Being Mortal

What is that elusive quality that elevates writing to an art? Fiction writers have it relatively easy: they can draw from a repertoire of elements to demonstrate the art: plot, characters, lyrical prose, metaphors etc.  It is much harder for non-fiction writers. They cannot indulge in hyperbole, or create fantastic worlds or drop pithy aphorisms. Writing about a  compelling subject is the easy way out...you might engage the reader, but credit may go to the subject matter and not the writing. If you take away the subject, the insights, the wisdom, will there still be something left? If so, that may be writing as an art.

Atul Gawande is one such writer and artist. Dr. Gawande is a Surgeon based in the US, and I had previously liked his 'Checklist Manifesto'. With his direct, economical and yet evocative turn of phrase, his books are enjoyable just for his writing. Being Mortal is the latest of his books, published a couple of years ago. 

In this current book, he searches for an answer to the question: How does a doctor trained to fight disease and used to success, accept that he must ultimately lose? We are mortals and death is the inexorable victor...all prior efforts are sandbags and stopgaps, skirmishes and street fights that the doctor may win, but winner of the war is inevitably death. But doctors (specially in the US), are not prepared for that reality, he says. So they may offer options to patients that may extend life by a short period, but at the cost of great suffering, loss of dignity and the loneliness of the company of strangers. He thinks this is wrong and the book seeks other solutions. 

This is a book focused on the US medical systems and culture, but his Indian links has him exploring these answers in India and other countries as well. In his search, he looks at alternatives to the attrition in the ICU: geriatric medicine, palliative care, hospices, nursing homes, assisted living, elderly communities etc. He traces the history of medicine and how it culminated in the current system when most people die in ICUs than at home. 

The search is a personal one too. His elderly father, a successful doctor and leader of society, suffers a terminal disease, degeneration and death in his old age and Dr Gawande is forced to confront his own powerlessness in that process. 

It is an enjoyable read, with compelling anecdotes that span the US and India. But the second half flags a bit, as he seems to run out of things to say and there is some repetition.

But I felt that he also missed seeing the big picture- confronting mortality is not just about the tactical options. The profundity of life, our relationship with our loved ones and with the Universe, who we are... these deep questions that have us playing blind man's buff for answers in such vulnerable moments seem to be addressed only peripherally in the book. Perhaps it is hard for a doctor to sound credible if he talks of things that are not concrete, subjects that are the focus of philosophy and religion. But nevertheless the book comes across as missing some pages. 

But in summary, definitely worth a read!

Meghadutham

The search: The journey to reading the Meghadutam was as interesting as the work itself. I was looking for the best English translation of it there is- after my enjoyable experience with 'The Essential Tagore',  I realized (rather obviously) that the quality of translation is key to enjoying the original. This sentiment is very well expressed in the preface of the translation I finally ended up reading: 'The cloud message' by Mr. Srinivas Reddy. He makes an interesting and strong case for the creative standing of translations- he cites the long tradition of such translations in India, and how each translation stands as a work of art by itself. He quotes Sri Vishwanatha Satyanarayana (someone whose work I am sure all elder Singampallis are intimately familiar with), who in his introduction to the Ramayana Kalpavrukshamu says:

I worship the same Rama as everyone else

but the devotion in my poetry is my own.

Specifically about the oft translated meghadhutam, the author likens the theme of a messenger carrying tidings between separated beloveds as a metaphor for translation. In his words:

Towards the end of the poem, just when the cloud begins to finally deliver the message, he assures the yaksha's wife that he has kept the message safe in his heart (hrdaya nihita). It is as if the cloud was claiming both fidelity and feeling, the spirit and letter of the yaksha's heartfelt words. In the following verse he states that carrying news between a husband and wife is almost like uniting them (sangamaat kincit unah), suggesting in a sense that a translation is nearly the real thing, almost a new original. It is in these ways that the translators long and winding journey is much like that of the cloud's.

So all this underscores the importance of a good translation. My Google search revealed a couple of interesting things:

1. How the Hindu continues to be the only newspaper/magazine that cares about literature. Apart from an Amazon link to buy the book and the Wikipedia link, all relevant links (except one) were from articles or reviews from the Hindu. I enjoyed reading those high quality articles and even wrote to them asking for a recommendation (did not get a reply)

2. Every review of every translation I read said the same thing: very nice work, but doesn't capture the vibrancy of the original.

Then after some conversation with SGK, I settled on buying the translation that I ultimately read. That conversation had its own interesting momentum, resulting in the excellent translation of 'Banshi' by SGK that he posted on SH, which has met the approval of his elite literary circle! Kudos to SGK.

The book: It was an enjoyable read. I think most of the senior Singampallis and spouses would anyway have read one version or the other of the Meghadutham by now, so I won't dwell much on it. I enjoyed all the things that ones praises Kalidasa for: the elegant metaphors, the strong visual language, the underlying rhythm that slowly entrances the reader, the contemporary attitude of the protagonist. But I enjoyed most the mental picture that the poem draws of majestic nature in ancient India. Particularly, there were two aspects that were captivating:

1. The intricate and exhilarating relationship that all nature in India has with the monsoon was depicted well in the poem. As you read the poem, you can see the rains moving across the country, making  an already wonderful land more beautiful

2. The powerful description of the Himalayas as the apex of nature was also good. Even today, the Himalayas hold that allure. There are some places on Earth where nature is so grand in scale and beauty that mother nature becomes a tangible presence. The Grand Canyon, the Bharmaputra, the Himalayas, the Yosemite valley- all of them have a profound impact on my consciousness, as it has for countless others. The poem provides that distinction to the Himalayas very eloquently

 In any case, Kalidasa does not require my endorsement. But if some of the younger generations have not read it, then hopefully this will give them the fillip. 

A couple of excerpts:

When you approach Lord Himalaya, the very source

           of the River Ganga,

Where the peaks are snowy white and the boulders

           are scented with the musk

Of crouching bucks, rest there on one of his ridges

           and ease the toil of travel,

As if you were a living allusion to Shiva's White Bull

           digging up the dark earth.

One more excerpt from a little later:

Soar even higher and accept Mount Kailasa's invitation

             to fly through her chasms,

Cleaved sheer by the many arms of Ten-Headed Ravana,

             but used now as mirrors

By the wives of the gods. There the high peaks, heaped

             with snow, day after day,

Will pierce the sky like lotuses of white, as if revealing

             the laughter of Lord Shiva.

And yes, while the translation was great, I was indeed left with an impression that no such work can do justice to the original.

స్వ"గతం"

చెక్కుడురాయిమేడ వీధి                         తడిపొడిగోడలు

మెట్లకింది గది                                        పెచ్చులూడి   రాలుతున్న సున్నం

కటకటాల గవాక్షం                                  పొడలుపొడలుగా అలుముకున్న నాచు

రెండంతస్థుల మేడ  

వీధి మొగలో 

ద్వారానికి అతికించిన                               నాతో మరోజీవి

మూరపొడుగు ముతకగుడ్డఫై                    అద్దెలేని సహజీవనం

ప్రాపంచికవరదాత వినాయకుడు                గోడమీది బల్లి , మాలో తేడా అది నిరాహారి 

జీతం నూరులో నాలుగో భాగం                   యంత్రాల లయబద్ధ శబ్దాలమధ్యలో

 వ్యాపారగృహంలో  చిరుద్యోగం                    చెవులు చిల్లిపడే కూతలు ,ప్రయాణీకుల సందడి

సుబ్బయ్య భోజనశాలలో భక్షణం                మోతకూలీల చెవులుమోతెక్కించే కేకలు

తన కొడుకుకు విద్యాశిక్షణం                        పదిన్నరకు నిశీధిలో

 వాల్తేరు రైలుస్టేషన్కి సాయంవ్యాహ్యాళి          చీకటి ఏకాంత స్థావరానికి తిరుగుప్రయాణం

కాలందొర్లిస్తే గదిలో గుడ్డిదీపం నూనె తొందరగా అవదు ఖాళి 

మేనత్త నివాసం గోదావరీతీర గ్రామంలో                        వధువుగా నాతో గృహప్రవేశం జరగకున్నా

అత్త మరిది కూతురికి ఈ దౌర్భాగ్యుడికి ప్రధానం            తరచుగా తలపుల్లో అవతరిస్తుంది

ఇప్పుడు ఋజువైనట్లు ,పెట్టింది సుముహూర్తం              ఉప్పాడ పట్టుచీరలో ,నుదుట కళ్యాణతిలకంతో

అప్పుడే మనం పలాయనం చిత్తగించాం                        

అమ్మాయికి ఆపద తప్పించిన అదృష్టం                         

నాపై కూడా విసిరిందో కటాక్షవీక్షణం

రిక్షాలపై ఖర్చు పెరిగింది జీతంలో తరుచు తరుగుదల          

వీధిమలుపులో  రాశులుపడిన మామిడితొక్కలు రాళ్లు        

 పనసపండు దళసరి తొక్కలు ,చేపల పొలుసులు,               

 చచ్చినపిల్లులు ,దేవుడికే తెలియాలి మిగిలిన చెత్త.             

తరిగినజీతంలా విరిగిన చిల్లుల గొడుగు 

ఉద్యోగశాల వస్త్రాలు గోపాలుడిఆత్మలా రసమయాలు 

తేమగా ఉన్న గదిలో అడుగిడితే         

  చీకటినీడలా చిక్కటి వాన  

 వలలో చిక్కిన మెకంలా అపస్మారకంలో అచేతనంగా               

నేనేమో కాళ్ళుచేతులు కట్టబడి 

అర్థమృత ప్రపంచానికి బందీగా 

వీధి చివరన నివసించే కన్నయ్య 

 మధ్యపాపిడిలో చక్కగా అటు ఇటు వేరయిన జుట్టు 

విశాల నయనాలు కళాత్మక  నైపుణ్యం 

మురళీవాదనంలో  అభిరుచి 

అప్పుడప్పుడు భీతికొల్పే వీధిగాలిలో 

విషాదనిషాదాలు  తేలియాడతాయి 

కొన్నిసార్లు దట్టమైన చీకటిరాత్రిలో ,సంధ్య కనువెలుగులలో 

మధ్యాన్నపు  వెలుగునీడలక్రీడలో ఒకసాయంత్రం 

ఆకస్మాత్తుగా సింధుభైరవిరాగం కాటేస్తుంది 

ఆకాశం ప్రతిధ్వనించేలా 

నిత్యవిషాదంలో విడిపోయిన విరహపుజంటతో 

అధాటున అవగతమయినది  వీధి ఒక భ్రాంతి భ్రమ 

తప్పతాగిన మైకంలో వదిరిన విషయాల్లా 

హఠాత్తుగా గుండెలోకదలిక 

అక్బర్ పాదూషా కి చిరుద్యోగి రామారావు కి మధ్య తేడాలేదు 

వేణువువిషాదాలాపనలో  జనించినరాగాలలో 

శిథిలమైన గొడుగు, వైభవపురాజఛత్రం 

ఏకంగా వైకుంఠద్వారంవైపు  పైకెగుస్తాయి 

ఆ అనంత సూర్యాస్తమయంలో 

ఎక్కడ సంగీతం సత్యమో శివమో సుందరమో 

అక్కడ గోదావరి ప్రవహిస్తూనే ఉంటుంది 

నదీతటాల కొబ్బరిచెట్ల దట్టపునీడల్లో 

ప్రాంగణంలో ఆమె వేచిఉంది

ఉప్పాడ పట్టుచీరలో ,నుదుట కళ్యాణతిలకంతో  

 

 

                                                                                           

 

                                                              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Wind Instrument: A challenge/request

This is a poem by Tagore called 'Banshi', translated into English. At the surface, it reflects the isolation of a penurious young man in Calcutta; but it is also about the loss an urbanite feels as he lives separate from his country roots, and the harmony we miss due to being away from nature.

I enjoyed it a lot: how topical the theme is and how contemporary a feel it has, for something written about a century ago. The wry tone, the Haiku-like sensibility of nature and seasons are appealing. Note how the oppressiveness the monsoon evokes in him is so well laid out- as is the denouement that lifts that weight.

The translator, Mr. Kaiser Haq, has done an excellent job. This is from a fairly recent  anthology of Tagore that I acquired a couple of years ago.



The translation challenge: I thought this poem would give the elder Singampallis a Telugu translation challenge, if they feel like it. Gopal babai? G Pinni? SLN?

Wind Instrument

       Kinu Goalla Lane:
ground-floor room---grilled window---
       in a two -storey house
             right  on the road.

The walls damp---
      plaster crumbling in places,
           lichened patches.

Pasted in the door---
     label from a bolt of long-cloth,
           bearing an image of
     Ganesh, fulfiller of worldly desires,

One other creature
    shares the room rent free---
a gecko. We differ in this---
    it never wants food.

    A salary of 25 rupees---
           junior clerk in a trading house.
I get my meals
    at the Dattas',
           tutoring their son,
    go to Sealdah station
           to while away evenings---
                 saves on fuel for the lamp ---

amidst the rhythmic noise of engines
     shrill whistles,
           bustle of travelers,
                 shouts of porters,
            then at ten-thirty
get back to the dark room's lonely stillness

An aunt--father's sister-- lives in a village
     on the Dhawaleswari river.
a match was arranged between her brother-in-law's daughter
             and this wretch.
The time fixed was auspicious, as was presently proved---
      That's when I ran away.
             Lucky escape for the girl---
                   me too.
But though she didn't come to live my house
      she often appeared in my consciousness---
             in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on her forehead.
                   At the monsoon's height
             spending on trams goes up,
and still there are occasional deductions from the salary.
      At the bend in the lane---
             mounting piles
of mango peels and stones
      jack-fruit cores,
             waste from gutted fish,
dead kittens---
     and heaven knows what other rubbish
The umbrella is like my depleted salary---
             lots of holes.
My office wear
      is like Gopikanta Goshai's soul,
             ever steeped in rasa.
On entering the damp room
      the dark shadow of rain
             is like an animal caught in a trap---
      knocked unconscious, inert.
Day and night, it seems, I am shackled hand and foot
             to a half-dead world.

At the mouth of the lane lives Kanta Babu---
      long, neatly parted hair,
             large eyes,
                   artistic bent.
      His hobby, playing the cornet.
Every now and then
             the notes float
                    in the lane's horrid air---
sometimes deep at night,
             in the twilight before dawn,
       amidst the afternoon's play of light and shade.
             Suddenly one evening
the Sindhu-Barwa raga strikes up---
       the skies resound
             with the  perennial lament
                     of separated lovers.

At once it's clear--
              that the lane is an illusion
like the things described
                    in a drunken delirium.
      Suddenly I feel it in my heart---
there is no difference
               between Badshah Akbar
                    and Haripada the lowly clerk.
Borne on the plaintive tones of the wind instrument
     Tattered umbrella and royal canopy
              rise together
                    towards heavenly Baikuntha.

In the eternal sunset--
     where the music is true
              the Dhawaleswari flows on,
its banks in the thick shade
     of tamal trees----
and in the courtyard she is waiting,
     in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on the forehead.

***

ఓం నమఃశివాయ

నేను భవుడిని                నేను భర్తను                     నేను మూలాన్ని
నేను ధవుడిని                నేను కర్తను                      నేను  శూలాన్ని
నేను సదాశివుడిని          నేను హర్తను                    నేను కాలాన్ని,కాలుడిని ,కాలజ్ఞుడిని

నేను శ్రుతిని                    నేను శాంతిని                   నేను గుణాన్ని                    
నేను కృతిని                     నేను కాంతిని                  నేను గణాన్ని  
నేను ప్రకృతిని                  నేను జవాన్ని                 నేను  శరణాన్ని
నేను జాగృతిని                 నేను జీవాన్ని                 నేను కారణాన్ని ,కారణభూతాన్ని                                                                              భూతనాధుడిని


 కపాలపాత్రధారిని            అనంగభస్మకర్తను              నేను జంగాన్ని
 జపాలసూత్రధారిని          కనంగవిశ్వభర్తను              నేను జంగమాన్ని
 చరింతు రుద్రభూమిని     వాసం హిమవన్నగం          నేను స్థావరాన్ని
 చతుర్వేదగామిని            నగ మహాపన్నగం              నేను దత్తవరాన్ని


  అజాతశత్రువును           విశ్వచక్షువును
  శత్రుంజయుణ్ణి              ఆదిభిక్షువును
                                     మోక్షప్రదాతను  


                                                    తపించి రక్ష పొందరే
                                                    జపించి మోక్షమొందరే
                                                     హరహర మహాదేవ