Enter the Dragon with Karsh Kale

Among his many inspirations, percussionist and composer, Karsh Kale counts one quite an unlikely candidate. “Bruce Lee represents a character that I have tried to emulate in my own work over the years. It is the style in which he represented his cultural duality, something he mastered, and something I am still in pursuit of, that inspired me,” says Kale.

He will, along with the New Delhi-based electronica producers, The MIDIval Punditz (Gaurav Raina and Tapan Raj), perform their incendiary live score for Lee’s iconic classic, Enter the Dragon, at Darling Harbour as part of the Sydney Festival 2009.

“I have been a fan of Bruce Lee since I was young. As a boy I remember waking up to a poster I had of him on my wall every morning. It was a still from the final fight scene in Enter the Dragon. I also had a cat until recent called Bruce Lee,” says Kale. “It was a no brainer for me to ask the Punditz to get involved in this project with me as I knew that they too were big fans of Mr Lee. I felt that the project would not only benefit from their skills as producers, but as well from their enthusiasm as fans.”

And what inspires Kale, a master of tabla, and an Indian electronica band to compose for Bruce Lee’s masterful visuals of martial arts? “The score I created draws upon both traditional and modern styles much like Bruce Lee’s character in the film. It is a very different approach than the original score which seemed much more like a basic Hollywood cop movie score from 1973,” says Kale. “Some scenes are scored with sound and frequencies and some with full musical compositions. I was mostly inspired to get the opportunity to help reintroduce this legendary character to a brand new audience with a brand new sound,” he adds.

Born just outside of Birmingham in England, Kale’s family moved to Queens in America, where at the age of five, he heard the first stroke of the tabla. He recollects the moment with immense clarity even today.

“My father played a tape of a concert recorded in Pune of Pandit Hari Prasad Chaurasia on bansuri and a young Zakir on tabla performing Raag Marva in Roopak taal (7 beats). I recall my father making me wait through the 40-minute alaap section before the first strokes of tabla were played. To me it was the sound of classical India merging with Rock and Roll, and all this coming from one drummer. After hearing this recording and later seeing him live, my own pursuit of music began,” he says.

Kale has not only shared stage with the Ustad several times, but also directed him once. “This was in 2003, while recording my Liberation album. He and Bill Laswell were to record on a piece I had written called Milan”,” says Kale. “I was not going to direct Zakirbhai or dare tell him what to do, until I realized that he was not going to be satisfied with the recording till I got what I was looking for. I finally gave him direction as per the mood and the style I was going for and he delivered an amazing performance as always.”

Kale’s spectrum of initiatives is amazing—he has scored for animation games and does a range of remixes, including recently for the theme of Madhur Bhandarkar’s Fashion. He has also toured clubs across India, with the Punditz. “When I first played in India, I was surprised to see how much club culture had already existed for quite a while thanks to people like the Punditz. I have always had a great reaction to my music in India. The music tends to connect with those who have a more worldly view and see themselves not only as south Asians but world citizens.”

Kale grew up in a world very different from the one he now performs in. Indian music certainly wasn’t cool then—and young Indian-origin kids often rejected their parent’s culture. “I do remember growing up in an environment that had little understanding of the culture from which I came,” says Kale. “I think that I rebelled like other kids I was growing up with but music always remained separate for me.”

From Buddha Bar to Bhangra in UK’s coolest nightclubs, Indian music has morphed to speak to a younger, globalised audience. Bringing this music from the underground to the clubs and finally onto the mainstream stage, are musicians like Kale, Talvin Singh and Nitin Sawhney. Yet, Kale doesn’t see himself or his music as a representation of second generation South-Asians growing up in the West.

“My music is simply an expression of who I am. It is always an honor when someone else can identify with my work regardless of their cultural background,” says Kale. “I never chose to be interested in Indian classical music because I was Indian, but rather because it is an amazing form of expression. I was also equally inspired by other non-Indian forms of music. The music that Talvin or Nitin or ADF make is about erasing borders and lines.”

A gentleman’s game? Not quite!

If you are as exasperated by the Indian-Australian cricketing “controversies”, read The Art of Sledging



The Art of Sledging
J. Harold
Allen & Unwin
$19.95

If the constant media coverage and penalizing by the cricketing boards of the on-field sledging by Indian and Australian teams has you yelling, “Oh get over and it get on with the game, lads,” The Art of Sledging is the book for you.

Set to release on November 7, perfectly timed for Australia’s current tour of India, the book celebrates, and more importantly, recognises sledging, as a vital part of the game. As the author J. Harold notes in his introduction, “Ruthless insults and brutal replies are essential in any worthy cricket match.”

I am all against racism, but frankly “monkey” seems quite tame compared to the verdant history of sledging Harold builds up in his book. From race, to relatives and ancestors, to the cricketer’s appearance, cricketing sledges have not been shy of bringing up any issue, as long as it crumbles the opposition.

A few examples quoted by Harold:

Aussie captain Bobby Simpson to his bowler, Garth McKenzie about a bespectacled Geoffrey Boycott –

“Hey Garth, look at this four-eyed f**cker. He can’t f***king bat. Knock those f***king glasses off him straight away!”

The crowd to Inzamam Ul Haq during an Indo-Pak match:

“Mota Aloo”

Viv Rickards to one of the spectators in an English crowd that was throwing racist comments at him:

“I may be black, but I know who my parents are.”

And my favourite, and quite a lesson to contemporary crickets who go complaining every time there is a tiff on the field –

Upon English captain Douglas Jardine’s complaint about an Australian player’s remark, Aussie captain Bill Woodfull reprimanded his team thus:

“Which one of you bastards called this bastard a bastard?”

This kind of psychological warfare of sledging has been part of the game right since the beginning—in fact the very pace of cricket has nurtured the culture of sledging, says Harold. Two batsmen must face 10 rivals on field, and a bowling spell of several overs is plenty of time for a continuing conversation consisting of taunts and counter-remarks.

And it is sledging that makes cricket as much a game of wit and nerves, as of skills and strength. Harold, a Melbourne-based advertising creative director, draws together some of the finest one-liners from the time of, who he calls the ‘Grandfather of Sledging’, English batsman, W.G. Grace, to Matthew Hayden’s remark just earlier this year about Harbhajan Singh on a radio station (Hayden called Bhajji a “little obnoxious weed”).

The book is very entertaining—I was bursting in peels of laughter through the afternoon it took to read through it. Harold also manages to provide the whole context of every sledging remark—the who, when, where, why, how—to create a real feel and sense of what happened.

While some comments in the book, are verifiable, being made immortal on pitch mikes, Harold admits, there are a few that have just become part of folklore. He provides a cross section of the crudest and wittiest remarks—on the field, from the crowds and even from the commentary box and cricketer biographies. Some of the best sledges are not even mouthed. A classic example that Harold cites, is from our favourite cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar.

Less than 18-years old himself at the time, Tendulkar had smashed younger Pakistani bowlers with sixes. Incensed, Abdul Qadir came on to bowl with, “Why are you hitting kids? Try and hit me.” If you have watched Sachin play long enough, you should know what he did—he hit 4 sixes in Qadir’s over.

Harold’s collection hardly claims to be an exhaustive list—every cricket fan will have their own favourite sledging moment, which is probably not in the book. What The Art of Sledging does accomplish, is make the reader see, that after all, cricket is just a game.

And while there is of course a fine line between a sledge intended to unnerve the opposition, and a truly offensive comment intended to humiliate a person or the whole community—I think on field and off field remarks by cricketers should be taken with a pinch of salt. Just as technology like ‘hawk eye’ and ‘third umpire’ take away from the sense of chance and luck from the game, so does excessive cricketing correctness and codes of behaviour, take away from the spirit of our favourite sport.

The Art of Sledging, thus is essential reading for every cricketing fan—and even more so for the haughty cricketing boards, and ‘holier than thou’ players. As Gen-Y says, “Take a chill pill yaar!”

Visit the ruins of Hampi, in Melbourne

Australian curator, Sarah Kenderdine, has been bringing wonderful worlds—on land and below the ocean—to our museums and screens, writes SHIVANGI AMBANI-GANDHI

The ruins of Vijayanagara, located at present-day UNESCO World Heritage Site of Hampi, including the sixteenth-century Vitthala Temple, whose outer pillars reverberate musically when tapped with the fingers, can be viewed at the Immigration Museum in Melbourne until 26 January 2010.

PLACE-Hampi is the world’s first interactive cultural exhibition, combining 3D stereographic panoramas, high quality sound recordings and custom-built computer software, that merges mythological and archaeological detail to give viewers the very real perception of walking amongst the ruins in India today.

The exhibition premiered in Lille, France and drew maximum capacity crowds for 3 months. It has also been installed for 3 months in 2007 at the Martin Gropius Bau, in Berlin, at the ZKM in Karlsruhe, at Shanghai Science and Technology Museum, Shanghai and, at Science Centre in Singapore. There are a number of other planned installations in Europe. This is its first installation in Australia.

Australian curator and former maritime archaeologist, Sarah Kenderdine, who conceptualised and co-created PLACE-Hampi, says, “Place-Hampi arrives out of the desire to create large-scale immersive and interactive display environments that engage many visitors in the experiential qualities embedded in historical and living landscapes. The complex of technologies we use mobilizes the landscape and allows the participants to engage in new experiences and narratives.”

Kenderdine first experimented with representing landscapes in 3D after being invited to work at Angkor in Cambodia in 2004, to produce a work for The Virtual Room at Melbourne Museum. She was then invited with Prof Jeffrey Shaw to make the work at Hampi, which was commissioned as an art work in celebration of France India Year in 2006.
“Once we were introduced to Hampi, which is an utterly vibrant and extraordinary site with its fusion of pilgrimage community and archaeological and geological setting, we immediately felt that it was a great opportunity to explore our research ideas related to the post-cinematic experience of place,” says Kenderdine.
The team has spent many years on-site at Hampi using Swiss-made Seitz cameras to capture images on location, and complex audio technology to record the every day pilgrim and wild life activity at the ancient city. “Fieldwork always has its tension, there is a lot of expensive equipment, and the days are long and physically challenging,” says Kenderdine. “Travelling on bamboo coracles down the river with all the gear was always nerve-racking. But the delights are always there. Highlights for me have been to see and film the Chariot Festivals and other religious festivals, to be welcomed into the homes of local people who helped us, to be at the river in the early hours of the morning, when the priests are preparing for morning puja, to watch the dawn from Matanga Hill in the mornings, sunset from Hanuman’s birthplace and many other exquisite moments. I like also to live in Hampi village. The rhythms of daily life are very reassuring, intimate. Modern cities are very alienating in comparison.”

And PLACE-HAMPI too aims to be an intimate experience. One visitor commented about the exhibition, ““I myself am part of Place-Hampi and I determine in which part of the artwork I stay. It has something of a stroll through a virtual world and I am my own cameraman”

At the centre of the large cylinder, which is the exhibition, is a motorised platform that allows the viewer to interactively rotate a projected image on screen and navigate a 3D environment of panoramic images of Hampi. A single-user interface allows viewers to control their forward, backward and rotational movements through the virtual scene, as well as the rotation of the image. Motion capture devices and software were used to digitally create the mythological Gods that viewers encounter in the exhibition.

“The motion capture was used to ensure accurate translation of dance performances to the animated figures that appear in Place-Hampi,” explains Kenderdine. “The Indian animation company Paprikaas in Bangalore produced the animations. This is IMAX quality so it was a daunting undertaking. The animations draw on the tradition of “magical realism” as an aesthetic choice for inspiring the artwork of the mythological deities.”
Another major challenge for Kenderdine and her team was to capture some of the living culture of the place. Hampi is no disused ruin stuck in the past—it is still a vibrant centre for pilgrims as it is believed to be the site of Kishkindha, the fabled Monkey Kingdom from the Ramayana. Gods and local deities inhabit the temples and landscape, and festivals and rituals attract thousands of believers.


“Place-Hampi, through its animations, visualises intangible aspects of the landscape, those realms available to pilgrims who visit the site, whose religious beliefs animate that landscape. Place-Hampi, augments the visible elements with the mythological animation. It is a very modest attempt to make explicit this greater landscape,” says Kenderdine.

She has spent many years, bringing archeological sites—on land as well as below the sea—to audiences globally. As a maritime archaeologist Kenderdine built one of the earliest cultural heritage website in the world in 1994. “Using new internet technologies in the late 1990s I was able to broadcast a shipwreck excavation live from the bottom of the ocean. This was thrilling!” Kenderdine recollects. :I went on to produce more large portals including one for ASEAN cultural heritage. Now however my interest is in bringing people back together into the real social spaces of museums and galleries, in large scale immersive works.”

So is virtual travel the future of tourism? “Place-Hampi provides an informed method of virtual travel that is rich with the processes of recording landscape common not only in archaeological practise but also in the artistic representation of place,” she says. Part of Kenderdine’s research interests also lies in the production of acoustic architectures of space in 3D—sound to match the visual production. “The power of acoustic “visualisation” is an emerging field of work within our understanding of space and place,” she says.

Place-Hampi, will show at the Immigration Museum, Melbourne until 26 January 2010.

In conversation with the Ustad

SHIVANGI AMBANI-GANDHI realises a life-long dream of talking with Ustad Zakir Hussain, and discovers, that the tabla maestro is a really cool guy


It all started when I was a teenager watching the Simi Garewal show, and the Ustad was in conversation. With no tabla at hand, upon a sudden request from Garewal, Zakirji picked up the glass bowl on a table next to him, emptied out the sweets, turned it over and played, it seemed to me at the time, a serenade meant for me alone. I had, as have millions others around the world, fallen under his spell.

I have been eternally mesmerized by the magical dexterity of his fingers, his heart-warming smile and the swish of his signature curls—and he really is very, very cool. He epitomises cool, actually. With a really innocent boyish charm, a great sense of humour, an innate ability to create drama on stage and a knack at demystifying Indian classical music makes him ever so popular.

He respects the traditions of Indian classical music, and at the same time appeals to the younger, globalised generation by tapping into the richness of musical possibilities from around the world. Although now over 50 years of age, he really is, to me, a representation of the youth of India—confident in their own culture and history, and yet constantly opening doors to the world outside.

On a recent tour, titled Masters of Percussion, to Perth and at the Sydney Opera House, the Ustad opened the doors for Australian audiences into the myriad musical traditions across the length and breadth of India.

“Masters of Percussion is a bird’s eye view of India—we will hold the hands of the audience and take them on a journey into India,” said the Ustad. He has managed to bring together maestros from among the 80 percussive traditions across the length and breadth of India.

The idea came from the legendary Ustad Alla Rakha—Zakirji’s late father and guru—when he suggested that they showcase the rarely heard percussion artists in India. Though often perceived as very separate traditions—Hindustani and Carnatic, western folk and music from the North-Eastern corners—Zakirji saw the opportunity for a cross-cultural dialogue.

“There is no challenge when musicians of similar thinking come together and cooperate. Many musicians across the world have brought different musical traditions together and it has also been successfully accomplished in Bollywood—they use Middle Eastern rhythms, African, and all sorts of music, with great popularity!”


The Ustad’s global conversations

Zakirji has been initiating and participating in such musical conversations for years. In fact he was at the very helm of the birth of what we now popularly know as world/fusion/new age music. In 1975 Zakirji, the renowned Jazz guitarist, John McLaughlin, the incredible, T.H. “Vikku” Vinayakaram on Ghatam, and violinist L. Shankar, formed the phenomenal group, Shakti.

“At the time, the record company did not know where in the store to place the album—it just did not fit under any existing labels. Shakti was a milestone band which showed that it is possible to interact a global level,” says Zakirji. “The seven notes exist all over the world—that is the common ground. The language of music creates interactions.”

Shakti was also special because of its impromptu jamming—“We created an incredible collage on the stage, right in front of the audience, unlike Ravi Shankar who used to write out the music for Yahoudi to perform,” says Zakirji. Shakti is still going strong—albeit with new members—and will be touring again in 2010.

His early introduction into the music of the world was prompted by his father, who brought back LPs—rock, jazz, Indonesian, African—from his tours for the young Zakir. Yet, Ustad Alla Rakha did not take to Shakti very well initially. “My father was worried about my journeys into fusion.”

Ustad Alla Rakha was concerned that his young son would soon drift away from his own traditions, said Zakirji. “I promised him that my connections with Indian classical music would never be severed,” he says. “I spend four months every year in India. Most of my performances are still traditional—and tradition is an integral part in whatever I do. Even when I play other forms, I create a moment, an oasis of traditional Indian music.”

He has also experimented with Australian didgeridoo players, performing with them for his compositions for a Hollywood film. During his first visit down under with Ali Akbar Khan in 1973 Zakirji recollects, the Sydney Opera House did not even exist. “We performed in Sydney at the Town Hall,” he says.

“I took a train from Perth to Canberra and hopped off at various places. I wanted to see the villages and the country side. I connected with the aborigines. I even met some didgeridoo players and learned how to play one.”

Tabla’s journey from accompanist to soloist

The tabla was traditionally considered an accompanying instrument, in the hierarchy of Indian classical music. “Vinyl records would often not even carry the name of the Tabla player,” recollects Zakirji. “Tabla maestros like my father, Shanta Prasad and Kishan Maharaj, paved the way for tabla players like me. People started to take note of Tabla players. We are only reaping the rewards of their work”

Even in the journey that the Ustad has taken on with the Tabla, he likes to share credit with his contemporaries. “I don’t like this Ravi Shankar Syndrome—there was a time when the Sitar alone was connected to Indian classical music, when there were many other great musicians,” says Zakirji. “Similary, today there are 15-20 fabulous players in the world of tabla. You just need to take the time to listen and appreciate.”

Jumping onto the Information Highway

The Ustad embraces the internet and its many possibilities, just the way he does global musical traditions. Youtube he says is a great place for young students to watch and hear hitherto rarely accessible performances by maestros. He even maintains a page on Facebook, regularly updating his information and allowing personal interaction with fans.
However, he says, this is nothing extraordinary about this—in fact it is in keeping with the tradition. “Indian music is like that. A reaction is expected, unlike western classical music. We are always looking for an encounter with the audience.” And Zakirji’s audience always gets an encounter they will never forget.

Taking new directions on an ancient tradition

SHIVANGI AMBANI-GANDHI speaks with some of the shinning stars of the Ustad's troupe



On our first meeting, a couple of years ago, Niladri Kumar pulled out his Sitar and bowed his head in prayer—after all, Indian classical musicians believe their music is an offering to, and a gift from the divinities.


Just when I expected to hear a classical raga a la Tansen that would part the heavens, Kumar begins head-banging on his 'zitar' - an electric sitar replete with a pick-up and a processor used by guitarists. "I don't play for Gods, but youngsters. And they like the sounds in rock music. So I give them their sounds and my music," he said at the time.


The sound is like nothing you can really describe in relativity to anything else—it is unique. And it is wonderfully hypnotic.


Niladri is quite what many a young musician want to be—he is a fifth-generation sitar player and son of Pandit Kartick Kumar, and yet has been able to grow out of the shadows of this legacy and be recognised as an artist in his own right.


Ustad Zakir Hussain is usually sparse and very tactic with his praise. On stage, while introducing his troupe during the Master's of Percussion is Sydney, he referred to one artist as the second generation of an instrument. Then, turning to Kumar, he said, the 'Sitar Genius'.


Kumar is seeped in his ancient tradition, yet not afraid to experiment. On our last encounter he had said that he feels like two separate people—one who plays the traditional Sitar, while the other head bangs with his band, Sitar Funk, which has played in UK clubs. However, today, Kumar manages to have seamlessly merged the two.


During Masters of Percussion he started off with the traditional melodic rendition, which moved slowly towards the more contemporary—at one point almost a shrieking Zitar.


This kind of experimentation takes courage. In the Indian classical music circles, fusion is almost a dirty word—a blasphemy of a sacred tradition. When I last spoke to him, he had said, that the rejection of fusion music today is probably akin to the reaction when dhrupad gave way to the khayal.


"Khayal singers must have been admonished for being populist, just as we are today. Every musician brings a different form and from that emerges a new gharana. What we look down upon as fusion today may become a revered gharana tomorrow."


So is fusion the new gharana, I asked him this time. "I would not compare fusion with khayal or thumri," Kumar said on this occasion. "Fusion is still not as defined. But, this is the age of collaborations, and fusion music is here to stay in that format. It is up to the musicians to create the language of fusion."


Many other young Indian musicians are creating their own vocabulary, which may indeed soon lead to that new language. Among them, is another of the Ustad's troupe, V. Selvaganesh.


Again, a son of the phenomenal ghatam player, TH Vikku Vinayakaram, Selvaganesh is a magical artist in his own right. His first instrument is the kanjira, but he is masterful with a range of percussion instruments.


He has taken his father's place in Shakti—with Zakirji and John McLaughlin—where he plays the mridangam, ghatam and kanjira. He also experiments with a range of African and Latin American percussion instruments.



"I have been touring with Zakirji since 1990 and he has introduced me to different music cultures and I have been playing different musicians," he says. "I have been to Ghana—there the people are poor, but rich in musical traditions," says Selvaganesh. In a true sign of the times, his range of music instruments, are made in Greece.



While his ghatam has been heard in background scores of films like Vanity Fair, Kama Sutra and Monsoon Wedding, he has just composed his first commercial film music for Vennilla Kabadi Kuzher—and he is proud to reveal that AR Rehman will release the music.


Yet like Kumar, and of course Zakirji, tradition remains intrinsic to his practice. He is part of a new project by his father Vikkuji, called Saptakshar (seven letters), which brings together seven musicians from his family, playing carnatic percussion in a contemporary format.


And there is promise of another musician from the family—Selvaganesh's 13-year-old son, Swaminathan, made his debut performance in Mumbai recently. "He has been learning with and accompanying Vikkuji for some time now—he used to keep the taal. And then Vikkuji told me, 'you must hear your son play'," says Selvaganesh.

"Swaminathan is late," he laughs. "I started when I was seven years old! The music is in the tradition."


Niladri Kumar's latest album, has been released, titled 'Priority' in India and 'Zitar' elsewhere. V. Selvaganesh has released a new album, titled Soukhar—an international collaboration with the many artists he has walked with in his journey so far.

Kiran Bedi: The girl who became Sir

A compelling new film documents Kiran Bedi's journey from 'that girl', to 'Madam' to 'Sir'


When a rioting mob maddened with rage approached, the rest of the police force fled, but one woman stood her ground – and managed to push the mob back. "They had swords, but I had the determination," said India's first woman police officer, Kiran Bedi in an interview, recalling that day.

Not much more than 150cm tall herself, Bedi single handedly fought back 3000 sword-wielding Sikh militants during the Punjab separatist riots, armed only with a wooden stick. In the same interview she stoically said, "You don't have to be big, you have to be strong here (pointing at her mind)."

"After I saw that interview and learned about the courage she had displayed that day, I knew that this is how my film would begin," says Australian filmmaker Megan Doneman. She filmed 500 hours of footage, following Bedi's life for 6 years for her documentary, Yes Madam, Sir.

The compelling feature length documentary, which Bedi described to Doneman as "my life in 95 minutes", will premiere in the coveted opening weekend of the 2008 Toronto International Film Festival, as part of the Real to Reel program showcasing this year's Top 20 finest non fiction films in the world. Bedi will also attend the premier.

Most of us can picture Kiran Bedi—cropped hair, wearing the police uniform, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by gawking men ready to take her orders. Her piercing, unflinching gaze, straight talk and purposeful gait. She was known in the 80's as 'Crane Bedi' for towing off illegally parked cars, including then Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi's as well.

One of the interviewees in the film says, the bureaucrats wondered, "What do we do with her?" In a typical Indian bureaucratic response she was repeatedly transferred from one posting to another—among them the notorious Tihar Jail. In a revolutionary approach to reformation, Bedi introduced Vipassana medition for over 1000 prisoners.


While the film does document these major event that marked Bedi's journey from 'that girl', to 'Madam' to 'Sir', it also presents exclusive and unprecedented access into her private home life. "Her work life is so well documented, I wouldn't have made the film unless she let me into her personal life," says Doneman. "She invited me into her house, and allowed me to film everything and left it up to me to edit as I felt appropriate," says Doneman.

The film includes the first ever video interview given by Bedi's daughter, a telling interview with her husband and even Bedi's extreme grief after her mother's death. The most articulate and fascinating insights into Bedi's character come from her father. "Papaji, who is usually a sounding board for Kiran, came into her room late one night to give her a pep talk around the time that she was being offered the United Nations job. I couldn't shoot it—but I heard most of it through my room, and I still kick myself for not capturing it," said Doneman.

Was it difficult to gain the tough lady's trust? "I felt trusted right from the beginning. "Kiran trusts people until she learns that she can't—she has been burnt many times because of this, but she believes that sometimes people will step up to the trust and be deserving of it."

Yet, why did Bedi chose a little know Australian woman to document her life, over the many esteemed filmmakers who had approached her several times over 15 years? When Doneman asked Bedi, she replied, "Because I am going to enjoy watching you struggle and fight to somehow pull this off."

With no industry funding or crew to produce the project, Doneman filmed Bedi in 3-month stints over 6 years. "I had all my equipment—the camera, the microphone—strapped onto my body as I followed her around almost 10 hours a day," recalls Doneman. And there were other difficulties traveling as a single foreign woman in India. "In Northern India, the view of foreign women is not very kind," she recollects. She mentions she was often caught in dangerous situations, including being attacked in a mosque.

Despite the initial lack of support, she managed to get some big names on board—Academy award winning Helen Mirren lends her voice as the narrator of the film, while acclaimed composer Nathan Larson provides the score.

"I did not have A-list money, but I did want A-list stars. Both Nathan and Helen were very gracious—such films appeal to our humanity and we want to be involved because our hearts are in it," says Doneman. "The film has now made it to the top 20 finest non-fiction films of the year at Toronto. Kiran's story deserves that."

"Architecture is a presentation of poetry"

Bangladeshi architects have been designing culturally sensitive, sustainable buildings that integrate with the region’s river-dominant landscape, discovers SHIVANGI AMBANI GANDHI

Louis I Kahn’s iconic Sangshad Bhaban

The ancient beauty of the Paharpur Monastery, the stark simplicity, but monumental elegance of the Shat Gambuj Mosque, the hypnotic arches of the Kamlapur Railway Station and the geometric stylization of the Sangshad Bhaban were all on view in Sydney as part of the Architectural Excellence in Bangladesh exhibition. Held within the historic Tusculum building in Potts Point over a week, the exhibition was organised jointly by the Bangladeshi Architects in Australia (BAA) and the Australian Institute of Architects (AIA),

The exhibition showcased, through photographs and detailed write-ups, the diversity of architectural practice in Bangladesh since the 3rd Century BC until today. The exhibition also encompassed architects of Bangladeshi origin practicing in Australia.

The exhibition received tremendous support with the President of the Union of International Architects, Louise Cox opening the exhibition. Meanewhile Howard Tanner, National President, AIA; Mahboob Saleh, Acting High Commisioner for Bangladesh; Mubasshar Hussain, President, Institute of Architects, Bangladesh and several renowned practicing architects from Bangladesh attended the ceremony.

The BAA organised an insightful talk about the evolving architecture seen in Bangladesh, beginning with the UNESCO World Heritage listed site of Paharpur Monastery with its massive structure ornate with intricate carvings.

UNESCO World Heritage listed Paharpur Monastery

The 60-domed Shat Gambuj Mosque reflects the Sultanate Period, while the Mughal period later brought the fewer domed designs of Sat Masjid and Lalbagh Fort. The presentation talked through the highlights of the British, Post British and contemporary developments in architecture in Bangladesh, including renowned architect Mazharul Islam's works.

Among them was Islam’s fascinating design of the College of Arts & Crafts (later named the Institute of Fine Arts), which retained many of the old, large beautiful trees on the site. The BAA presentation depicted through images, the pavilion-like openness of the buildings, pathways, and garden spaces, to create a campus ideal for the contemplation and learning. Islam’s design not only integrated the building with the existing natural landscape, but also echoed the out house and inner house scheme of rural Bangladesh

Muzharul Islam, initially given the work to design the national parliament building, however decided to pass the prestigious project onto a master architect so that it would be inspirational to future generations. He then instrumented Louis I Kahn’s coming to Dhaka to design the parliament building. Islam’s archival website call his sacrifice of his own work to Kahn “his greatest gift to the architects of this region”.

Kahn's iconic Sangshad Bhaban (Parliament House) with huge openings of geometric shapes on their exterior, is surrounded by a lake on three sides to reflect Bangladesh’s landscape of numerous rivers.

Interior of the Shangshad Bhaban

I absolutely enjoyed Rafiq Azam's presentation on contemporary architecture. Azam revealed he always wanted to be a painter, but under the influence of his father's ambition of sending him to engineering school, became an architect only "by chance". Yet, his love for painting influences and redefines his work into what he refers to as arTchitecture.

His presentation was strewn with watercolour paintings and he recited rhythmic poetry as he discussed some of his works. "In Bangladesh, with 52 rivers, water is a major element of the landscape," he said. The water and the alluvial soil bursting with paddy after the river has receded—this is his inspiration, he revealed.

Much like Mazarul Islam’s organic designs, and Louis I Kahn’s references to Bangladesh’s natural landscape, Azam’s designs allow for the winter sun, the changing seasons, the breeze and the whole cosmos to transform the building. In one three story home, Azam created a water pool in the middle of the building. "The water pool refracts ands reflects the floating clouds, the birds and the celestial sky," he said. "Architecture is a presentation of poetry," he added.

His designs for the not so wealthy are equally thoughtful. In a dingy lane of Dhaka, an apartment building with each family owning just about 450 sq. ft., Azam managed to provide a traditional courtyard—a garden. "In old Dhaka, families share many things like salt, sugar, etc. So I thought they could share a garden too," he remarked.

Commenting on the unregulated development in Dhaka, common in most other cities in the Indian sub-continent, Azam said, "Architecture is a responsibility—it has the power to transform society into a healthy community."

Cockatoo Island: when history collides with art

Derelict buildings and disused bunkers whisper stories, massive cranes and rusting machinery conjure up a sense of the clamour of industry even in absolute silence and the long eerie tunnels seem to dig right down into your soul. Cockatoo Island, just a short ferry ride from Circular Quay, is in fact a long journey into the history of Sydney and often your own subconscious.

The island, Sydney Harbour’s largest, is one of the few remnants of Australia’s convict history and has also played a major role in World War II. Named so after the sulphur-crested cockatoos that once frequented the island, it was established a gaol around 1840 to house convicts withdrawn from Norfolk Island. Later, with the fall of Singapore, Cockatoo Island became a major shipbuilding and dockyard facility for the South West Pacific during WWII.

Walking around the island, while you enjoy some of the most stunning views of the Harbour, you will also encounter dark bunkers once crammed with convicts and massive cranes that once lifted guns for the navy, locomotives for the railways as well as parts of the Harbour Bridge. The towering cranes along with the majestic chimneys make for a sculptural landscape for Cockatoo Island.

And until September 7, as part of the Biennale of Sydney 2008, the artistic director Carolyn Christov-Bargiev, has invited 35 international artists, to inhabit the history-imbued island with subliminal art works—some created specifically for the venue.

Among them, is Indian artist Nalini Malani’s ‘The tables have turned’ A shadow play. In a dome-shaped, disused military bunker, on the very edges of Cockatoo Island, transparent cylinders rotate slowly, projecting shadows of tigers and skulls and running children as they collide and disappear to create an epic narrative.

The installation, which references Buddhist prayer wheels, is Malani’s interpretation of the theme for the Biennale of Sydney 2008—Revolutions – Forms that Turn. Christov-Bargiev says, “Malani’s shadow and light installation is like a projection of the ghosts of the past and maybe the future,” she said.

One of the most haunting experiences on the Island is walking down the Dogleg Tunnel. Originally built to get men and equipment from one end of the island to the other quickly, it was also used as a bomb shelter during WWII. On a regular day, the tunnel contains a soundscape from the day after the Japanese submarine attack on Sydney Harbour in 1942.

However, during the Biennale, Australian artist TV Moore’s Escape Carnival, takes over the tunnel. I entered the dark, cold tunnel, feeling an instant shiver—the eerie unending series of wooden beams, dimply lit, fill with a sound installation consisting of psychedelia, pop, free-form comment, and the heavy breathing of someone running, escaping, or at least trying to escape. In one caged room, in a video projection, a man runs down that very tunnel—running nowhere, trapped endlessly within.

Walking through the massive turbine room in the industrial precinct, a soft, lone voice, a cry, a song, reverberates off the heavy machinery and adds a strange vitality to all the other art works in the building. That is Susan Phillipsz’s The Internationale, broadcast from a single speaker, will fill your ears the moment you enter the building, and keep you searching, wondering.

Meanwhile, Jannis Kounellis’s white sails fill the high ceiling rooms of the heavy machine shop, and you can loose yourself in this hypnotic installation. Vernon Ah Kee’s confronting, over-sized portraits of his family, line the wall of the long industrial room. Each of the 12 charcoal portraits stares unwavering, back at the viewer, demanding to be heard—Ah Kee turns the gaze back from the often “exotic” portraiture of primitives, in this case, Aboriginal Australians.

In the dockyard area of the island, partitions from a toilet block once used by dockworkers become part of Ah Kee’s second work in the Biennale, The Skin That I Live In. The partitions are smeared with homophobic and racist graffiti, the walls filled with vilifying abusive language, highlighting such attitudes that still permeate contemporary society.

On the plateau area, in a small barrack, lined with bunk beds, where convicts were once crammed in—about 500 at one time—Japanese artist Jin Kurashige recreates the claustrophobia in his video, His Shadow Enwraps Me. A man swivels the Rubik’s Cube madly, sweat pouring down his forehead, fingers moving calculatedly, constantly. Yet, much like TV Moore’s endlessly running protagonist, he too cannot stop—as soon as he achieves the perfect cube, he must start all over again, without a pause to enjoy his success.

After a day of soul searching aided by the Biennale artists, the sunset over Sydney’s stunning harbour, from the shores of Cockatoo Island is truly an experience not to be missed.

"Fundamentalism not unique to Islam"

Our largest neighbour Indonesia is going through a period of dynamic, unpredictable and largely disheartening change--which could have a larger impact on Australia than we can yet imagine. And one of the most detailed and compassionate accounts come from an India-born, Washington-based journalist, Sadanand Dhume in his first book, My Friend the Fanatic.

Dhume discussed his book with Australian author, Linda Jaivin in the atmospheric, brick-lined Richard Wherrett Studio in the Sydney theatre last week, as part of the Sydney Writers' Festival 2008. Following the Bali bombings in October 2002, Dhume travelled across Indonesia with Herry Nurdi, managing editor of fundamentalist mouthpiece Sabili, who hero-worships Osama bin Laden.

"Herry is not a fanatic," said Dhume, however. "The title is misleading. He writes awfully bigoted things, but this is a career choice for him--he is more like a Monday to Friday fanatic. Fanatics are not curious, but Herry is very curious," he said.

To illustrate his point, Dhume talked about his visit to a purportedly moderate Islamic school in Gontor, near Ponorogo in east Java. "The students were forbidden to watch the most famous local dance," explained Dhume. "They were not taught Jihad, but they were taught to be very sceptical of any other cultural influence."

Though triggered by the Bali bombings, My Friend the Fanatic, really explores these slow transformations taking place in Indonesia, until then home to a cultural diversity of Hindu, Buddhist, Christian and Muslim faith. In his prologue, Dhume writes about Islam, a relatively recent import to the Indonesia, preceded by a millennium and a half of Hinduism & Buddhism, along with decades of Dutch influence to add.

The literal, harsh interpretation of the faith comes from a powerful minority, he believes. "Islam is a young faith, and with the rise of petro-dollars, some of the world's richest places are supporting the fundamentalist form--and Indonesia is vulnerable to this."

'…the carnage in Bali was only the most visible expression of a much larger churning.' writes Dhume in his prologue. "We are obsessed with terrorism, but more worrying are the changes in day to day life--such as asking women to cover up--that Islamic fundamentalists are bringing in Indonesia," he said at the festival.

Aborigines don't understand white law, report says

I just read this and just found it so appalling! I had to share it:

By Tara Ravens

DARWIN, May 28 AAP - More than 90 per cent of people in Arnhem Land do not understand basic legal concepts, with many Aborigines under the impression that white society is "lawless", a new report has found.

This has resulted in wrongful imprisonment and "massive confusion", with some communities still unaware that rape is considered illegal, says Richard Trudgen, CEO of the Aboriginal Resource and Development Services (ARDS).

In a report titled An Absence of Mutual Respect, researchers spoke to Yolngu people from a cross-section of the community, including interpreters, locals and community leaders.

They were quizzed on the 30 most commonly used English legal words such as bail, commit, arrest, charge and guilty.

The ARDS report found 95 per cent of Yolngu people were unable to correctly identify their meaning.

Only 17 per cent of responses from language professionals were correct while 90 per cent of community leaders, such as ATSIC members, school teachers and council representatives, had no understanding of the terms at all.

Ninety-seven per cent of Yolngu people born after 1967 fell into the lowest category of understanding.

"This research found that many Aboriginal people from Arnhem Land had little comprehension of what was happening in the legal system," Mr Trudgen said.

"This still leads to many outcomes that are unjust and can also be a factor in some people getting into further trouble."

Many elders also believe it is one of the main reasons for increased crime on Aboriginal communities."

Mr Trudgen said the results explained the stark over-representation of Aborigines in territory prisons - currently over 80 per cent - and why increasing numbers of young males were falling foul of the law after moving to large urban centres.

"People thought that pleading guilty actually got them through the court quickly and they didn't go to jail," he said.

"There is massive confusion out there about white fella law point blank."

In conclusion, the report found many Aborigines were disempowered when it came to dealing with the legal system, and it recommended communication programs to bridge the gap.

It said Aboriginal people often thought they were functioning within a lawless society because "they don't understand it so they see it as lawless".

This can lead to "quite devastating consequences", said Mr Trudgen, who referred to the case of an elder who had asked him if rape was illegal.

"When I said yes, he told me `none of our young people know that'.

"This is 2008. When are we going to have an emergency response into communication in these communities?"

Researchers also interviewed some people in prison.

"When they realised what the term guilty meant they were able to identify some of the things that they were convicted of that they never had anything to do with," Mr Trudgen said.

Rooting and uprooting in Unaccustomed Earth

Unaccustomed Earth
Jhumpa Lahiri
Bloomsbury, $29.95

After Interpreter of Maladies and The Namesake, you know what to expect from Jhumpa Lahiri—simple yet poetic prose, characters haunted by isolation, dislocation, regret, insecurity, unarticulated love and an overbearing sense of loss.

It would be simplistic to say her latest collection of eight stories, Unaccustomed Earth, is about the migrant experience. Though her characters are repeatedly Bengali migrants in America, the stories are really about the dislodgement of the security her characters develop in relationships or in their current situations, and then find crumbling.

In the title story, Ruma, builds a successful career, working fifty-four hour weeks, earning six figures—only to give it up and move to Seattle for marriage and children, much like her own mother. “Growing up, her mother’s example—moving to a foreign place for the sake of marriage, caring exclusively for children and a household—had served as a warning, a path to avoid. Yet this was Ruma’s life now.”

As her father questions her choices, she feels her mother would have understood her decision—and this seems to forge a bond that did not exist, in her mother’s lifetime. As Ruma learns about her father’s interest in another woman, I find myself, despite my usually liberal ideologies, questioning if I would be comfortable if one of my parents were to “move on” after the death of the other.

In my favourite story, Hell-Heaven, a Bengali-American daughter, constantly at war with her mother in her childhood, gets a glimpse into her mother’s sacrifices and tormenting passion for the Bengali student Pranab, when her own relationship collapses. Her mother’s scepticism of the American girl who marries Pranab touchingly reveals the notion of “the other” that all migrants develop for the natives of their new land. “She will leave him,” her mother declared after their engagement. How many times have you made a judgment about the laid back, over-spending and casually drinking Australian?

Only Goodness is about a sister, crumbling under the guilt of introducing her younger brother during their casual adolescent games, to alcohol—to which he is now completely enslaved.

The last three stories, in the second section titled "Hema and Kaushik" follow the two protagonists as they meet and part and meet again, at significant stages in their life. Kaushik and Hema’s parents forge a friendship based on the fact that they come from the same city in India. They would have had little in common if they had met in their home town, yet in the new land, they were close friends. When Kaushik’s family leaves for Bombay, only to return a few years later, Hema’s parents see this as a failure—at home and abroad.

Living together again, the differences in the two families get even more acute: Hema’s parents find that “Bombay had made them more American than Cambridge had.” —while they had remained staunchly Indian, even after years in America.

In the next story, Year’s End, Lahiri touches upon the loss of a parent again, as Kaushik has lost his mother to Cancer, and must accept as his father’s new bride, whose presence is accentuated by ever such slight changes in the home decor. “She (Kaushik’s mother) had never allowed a cloth to cover the table, but now there was one...”

Finally, in Going Ashore, Hema, now a Latin professor, meets Kaushik, now a war photographer, who is constantly travelling across the world to cover terrible events. Both are in transition—Kaushik, leaving his ’on the move job’ for an editorial desk job in Hong Kong and Hema on her final holiday, before she goes to India to marry a man she barely knows. Here they share their lives, dreams and nightmares and discover their own rootlessness “I’ve never belonged to any place that way,” says Hema. Kaushik laughed, “You’re complaining to the wrong person.”

The stories then, are really about finding, losing and rediscovering your roots. On the surface they could just be geographical roots, but as Lahiri steps closer, deeper into each character’s soul, the stories are about transitions—Rumas who have lived in the same town all their life could face the dilemma of accepting a father moving on into another relationship. And Hemas everywhere, must often chose between a romance of passions and a marriage of convenience.

Lahiri traverses the emotional upheavals of her characters, leaving you questioning your own choices, raising ghosts from your own past, and unsettling every personal tragedy—big or small—you may have safely hidden away from yourself from a long time ago, in your own subconscious.

Indian art participates in a cross-cultural dialogue

The curator of the Biennale of Sydney 2008 (BoS 2008) admits she has a special place for Indian artists in her heart. "Indian contemporary artists are much better many others," says Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, also the chief curator at the Castello di Rivoli, Italy. "There has been Indian representation in the Biennale before," she says. "However, this Biennale showcases Indian art more than ever before, perhaps because of my own understanding of the meanings and long relationship with the Indian art community."

Nalini Malani, Vivan Sundaram, Sharmila Samant, Ranbir Kaleka and Bari Kumar are the Indian representatives this year. However, Christov-Bakargiev refuses to identify art by nationality in this Biennale.

"There have been some excellent international exhibitions that have showcased Indian contemporary art, like the Edge of Desire. Even the Venice Biennale hosted an Indian pavilion a few years ago—but it was not part of the Biennale itself," she says. "It is necessary to break those boundaries that are not necessarily productive and look beyond national identification. This is perhaps the second phase (of the recognition of Indian art in the international art world)."

Curatorially, Christov-Bakargiev has located Indian art within an international context. So Nalini Malani's new installation will interact with Australian history, showing inside a disused military bunker on Sydney's Cockatoo Island. "Cockatoo Island was once a convict prison, then a ship yard and was later abandoned in the early 80s. Malani's shadow and light installation is like a projection of the ghosts of the past and maybe the future," saysChristov-Bakargiev.

Similarly, Sharmila Samant's new installation, Against the Grain, though local in its use of signifiers, addresses a global problem. The installation of a 1000 rice husk snakes comments on the tragedy brought onto the farming community with the advent of genetically modified grain. In the last week of the Biennale, the rice snakes will be auctioned, with proceeds going to the farmers. "There is thus also the notion of recycling art," says Christov-Bakargiev.

To create a dialogue between artists, she has placed Bari Kumar's video, Army of Forgotten Souls (2005), a poetic celebration of the rickshaw, next to Marcel Duchamp's Bicycle Wheel (1913). "Duchamp's wheel was a critique of the consumer culture on the rise at that time. I wanted to compare this work of the past with a work from the present, where Kumar comments on the death of the rickshaw with the advent of globalisation," says Christov-Bakargiev.

Her call for cross-cultural dialogue is not new. When Peter Nagy, director of Nature Morte, brought Jitish Kallat's Rikshawpolis series to Sydney, he asked, "Exactly how 'Indian' do you want Indian contemporary art to be? How many local signifiers or ethnic references do you need, to recodnise a work of art as Indian?" The Biennale seems to answer his question—art speaks the language of the world.

Whiter than the White

Unimagined
A Muslim Boy Meets the West
Imran Ahmad
Aurum Press, $19.95

What would you expect from a book, in which the author's note of dedicating the work to his father, as well as the acknowledgements make you laugh? Yes, Imran Ahmad's first book, Unimagined is funny—a self deprecating memoir of growing up as a Pakistani immigrant in London.

And I am afraid of getting into any form of serious analyses of his work—one unsuspecting reviewer has casually been reprimanded for her serious take on the book on Ahmad's website: "Lighten up A—, it's a funny book."

The book, described as part Bend It Like Beckham, part Adrian Mole, begins in Karachi with the 'Bonnie Baby' contest, where Ahmad dressed to look suave like James Bond, is denied the first prize, which not coincidentally goes to the organiser's daughter. "I began my lifelong struggle against corruption and injustice" writes Ahmad. And struggle he does—whether with learning to knot a tie or dealing with getting itchy under nylon trousers.

Yet, young Ahmad has one unwavering ambition—becoming the perfect English gentleman, with a perfect BBC accent, and always immaculately dressed with shirt pristinely ironed and hair neatly combed. "They may be white, but I become whiter than white, quintessentially English," he declares.

The book continues with a series of vivid memories of simple everyday, petty events, which cumulatively make for a highly enjoyable read, fulfilling our deepest voyeuristic needs. Each reader may find a part of themselves in Ahmad's journey from early success in a school quiz; and entry into a posh Grammar School; uncertainty as he seeks to fulfil his parents wishes of seeing him become a doctor, though he enjoys the arts; and a constant lack of luck with the girls.

There are of course the serious bits—their first home in London is a bed-sit, a part of a house that is rented out with shared use of bathroom and kitchen, not because of the lack of money, but because few English were willing to rent out to 'coloureds'. Ahmed recalls being racially bullied in school, and even that moment of epiphany of every migrant identity, when he is caught copying the prayer moves of other Pakistani boy at a mosque—"I am a foreigner in white, English Society, and don't seem to fit into Pakistani Society either," thinks Ahmad.

Yet, never does he speak in the rage or pathos of a victim of racial slur. In fact he acknowledges that his life's successes are far beyond what his parents could have imagined for him when they moved to London--thus the title, Unimagined.

And though post 9/11, it may seem predictable, some of his most interesting insights are from his attempts at finding logic in religious belief. He talks about the logical teachings of Islam—pork is forbidden because in the third world, it often brought disease. This may often sound like a propaganda for the British Muslims for Secular Democracy organisation, of which he is a trustee—but frankly, I am all for secular propaganda.

Along with the teething problems of every child, Unimagined is thus also the tale of Ahmad's reconciliation of his belief in the Islamic notion of Allah as the only God. He comes second in an exam which focuses on Christ's teachings, without attending a single class—the stories are common between the two religions. And he eventually even changes his mind about India despite Indo-Pak wars, after watching the even-handed treatment Hinduism, Christianity and Islam in Amar Akbar Anthony: "Maybe India isn't such a bad country after all," he concludes.

Battling the fundamentalist

The Solitude of Emperors
By David Davidar
Weidenfield & Nicolsons, $32.95


There are certain moments of our collective memory that for some of us leave no personal memories, as we are swamped by visuals on television, and words in the press. I have little or rather no recollection of my personal experience of the Bombay riots of 1993, as a 10-year-old. When I think of that period, I am rather filled with images from documentaries, and newspaper articles I read much later in my life.

Yet others are compelled to articulate their emotions, a single voice of the individual, within the multitude of the hysterical cries of the many mass media. David Davidar is one of them. His second book, The Solitude of Emperors, follows a young journalist in Bombay (now, Mumbai) as he witnesses the horrifying violence and then becomes embroiled in a battle against the forces of fundamentalism. He will discuss the book at the Sydney Writers’ Festival in May this year.

Was it daunting to write about an event more than a decade and a half after it actually happened, and has since been extensively addressed in feature films, documentaries and books, I ask him. “It was important to me personally to speak up,” says Davidar in an email interview. “I wanted to write about the Bombay riots because every take on it brings something new to the discussion. I think the more people there are who bear witness to such events, the less likely it is that such events will recur—or maybe I’m being hopelessly naïve.”

Communal riots spread across India after Hindu fundamentalists destroyed a hitherto relatively unknown mosque in Ayodhya, which they claimed was built on Rama Janmabhoomi—the birthplace of the Hindu idol, Rama. The riots, quite unexpectedly, spread to Bombay, where Muslims were systematically murdered, and a series of bomb blasts, brought the city of dreams to a standstill.

The protagonist of The Soltitude of Emperors, Vijay, takes up a journalist’s job in Bombay, simply to escape the small town world of his parents in South India. During the riots, he seeks out some violence, for his big story—an eye witness account of the riots—that he dreams will perhaps earn him an award. What he sees in the back streets of Bombay, haunts him forever. Davidar describes the bloody scene with calculated gory details to shake armchair supporters of communal violence out of their complacency. “Sometimes people who foment religious strife don’t see the actual human cost—often very close to home. ,” says Davidar.

To recuperate from the shock of seeing this violence up close, Vijay’s employer, Mr. Sorabjee, sends him to a small tea town in the Nilgiri mountains. The description of Meham, the fictitious hill station where the rest of the story continues, is opulent unlike the cursory impressions of Bombay that Davidar gives in his book. It is as if the slower pace of life in Meham, gives the author more time to capture the sights, sounds and smells of his environ.

Here Vijay meets Noah, who lives in the local cemetery and quotes Pessoa, Cavafy and Rimbaud, but is ostracised by the local elite obsessed with little more than growing their prize fuschias. However, even this seemingly peaceful small town doesn’t escape sectarian politics. Rajan, who once escaped his traumatised youth in Meham, now a successful businessman in Bombay, is back in town to seek some revenge—his tool, the spectacular shrine called The Tower of God.

Rajan, the shrine, and the unemployed poor who he effectively seeks to deploy for his personal revenge, is really a microcosm of the larger picture of sectarian politics in India. Charismatic politicians, mobilise poor, unemployed men, by giving them a cause, and a visible enemy to fighthis while really only fulfilling their own purpose.

Vijay’s interview with Rajan, is the portrayal of the psyche of these religious fundamentalists—of the madness that drives them, the personal wars that fuels their hatred, which can manipulate all logic into a passion that can destroy a nation.

Equally strong, is the voice of wisdom, peace and reason—in the form of Mr. Sorabjee’s manuscript for school children called, The Soltitude of Emperors—which Vijay reads as he battles sectarian politics in Meham. This mauscript celebrates, albeit in a very simplistic way, three secular men who shaped India in the past—Ashoka, Akbar and Gandhi.

Davidar essentially draws up, thus, a war of the good vs. the evil, the secular vs. the fundamentalist. Characters are really predictable—Rajan with his personal tragedies, Mr. Sorabjee, the ageing idealist, and even Noah, with his quintessentially Indian ‘chalta hai’ attitude, who is finally reformed out of his complacency into taking action. .

The Soltitude of Emperors, much like its namesake manuscript about Ashoka, Akbar and Gandhi in the story, is meant more as an introduction on sectarian violence for teenagers, rather than a layered study of the religious politics of India.

Devissaro: an embodiment of experimentation

Tim Supple’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream left Australian shores a month ago, but for those who chanced to see it, the visual extravaganza still lingers in the mind’s eye, and the music still reverberates in our hearts. Even as I write, I can hear the percussionists easily capture the chaos of the fairies’ ritual dance at nightfall as they burst through the paper backdrop and climb irrepressibly along the bamboo wall. Or the perfect comic timing of the flute every time the hilarious Bottom cracks us up with another joke.

“The music for the Dream was often just small 30second fragments¾it had to capture the audience in that small time frame,” says music director Devissaro. And capture it did, creating a memorable musical atmosphere even when competing with Supple’s stunning visuals. “The percussion was often just a punctuation for the text,” says Devissaro. “The musicians had 200-300 cues and had to rehearse tirelessly to perfect their timing.” And cues in Supple’s play came in seven different languages - English, Bengali, Hindi, Malayalam, Tamil, Marathi and Sinhalese. “The musicians do not understand all seven languages, so the cue must be recognised merely by the sound of words,” he explains.

Yet, the multilingual production had its advantages, Devissaro believes. “The blessing song in the beginning, in Shakespeare’s original English text is really quite corny and stupid,” he laughs. “But once translated into Bengali, it sounded perfect, especially with my Indian melodic sounds.”

Just as the text of Supple’s play was multilingual, so was it’s music. From Manipur came N Tiken Singh’s hand made string instruments, including the Sananta, a folk version of the Sarangi. Kaushik Dutta, among his regular guitar and other string instruments, also learned to play the Dotara, a tribal, folk instrument from Bengal. And there was D Prakash’s Carnatic mridangam, and percussion of other multiple folk instruments. Often during the play, my eyes would be drawn from the main action on stage to Prakash’s deft handling of all these instruments perfectly on cue.

The live music performance for the Dream was as much theatre as the actors’ performance on stage. “A good musical performance is theatre,” says Devissaro. “There is as much drama and pathos in a live musical performance as in a play.”

“Prakash had a larger-than-life stage presence¾after all he was a street performer,” says Devissaro. For the last eight years, Prakash had contributed to Government of India projects as an actor and composer for numerous street plays, creating awareness about AIDS, the environment and Education for All.

Prakash died in Sydney just after finishing the Australian tour. “It is really unfortunate. Prakash was especially wonderful as the drummer on stage in the scene of a play within a play. The musician replacing him, in fact will not come on centre stage,” says Devissaro regretfully.

The greatest challenge Devissaro believes, was working with actors who had to be singing, though they were not trained singers. “The songs went through several changes and had to be simplified for the actors. The accompanying music also evolved during rehearsal,” he says. “Tim is very sensitive to music and wanted a lot of music throughout the play. We were experimenting and creating as the scenes evolved. There was an openness to experimentation, much like playing games and discovering new things,” he says.

Devissaro is not new to experimentation¾in fact he really embodies the crux of experimentation, in every aspect of his life. Devissaro was born to a middle class family in Australia, a life he left to lead an alternative lifestyle in rural Western Australia. “At the time, like a lot of young people, I wanted to understand who I am without the distractions of things like the TV and refrigerator,” recollects Devissaro. “I wanted to simplify life. I lived without electricity or running water. I learned to grow my own food, milk cows, put out nets and catch fish, build a house and even raise a bee hive. I was living much like an Indian sadhu, without knowing that at the time, of course.”

There he built a meditation retreat, where city dwellers were given a small hut to meditate and their basic food requirements were fulfilled, all free of cost. Here he met a Buddhist monk¾ a bhikshu¾who used to conduct meditation classes at his retreat on weekends, while maintaining silence for the other five days. Influenced by him, Devissaro left for Thailand, to become a bhikshu himself. “A bhikshu is a beggar. He has no physical existence unless people do not have the faith and charity to feed him. Those four years, I lead an elemental lifestyle¾as a bhikshu you do not listen to music or even sing. It was like stepping into a time machine and going back 2,500 years.”

His spiritual quest then led him to studying Dhrupad vocal music with the famous Dagar brothers, Hindustani classical Bansuri (flute) and Pakhawaj (drums) in India, where he has lived since. There he met, and has been married to Daksha Sheth, often called the enfant terrible of Indian dance for her experimentation and innovation of Indian traditional dance forms. Outcast, including by her famous Kathak guru (teacher), Pt. Birju Maharaj, she has established the Daksha Sheth Dance company, of which Devissaro is the Co-Artistic Director, creating experimental dance productions such as Chaya, Yagna, Bhukham and Postcards from God.

“Both Daksha and I are lovers of tradition,” says Devissaro. “We do contemporary work in the knowledge that someone else is preserving them. With globalisation, traditions have become even more fragile. When Daksha took to learning Chau, it was not to innovate, but to preserve the tradition,” he adds

Devissaro has studied his arts in the guru-shishya parampara--the traditional, oral, Indian style of learning where the shishya (student) lives with, learns from and often serves the guru. “It is a wonderful way of preserving tradition. It is because of this parampara that India still has a wealth of traditional knowledge,” he says.

“However, the shishya, in this process becomes a close copy of the guru. They are so serious about their own gharana (music style), that they don’t appreciate any other. If one even shows the slightest appreciation for another style, one is thrown out.”

“Very often, musicians even refuse to teach outside the family, because they see it as a personal family heritage. Many of those who do teach, have secret material which they don‘t share with outsiders,” he says.

Devissaro was also trained in Australia as a classical pianist¾is there any trace of the Australian in him? “The real Australia is the vast country¾the vast open spaces of the dessert, where things are reduced to their elemental essence¾very primordial. Nature there is powerful and unforgiving, which I have only found elsewhere in the Himalayas. I like to believe that there is a little of that in me.”

Punjab-da dream weaver

Walking into Sydney’s Gallery Barry Keldoulis one is instantly drawn into a dream of piquant colours, mesmerising, repetitive floral patterns, and futuristic machines. Somnium Genero02 or Dream Weaver, is the first Australian exhibition of works by the fascinating duo from India going by the moniker Thukral & Tagra.

Jiten Thukral (b. 1976) and Sumir Tagra (b. 1979) work collaboratively in a wide variety of media - painting, installation, video, graphic and product design. They met in art college, and began would share ideas and opinions “We constantly found that we were both working on the same thoughts, we were always on the same page,” says Thukral. Both now married, live on the same block, in Gurgaon, Delhi. “It is our home and studio,” says Tagra. “Our life is not separate from our work.”

“Somnium Genero emerged from all our dreams and nostalgia relating to our past,” says the duo. Meeting them, you will find, the works emerge directly from within the artists¾it is difficult to pinpoint a single thread of consciousness that drives them, but rather a multitude of interweaving memories, observations and broodings that make their work.

In this exhibition, massive blue globes emerge from a deep maroon wall, each painstakingly embellished with T & T’s eccentric assortment of silhouetted chimpanzees hanging from the aerial of a retro TV, a trumpet emerging from the edges and of course the artist’s signature - a videogame caricature of the duo. In fact, when you look at them in real life, they seem to have walked straight out of one of their paintings¾Thukral in chequered jacket, paired with silver sneakers with the green Nike tick.

“Is that a banana peel?” I ask looking at one of the installations. “To us, it is a flower petal,” says Thukral. “But, it could be anything,” adds Tagra. They speak in a unison of words, as they do with paint in their work.

For the next instalment of this project, they are working with psychiatrics to design a machine, which when worn by an audience member, will interpret his thoughts in a series of visuals. And if you can’t make it to the exhibition in Sydney, images from this series are soon going to be on Coke cans globally - rather fitting for T & T, who for an earlier major exhibition, Everyday BoseDK (get the pun?) lined gallery walls with hundreds of bottles, jars, cans and boxes bearing their logo - BoseDK (not yet? Read it aloud, and think Punjabi abusive term). A joke on our society’s tryst with consumerism-a la Andy Warhol (who rather celebrated his victim, most famously the Campbell Soups can) and Takashi Murakami (whose cartoon figures become eminently consumable on designer handbags, souvenirs and jewellery).

Yet, they are decidedly Indian. Not in their imagery¾in that they are quite rootless and cosmopolitan. In fact, Peter Nagy, director of Nature Morte, writes in an essay about the duo, “Exactly how ‘Indian’ do they (the audience) require Indian contemporary art to be? How many local signifiers, ethnic references or traditional trappings are necessary to fix any contemporary product to the land in which it was made?” This is a question he raised, last year as well, when he brought to Sydney, Jitish Kallat’s Rikshawpolis, an epic reading of the city of Bombay.

While there is no ‘Indian’ imagery, the inspiration and thought processes that go into each work, are very much so. Tagra says he finds inspiration in the metro stations of Delhi. “The new metro trains bought a cultural change in the people¾they seemed to dress up better, feel more confident, and did not litter the way they did at the regular train station,” he says. They shot video footage of their observations in the Delhi Metro stations.

Their work is based on Punjabi Aesthetics, Tagra says. A pertinent example, was their exhibition, Adolcere-Domus or House of a Teenager, for their solo project in the Art Statements section of the prestigious Basel Art Fair in June 2007. For this project, the duo religiously documented and painted several youth from Jalandhar¾their traditional style portraits encased in baroque wooden frames or pasted on chocolate-syrup bottles¾a pun on the Indian notion of chocolaty-hero. At the exhibition, T&T distributed stickers and buttons of the designs, while the garments of the portrait ‘models’ were on sale¾of course under the signature BoseDK line.

As the essay in the book accompanying this exhibition explains, “BoseDK Designs permits Thukral & Tagra a platform from which to infiltrate any available media, to saturate all possible avenues with their aesthetic. Commissions can be accepted (as they have for the design of fashion boutiques and corporate offices in India or the production of T-shirts for Benetton) without hesitation as the compromise of ‘selling-out’ has been predestined from the start.”