Lost Illusions by Honore de Balzac

Lost Illusions by Balzac is one of the most famous novels out of the ninety two he wrote in his lifetime and maybe also among a million his admirers have written in 175 years since his first novel was published.

Balzac choses Lucien as a romantic, good-looking dreamy poet. We are first thrust into his provincial life, with details about his ordinary life and extraordinary ambitions that he has no means of realizing. Except patronage by an older woman! She leads him to Paris, only to abandon him to fight his way into the high society. How Lucien rises and falls in the glamorous, amorous, corrupt and vicious life as a journalist in Paris is picturized through a narrative that is bathed in realism, and yet proceeds through both suspense and wit, in the spirit of the pace at which Balzac could conjure up such novels.

In the provinces, Lucien has a friend, David, who likewise is somewhat lacking in social and economic acumen, and is a hard working inventor. David own father ruins him by extracting an unreasonable price for the printing press that he leaves or sells to his own son. Crafty competitors take advantage of David's credulous character. David endures both provincial small mindedness and economic setbacks suffered to keep Lucien afloat. Balzac displays his knowledge of these disparate characters with remarkable attention to detail. He weaves an undercurrent, of what could have passes as a dissertation, on the art and science of paper making.

Balzac creates in his one book, a saga that unravels friendship, love, jealousy, lust, ambition, vanity, greed and absurdity that lurk in our beings and in our relationships. By using two main pillars, Lucien and David, Balzac erects a bridge into the two worlds of poetry and science. He shuns hint of any romance of either worlds, and shows how much character, how many hardships and set-backs, how much devotion and labor are required for a man to become a known poet or a scientist.

I am quoting an example from this translation (carried out by Katharine Prescott Wormeley):

"No one can be a great man cheaply," said d'Arthez in his gentle voice. "Genius waters her work with tears.Talent is a moral being which, like all other beings, is subject to the maladies of childhood. Society rejects undeveloped talent just as nature removes her feeble or deformed creations. Whoever wishes to rise above his fellows must be prepared to struggle, and not recoil at difficulty. A great writer is a martyr who does not die - that's the whole of it!"

Besides the two pillars, the book has an interesting array of characters. Actresses, society women, editors and publishers, lawyers, struggling writers, dandies - all appear with their human failings and foibles as part of a drama that unfolds with an enrapturing narrative. Be it history, economics, alchemy, or psychology, or any topic under the sun, Balzac ushers in his great knowledge, suspending and supporting the story with able and apt pointers, tresses and metaphors.

Balzac's Lost Illusions is undoubtedly a classic everyone can enjoy and must read at some point in their lives. Highly recommended.

Translation: Yeh Honsla from Dor

With a belief that one day my poems and songs will reach a wider audience, I present you with a translation of one of my favorite songs penned by Mir Ali Hussein. The movie Dor is a beautiful movie written and directed by Nagesh Kuknoor, and apart from the song I translate here, has Kesariya Balam (a classic melody) and Iman ka asar (a lilting tune, awesome lyric).

yeh honsla kaise ruke (How can this Belief yield?)

How can this belief yield?
How can this desire cease?
Its a stiff goal: so what?
Fogged is the shore: so what?
This hearts' alone: so what?
Ho...

If thorn are strewn on path,
you still need to walk on,
The evening might cloak the sun,
but the night has to end as dawn.

This season will pass,
Your valor will bloom
Sunshines will resume

How can this belief yield?
How can this desire cease?
If good-will is granted to us,
The summer will pass in shade
I pray to God this way:
May our goals embrace us.

May there be darings hundred
And steep be getting accepted
Yet may all loves survive to end
Ho...

How can this belief yield?
How can this desire cease?


यह हौन्सला कैसे झुके,
यह आरज़ू कैसे रुके

मंजिल मुश्किल तो क्या,
धुन्धला साहिल तो क्या,
तनहा ये दिल तो क्या
हो हो

राह पे कांटे बिखरे अगर,
उसपे तो फिर भी चलना ही है,
शाम छुपाले सूरज मगर,
रात को एक दिन ढलना ही है,

रुत ये टल जायेगी,
हिम्मत रंग लाएगी,
सुबह फिर आएगी
हो

यह हौन्सला कैसे झुके,
यह आरज़ू कैसे रुके
होगी हमें जो रहमत अदा,
धूप कटेगी साए तले,
अपनी खुदा से है ये दुआ,
मंज़िल लगाले हमको गले

जुर्रत सौ बार रहे,
ऊँचा इकरार रहे,
जिंदा हर प्यार रहे
हो

यह हौन्सला कैसे झुके,
यह आरज़ू कैसे रुके

Cries in the Drizzle by Yu Hua

Cries in the Drizzle is the most recently translated work of Chinese writer Yu Hua. His previously translated titles include To Live (winner of Italy's Premio Grinzane Award in 1998) and Chronicle of a Blood Merchant. He was awarded the James Joyce Foundation Award in 2002. To Live has sold over a half million copies in China and was also adapted into a movie by Zhang Yimou. While translations of these two books appeared in 2003, Cries in the Drizzle is a translation of the writer's earlier work, and is said to be less well known and perhaps less accomplished than the latter two. (My review is based upon the translation by Allan H. Barr. This is the first book of contemporary Chinese fiction that I have read, and so my review is based on my comparisons with classic and contemporary Indian and Western fiction.)

The novel is written in form of a narrative, unraveled in the voice of a child and a teenager growing up during the 1960s and 1970s. He is virtually ignored by his parents, and older and younger brothers, and is sent away at age six to spend five years with another family. He, Sun Guanglin, returns to his family when he is just at the threshold of adolescence, and the separation of five years distances him from the household even more. We peer into the lives of his father, grandfather, brothers and neighbors through his somewhat detached perspective. The novel works through a series of reminisces, and as we thread through memories, we find shards of information that we must pluck one by one and associate together to form a complete tale. One may call it a collection of stories in which time ebbs and flows, each "time" receding to leave more shells that the author picks and throws at us.

I have a distinct liking for novels which furnish a good story, and have a climactic ending. Coming of age novels like Of Human Bondage appeal as the reader learns from the experiences of the protagonist. Novels about adolescents seeing and understanding the world around them are made interesting by the use of this knowledge in some form at a later stage in life, such as in Great Expectations. At the opening of Cries, the novel promises much more than what it delivers in the final quarter of the story. The build-up raises an expectation about what Sun Guanglin would turn out as after a childhood wherein he is treated as a non-entity. Be it diversions into sexual or political references, somewhat Joyce-like at times, or the underplayed drama conveyed via a very contemporary style of writing, Yu Hua intermittently succeeds and fails in engaging my attention.

Perhaps just because I refuse to see it as a novel of growing up in the reign of Communist Mao, I find the allusions and metaphors of the story half-cooked. By a stretch of imagination, I can find an undercurrent in the story that shows "the changing dynamics of Chinese society under Communist rule" (quoting from the back cover). But to say so, I need to read too much into the life story of Yu Hua, for he grew up in such a society.

I think the mark of a great writer is to make his name inconsequential to his spoken or written word, and by that token, this book does not capture changes under communism even half as well as done famously and beautifully by Boris Pasternak in Doctor Zhivago. Part of the problem definitely lies in the fact that I am reading too "less" into the translated word. I am sure many connotations, many references, many word combinations could strike precise metaphors and parallels with evolution of the protagonist in contemporary China. Doctor Zhivago is great even as a translation, and that is partially because Russian literature and values can be easily transcribed in English. I know translating Hindi poetry and novels -- with their rhetoric, different value system, different syntax of language and three to four thousand years worth of allusions — is a very hard enterprise. Hence most of the Eastern novels usually remain untranslated. So I value translations for what they can and do map into English, and, concerning the issue-at-hand, for what Cries has to say — with hopes that its familial themes don't get lost in translation.

For me, then, the complexity of father-son relationships that dominates the undercurrent of the book makes Cries in the Drizzle worth pursuing. Yu Hua work captures the vulgar and irregular life of Sun Guanglin's father, who represents a despicable stereotype. The trifle issues that keep men and women busy with petty arguments and the glamor that city life has for villagers surface in the quite accurate portrayal of rural societies. Furthermore, in the treatment of Gaunglin's grandfather by his father, the older generation has to survive in spite of the humiliation he must endure from his own son. In addition, Guanglin's childhood friend Guoqing faces abandonment from his own father, whereas another little boy, Lulu, has only Guanglin to look up to as brother or father figure.

The exchanges between these different father-son duos (and the book has maybe six or more such duos) are described through the eyes of the narrator or through a montage of events. The love-hate, respect-disrespect, fear-awe, anger-cordiality contradistinctions are all suggested — as detectable as a cry in the drizzle — and illustrated in a manner which is both heartrending — and fascinating for the reader.

Googlies: The Misbah Song {Misbah-ul-Haq}

Tantalizingly Close, but Not There. Mis...Bah! I guess the problem is in his name. The ul-Haq helps him score runs, and dominate the bowling for some time. He gathers runs from every inconceivable stroke and rushes towards a victorious score. He punches, pushes, nudges, edges, pulls, loops, glances and clubs the bowlers. He gets his strike rate up and up and up, the required run rate down and down and down. And then, when he is finally there, so close to the goddess of victory, he is as helpless as a teenage lover, tongue-tied before his beloved, who needs that last expression, that last stroke before the dance of delight can begin. He hits hard, he runs fast, he steals fours, he finesses threes and then, when he is almost there, its a Mis...Bah!

I am inspired to write a poem about him, but I just parody a poem by T. S. Eliot. (original poem is Macavity: The Mystery Cat)

Misbah's a Mystery Bat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the crafty hitter who can defy Newton's every Law.
He's the bafflement of Twenty-two Yards, at the Death, Bowler's despair:
But when Pakis approach the victory line - Misbah's not there!

Misbah, Misbah, there's no one like Misbah,
He's broken every batting law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
But when Pakis reach the finishing line - Misbah's not there!
You may seek him in the replays, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Misbah's not there!

Misbah's a ginger bat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his helmet is highly domed;
His trousers dusty from neglect, his hair nicely combed.
You meet him in the forty ninth over, you may see him when score is square -
But the last hit, & there's the wonder of the thing!, Misbah's not there!

Misbah, Misbah, there's no one like Misbah,
There never was a Bat more devout follower of Allah!
He always has a stroke, and maybe one or two balls to spare:
But whenever the winning single was needed - MISBAH WASN'T THERE!
And they say among all the Bats whose last minute heroics are widely known
(I might mention Javed Miandad, I might mention Michael Bevan)
Were not half as remarkable as this Batsman of our the time
Who races Pakis to the edge: never across the finishing line!

Googlies: India-Pak Series, A Nervous Tendulkar and A Mis...Bah!

Tendulkar has missed six centuries in this year, after crossing the score of ninety. Today, it was another instance where a drinks break dented the set batsman's concentration. It was just enough for him to be out in the over that followed it. The jinx is in the drinks maybe. Tendulkar was playing beautifully today and also the other day, when he failed to cross the thresh hold. Tantalizingly close and yet not there! Maybe Yusuf regretted his watchfulness when he finished on 99 not out today. Maybe Tendulkar has an anxiety attack as soon as his score approaches 100. He has too many already. But we know, out friend waited for more than seventy one day matches before he got his first century. It is the circle of life then!

Dhoni and Yuvraj form a formidable combination on any day, against any team. But I guess they have a knack of doing it most often as partners against Pakistan. We have made a Butt of jokes about the Pakistani who score centuries only against India. Today he made a duck that was cheered more loudly than his score which has only an extra zero and a limp one in front of it. I have loved every moment of Kamran's batting in this series, for he has been the most insipid wicketkeeper ever from Pakistan. Moin Khan and Rashid Latif had given Pakistani wicketkeeping a vigor that got under the skin of batsmen, when they were behind stumps, and defied the most batting textbooks when they were wielding the willow. Akmal has been spot on, in India's favor.

Afridi took us out of the game in Mohali, but Pathan got him in last match. This time it was Ganguly, who scored his slowest century today. While he reached 100 wickets, Zaheer Khan crossed 200 mark. The bowling was quite good today, and Harbhajan was exceptional. Pakistan hasn't dominated in any game, and India has bounced back from difficult positions with the elasticity of tennis ball. I remember that as a child growing up in Himachal (Himalayas), any six, four or misfield meant that we lost the ball downhill somewhere. So the best balls were made out of sacks or socks and these showed uneven bounce at its best. When a bowler was under attack, he could just wet the ball, and it would die without a bounce. India cricket team under attack used to behave like those wet sack balls, but this new team is made of sterner stuff. When Bhajji was bowling, the bounce was quite uneven, and there was an instance or two, where the ball refused to get to one third of the expected bounce. I guess the dew factor helped us, else that bounce could have got us. Anyone remembers the India-Sri Lanka World Cup semifinal, where India was supposed to chase on such a dying, dusty, dead pitch. I thought that was a lesson enough for pitchmakers!

Lets return to the Tantalizingly Close, but Not There. Mis...Bah! I guess the problem is in his name. The ul-Haq helps him score runs, and dominate the bowling for some time. He gathers runs from every inconceivable stroke and rushes towards a victorious score. He punches, pushes, nudges, edges, pulls, loops, glances and clubs the bowlers. He gets his strike rate up and up and up, the required run rate down and down and down. And then, when he is finally there, so close to the goddess of victory, he is as helpless as a teenage lover, tongue-tied before his beloved, who needs that last expression, that last stroke before the dance of delight can begin. He hits hard, he runs fast, he steals fours, he finesses threes and then, when he is almost there, its a Mis....Bah!

I am inspired to write a poem about him, but I just parody a poem by T. S. Eliot. (original poem is Macavity: The Mystery Cat)

Misbah's a Mystery Bat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the crafty hitter who can defy Newton's every Law.
He's the bafflement of Twenty-two Yards, at the Death, Bowler's despair:
But when Pakis approach the victory line - Misbah's not there!

Misbah, Misbah, there's no one like Misbah,
He's broken every batting law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
But when Pakis reach the finishing line - Misbah's not there!
You may seek him in the replays, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Misbah's not there!

Misbah's a ginger bat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his helmet is highly domed;
His trousers dusty from neglect, his hair nicely combed.
You meet him in the forty ninth over, you may see him when score is square -
But the last hit, & there's the wonder of the thing!, Misbah's not there!

Misbah, Misbah, there's no one like Misbah,
There never was a Bat more devout follower of Allah!
He always has a stroke, and maybe one or two balls to spare:
But whenever the winning single was needed - MISBAH WASN'T THERE!
And they say among all the Bats whose last minute heroics are widely known
(I might mention Javed Miandad, I might mention Michael Bevan)
Were not half as remarkable as this Batsman of our the time
Who races Pakis to the edge: never across the finishing line!

क्या हिमाचल में ईंट सीमेंट के घर ज़रूरी हैं?

आज से दस बीस बरस पहले तक हिमाचल में गिने चुने पक्के मकान हुआ करते थे. ईंटों से घर बनाना बड़ी बात मानी जाती थी. मेरा ग्राम मण्डी जिले में है. वहां तकरीबन सभी मकान मिट्टी से बने, गोबर से लिपे और सलेट की छत्तों से सजा करते थे. ज्यूँ ज्यूँ तरक्की का दौर चला, भाम्बला और बरमाना में सीमेंट के कारखाने लगे, हजारों ट्रक सड़कों पर उतर आए, और अब जहाँ देखो ईंट सीमेंट के घर नज़र आते हैं. इस दौड़ में हर कोई शामिल है. हर एक बड़ा और बेहतर कोठे वाला घर चाहता है. कोई यह नहीं सोचता की क्या ईंट पत्थर से बने कोठे वाले मकान हिमाचल के लिए अनुकूल है भी या नहीं.

दस साल पहले तक मैं मात्र एक किशोर छात्र था, और मेरे विचारों का कोई मोल नहीं था. मोल शायद अब भी कुछ ज्यादा नहीं बड़ा है, पर अब लोग बात सुन लिया करते है. मैंने अपनी दादी और रिश्तेदारों से कई दफा बहस की, और यह जानना चाहा की क्या वह पक्के मकान इसलिए चाहते है क्यूंकि वह रहने के लिए बेहतर होते हैं? हमेशा जवाब मिला की पड़ोस में क्या इज्ज़त रह जायेगी, हर एक का पक्का मकान है. किस्सी ने कहा लीपा पोती से छुटकारा मिलेगा. कहा सीमेंट के मकानों की शोभा निराली है. कहा उनको साफ रखना आसान है, कोठे पर बैठ के धुप सेकेंगे. कहीं दो मंजिल, कहीं तीन, और कई जगह चार पाँच मंजिल के मकान उग गए. दस साल पहले भी वही जावाब मिलता था, अब भी वही जवाब मिलते है. पर एक फरक है. अब लोगों को आठ दस साल उन घरों में रहने का तजुर्बा हो गया है. अब मैं भी बड़ा हो गया हूँ, देश विदेश घूम चुका हूँ, और मेरी बातें अब एक शिक्षित और समझदार पौत्र या बुद्धिजीवी व्यक्ति की मान ली जाती हैं. अब फ़िर वही बहस करने की कोशिश कर रहा हूँ.

किसी से पूछो तो खुल के नहीं कहते की पक्के मकानों से वह नाखुश हैं. सबने इतना पैसा खर्च करके यह माकन बनाये है. कोई यह कैसे कहे की उमर भर की कमाई एक भूल में लगा दी. सच यह है की वह पुराने मकान गर्मी और सर्दी दोनों मौसमों में हमारे प्रदेश के तापमान के अनुकूल थे. आप आग्रह करेंगे तो यही बात मैं किस्सी शोध अथवा विज्ञान से भी सिद्ध कर सकता हूँ. पर किसी भी ज्ञान विज्ञान से बड़ी चीज़ होता है तजुर्बा. जब से पक्के मकान बने है, सर्दी में हीटर और गर्मी में कूलर या पंखों के बिना गुजारा नहीं होता. चूल्हे पक्के मकानों के लिए कभी भी उपयुक्त न थे न हो पाएंगे. सर्दी में फर्श इतना ठंडा होता है, की पाँव ज़मीन पर नहीं धर सकते. गर्मी में भी इतना तपा होता है, की पाँव ज़मीन न पड़े टे ही अच्छा है. अब चूल्हों की रोटी की आदत, नंगे पाँव फिरने की आदत तो जाने से रही. ऊपर से कमबख्त मौसम. बरखा में तो कोठे ताल बन जाते है. पर चाह कर भी कोई पुराने कच्चे घरों में वापिस नहीं जा पाता. न सिर्फ़ वह घर सस्ते दाम में बनते है, उनसे बिजली की खपत कम होती थी, और वह हमारी ज़रूरतों के हिसाब से हमारे पुरखों के तजुर्बे के बाद हमें मिले थे.

यह कहकर कि मैं तरक्की नहीं चाहता आप मेरी कही हुई साधारण, पर सच बातों को ठुकरा सकते है. यह कह कर कि मैं ठहरा प्रवासी हिमाचली, आप मेरी बातों को अनसुना कर सकते है. पर अगर आप एक बार बैठ कर हिसाब लगाये, तो आप पाएंगे की हम हिमाचली लोगों को मूरख बनाया गया है. क्या आप बर्फ के दिनों में धोती या निक्कर पहन कर बहिर घुमते है? क्या आपके पास इतना पैसा है की आप पूरे घर को गरम रखने वाली विदेशी मशीनें खरीदें? जो चीज़ें जिस जगह के लिए उपयुक्त नहीं, उनका पाना, उनका होना किसी विलास कि निशानी नहीं. जहाँ लोग बड़े घरों को इज्ज़त का मापदंड बना लेते है, वहाँ चोरी डकैती रिश्वतखोरी से कमाया धन जायज लगने लगता है. अंधी होड़ कोई प्रगति का द्योतक नहीं.समय के साथ चलना अगर ज़रूरी है, तो अपनी स्तिथि परिस्तिथि के अनुसार जीना, पाँव फैलाना और फैसले करना भी समझदारी है,सही है. रोटी, कपड़ा और मकान हमारी तीन मुख्य ज़रूरतें है, थी और रहेंगी. न हमने विदेशी भोजन या न बिकिनी-नुमा वस्त्र अपनाएं है. पर मकानों में यह बेमतलब नक़ल क्यों?

Time and Materials by Robert Hass

Time and Materials: Poems, 1997-2005 by Robert Hass is his first collection of poems to emerge in past ten years. Hass is a familiar name in the contemporary world of poetry. He has been awarded National Book Critics Circle Award twice, and was the poet laureate of the US from 1995-1997. He is a professor at University of Berkeley and is presently a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. He has co-translated the work of Nobel-winner, Czeslaw Milosz. The present book has lapped up a National Book Awards nomination, and received rave reviews from the poets and journalists alike.

What is a poem? Is it a piece that must be interpreted on basis of what it contains, or based on who has written it? Is the identity of poet important? Do his past achievements bias us to read his poems more favorably? Great poets and artists, irrespective of their reputation during their lifetimes, manage to produce works that transcend time, space, language and meaning. The toolbox is words, workstation is a solitary, barely visible corner chair and table, and the audience is firstly the writer's innate desire to create, and then maybe, a slew of readers who open the book. For a poet with the credentials of Hass, the audience is ensured, and what I wish to examine is if his poems justify the applause for a reader like me. I wish to read his poems with a wonder and appreciation that reviewers have expressed everywhere.

Here is excerpt from one of the poems "State of the planet", and this is representative of typical lines in Hass poetry and the arguments I am about to make:

"Poetry should be able to comprehend the earth,

To set aside from time to time its natural idioms

Of ardor of revulsion, and say, in a style as sober

As the Latin of Lucretis, who reported to Venus

On the state of things two thousand years ago....."

In reading poems by Hass, I found myself at lines which gave me intense feelings: I ravish the first three lines in this example, and then I begin to wonder why does Hass need a mention of Lucretis. Throughout the book, I wonder why he needs to evoke so many names and places that unless it is an erudite reader and a world traveler, the references are entirely lost on the reader. We, as beginning poets, are often asked to write self-contained poems, where images and metaphors stand on their realization by readers. We, as beginner poets, are asked to shun the abstract words, and the mention of painters, philosophers, poets and mythical figures, for cameos contaminate attention. In the poems by Hass, these rules are set aside. We watch paintings by Vermeer, we hear of Czeslaw Milosz, Horace, Whitman, Stevens and Nietzsche. We are at times in Mexican desert, in Bangkok and then we are entirely in the world of Dostoevsky. While at times, I enjoy these interludes, I want to know how Hass or the critics would react to a Hass-like poem written by a poet without Hass-like reputation.

Time and Materials strikes to me as a fairly unusual set of poems, where my own sensibilities as a poet are set aside. I am thrust into long, winding sentences, abstract and quirky details, forty-fifty line poems without stanzas and ten-fifteen words before line-breaks. Here as an example, I quote a line from Hass (and I loved this line): "The human imagination does not do well with large numbers." In another poem, he says, "It must be a gift of evolution that humans/Can't sustain wonder." So given he expresses these sentiments in his poems, I cannot comprehend why he has chosen this style. But a poem "Bush War" (featured in Best American Poetry last year) contains some remarkable and honest reflections on past wars, and strikes me an example of how the Hass-poems can work in spite of their verbosity.

Hass has translated great Haiku masters in the past. His own poems carry many Haiku-like phrases - where an apt image illustrates an emotion and an idea tersely. There are poems where he lets me breathe, stop, gasp, repeat lines to myself. There are lines where I shake my head vigorously and cannot appreciate the idea, the wordplay, the metaphor. I judge him more harshly than I would judge most poets, for he is one of the foremost poets of the country. After Robert Frost, America has not produced a poet who can transcend borders and cultures, and perhaps his poems can provide us a notion of why. Overall, I would still ask you to read Time and Materials, savor the humane moments and the montage of experience plastered all over the poems. I will leave you with the opening poem of the book:

IOWA, JANUARY

In the long winter nights, a farmer's dream are narrow.

Over and over, he enters the furrow.

(Also on Blogcritics.org)