and freedom. I was so excited, for a new journey had begun; and I was like a new- born goat lamb jumping around sideways with its ears thrilled up in the air. But my heart got a freezing wave of cold air when I looked at the faces of customers crowded in the Walmart super center. It was my first and I can insist now, a true impression of American- fat, unwelcoming, hating, if not hating on face, skeptical about foreigners, sad in the face, tired as if they have ploughed  acres of farms all day, briefly smiling on eye contact but so fake as crocodile tears, even the brightest of lights in hundred suns in Times Square could not lighten up the gloominess, laziness, tiredness so expressed  in their conversation,  their melancholic sighs in the counter, their boredom of fake smiles, their indifferences towards naked women on the cover pages of  of  the sex magazines, their unplayfulness towards the demand of candies and dolls of their own children, and their dead-like body language; I question for a while if I was in a Zombie land, or was I dreaming from a tiring long flight? Their sorry faces nowhere directly or indirectly indicated any signs of happiness, peace, freedom, love, compassion, humility, respectively, curiosity in stranger,  love for life or quest about it,  but sung a dark heartbreaking song like a sorrowful owl howling at distant, in a wintery night. 

Never did I know, that one day I will be like them, dead in the spirit, tired in the body, unconscious of time, unaware of the real goal of life, lost in unknown and unattainable dreams of happiness and peace. I was shocked that day to find my much anticipated 'America' that sad and tired, and unaware of the rest of the world. Now I console myself these days that I have to seriously revisit my decision to stay and be firm about whether or not to extend my survival mode here, for God help those who help themselves. I am more than equal to the challenges but my life is not just about being better than some of my prodigal, privileged, yet mediocre cousins . I hope I am not wasting all my youth here in vain.

Irving Texas

July 12th 2012

Nature, Mysticism and Sermons

In the wake of a free car-wash (rain of course; nothing comes free here in America. No, not even water or air), I thought about the beauty of nature. The way we look outwardly into the nature and project something inwardly through thoughts, beauty, and poetry is very mysterious. When rain falls here, I barely smell any earth. Everywhere is concrete, cement, rocks and wood. No fresh air after the rain, no sound of plopping of drops of water on a ditch filled road, no corn leafs making music to it, no tin roof approving of it. It rains here and the land dries within five minutes. Which poet would ever write a poem about a rain in Dallas Metroplex? Just a thought …a silly rhetoric really… would Guirdeff or Hartman or Nanak or Kabir ever compose anything of substance in a ‘Dallas rain’?

All the greatest of poets are usually born and raised by the rivers, jungles, lakes, and mountains. I can think of Guirdjeff, whose books I have recently revisited. In his fondest of memories, he references a festival where best of musicians, singers; poets of the generation used to gather and compete to compose something tremendous, often organized and observed by a very large community,  in a valley surrounded by high mountains. The winner (he would be rewarded a fat goat by the way) would be the one who can compose, sing or play some instrument which can vibrate and produce echoes in the mountains. Now mind you! Not every sound in that mountain echoes. It is something very mysterious. On one occasion he witnessed as he followed his father to the festival, one flute player who plays with such passion and creates such a beautiful cord, the mountains started to echo, vibrate and sing after him. People were awestruck. The nature knows the music. Poetry, art, dancing etc. are some other things which are universal in communication and deeply connected to nature. Only poets like Tagore can write poetry to touch the soul, only great musicians like Hartman can compose for ‘enlightenment Dance’, only Kabir can sing to your heart, only Guirdeff can dance to the likes of nature. These people can touch the soul and stir mysticism in there. They can communicate even to the nature, tress and clouds, rivers and lakes, although for an ordinary man these things are inert. Those people were not ordinary men.  In fact, Guirdeff titles his book, meeting with remarkable men.

To feel mysticism and the innermost consciousness, people need to be with the nature. The human history has proved it. All mystics in the east or west have talked about it and authenticated. All poets, singers, artists were, in some stage of their lives felt something experiencing this nature, in their core, which shook them and made them extraordinary, although, the events were just ordinary in themselves. Nobody has to go meditate in the jungle for years; no one has to play beautiful music to feel the silence of the innermost soul. Not to sound like a phony Indian guru, I hate to use these words, but I confess the mindless mind and thoughtless thought can be achieved, not by being celibate all life or singling praise Hare Ram Hare Krishna, or roting the Sermon on the Mount. Honestly, just to mention, I sometimes wonder what would have happened to Bible if Sermon on the Mount was not included. 

Back to the topic: even uneducated, unsophisticated, uncultured, unimaginative, unpredictable, unhappy, afraid, unreligious soul can lay in the bed, at night wrapped up in a blanket, after an eventful tiring but nevertheless an ordinary day, hear the rain pouring in the maize plant leaves, see the lightning, feel wind whistling by window cracks and just witness it without thoughts and projections, absorb it without judgments of any kind, be it, live it. It is an extraordinary experience. People can experience it but most of us all only can poorly explain it, just like my futile attempt here. Blessed are those who flows in this music, and be the song; for them the God dances in heaven. Blessed are those who judge not but absorb the thundering of the sky; for them the God plays his drum. Blessed are those who experience the God in such rain; for them God himself manifest in the nature. Blessed are those poor souls, who in spite of the expected rough days of tomorrows, smile in the dark, not to please his neighbors, not even to their partners,  but because they live there totally for a moment and unconsciously conscious of the present, fully acknowledging without thinking, or even trying, the Heaven for eternity. Blessed are those who quit roting Gita and Bible for a while and disappears in the thoughtless thought of this rain, for them Nepalese, who understand it, a Dharmaraj song playing in the radio is like Jesus speaking on the mount at that moment.

Jham Jham Jham Jham

Pani Paryo Asarko Raat

Paari Bata Bajna Lage

 Makaika Paat