Zorba the Greek

                    ZORBA, THE GREEK

I just finished rereading Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis – a book that sets you free every time you visit it. Kazantzakis works are full of joy, especially Zorba the Greek. The book is a hymn to life and love, personified in the character sketch of Zorba; the epitome of pulsating life force. It urges you to stop reading words and go jump into the stream of life; and live it king size.
Zorba, the wonderful Macedonian man lives each day as if it is his last, completely involved in what he is doing; making love or working the lignite mines. He dances to life, actually, authentically and practically. When he cannot express the feelings and energy in words, he dances with gay abandon to the beat of each moment. He lives in perpetual awe of everything around him. He looks at trees, the sky, flowers, women, children as if he is seeing them for the first time. He revels in the mystery of creation and considers the world his playground to frolic and indulge.  His zest for life is all inclusive. The catastrophe of the closure of the mine is another challenge from which he rises unscathed. He understands life in all its colors and is awake to each of its tests and turns. If ever there was a role that Anthony Quinn was born to play, it was the lusty, life-affirming character in Zorba, the Greek. The film made the book world famous.
The narrator played by Alan Bates is a foil to Zorba. He is a writer wrestling in his lair with his writing of Buddha, trying to comprehend the world through words and mysticism. In a bid to realign and rethink the paradox of man’s life on earth, he decides to partake of life with the day-to-day life of workmen. He travels to Crete to inherit a lignite mine. He hires Zorba who turns out to be Man Friday. The dialogue between the two is the core of the book through which Kazantzakis throws light on metaphysical, existential questions in people’s lives and the varied perspectives to it. Friedrich Nietzsche’s ‘God is dead’ and the ‘man as Overman’, are concepts which pattern the exchange between them. In the end, it isn’t squiggly inky impressions of words on paper, and the endless ruminations and reflections, but the act of living them which can make a difference in our lives. 
Kazantzakis was an existentialist as much as Franz Kafka, his contemporary. But their philosophy was so very different. Whereas Kafka battled with a meaningless existence with paranoia, absurdity and madness, Kazantzakis pitched into the flow of life with a madness of sheer abandon and love. While Kafka is disturbed and depressed by the cruel universe, Kazantzakis is delighted by its mystery. He does not know if God exists or truth exists, but he has an amazing appetite for plain existence. Life is simple, devoid of Cartesian duality. Therefore the ordinary is extraordinary for him. The Kafkaesque ideology imbues us with dread and gloom.     
Franz Kafka’s quote on books reads: “I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.” Readers who have read his story ‘The Metamorphosis’ will appreciate and understand his message very well. A contemporary writer who comes to mind in the same line of thought would be Milan Kundera.

 On the contrary, Paulo Coelho and the erstwhile Nikos Kazantzakis deliver the same content through a symbolic parable or through characters who serve as illustrations for different philosophical principles. The story of the butterfly emerging out of its cocoon is recounted by Zorba to the narrator, a lesson in nature’s mysterious workings. ‘A man spent hours watching a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. It managed to make a small hole, but its body was too large to get through it. After a long struggle, it appeared to be exhausted and remained absolutely still. The man decided to help the butterfly and, with a pair of scissors, he cut open the cocoon, thus releasing the butterfly. However, the butterfly’s body was very small and wrinkled and its wings were all crumpled. The man continued to watch, hoping that, at any moment, the butterfly would open its wings and fly away. Nothing happened; in fact, the butterfly spent the rest of its brief life dragging around its shrunken body and shriveled wings, incapable of flight.’
‘What the man – out of kindness and his eagerness to help – had failed to understand was that the tight cocoon and the efforts that the butterfly had to make in order to squeeze out of that tiny hole were Nature’s way of training the butterfly and of strengthening its wings. Sometimes, a little extra effort is precisely what prepares us for the next obstacle to be faced. Anyone who refuses to make that effort, or gets the wrong sort of help, is left unprepared to fight the next battle and never manages to fly off to their destiny.’ The tone is optimistic and full of faith. The mysterious universe will connive to deliver to us our wishes and desires, provided you align your energy with it! It is indeed an appealing and interesting way of passing on philosophical teachings where parables are interspersed with nuggets of wisdom.
Kazantzakis was beset with existential, metaphysical questions since his growing up years and his trilogy Zorba the Greek, Freedom and Death and The Temptation of Christ patterns the path of a human being on earth. Zorba, the Greek is about attaining individuality. Reveling in the spirit of freedom and relishing a human life of pleasure and pain. Wrapping oneself in an atmosphere of daily sights, sounds and smells – wild sage, savory mint and thyme. The orange-blossom scent worn by Madame Hortense, silvery olive trees, fig and vines, kitchen gardens, swims in the sea, the wine drunk; dancing to strains of the santuri, friendship, sex, separation and loss. Freedom and Death delineates life in a community, of living for a cause. It celebrates the idea of extending oneself beyond personal needs. It is about commitment to others, loyalty and patriotism. The Temptation of Christ is the story of Christ, the man who struggles with his own human needs of love, family and companionship. He wrestles with guilt, pain, fear and emotions and rises above them to fulfill a cause for the wider humanity. Kazantzakis’ Christ is a human who becomes God.
The epitaph on Kazantzakis tomb further illuminates the path of freedom - "I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free."
  

                       

Phenomenal Woman

                 Phenomenal Woman

“Still I Rise”:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? 
Why are you beset with gloom? 
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? 
Bowed head and lowered eyes? 
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? 
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? 
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Maya Angelou has risen phoenix-like from the ashes to become a star of twinkling light. Her courage and fortitude shines bright in the skies today, as she spreads her glow over the microcosm of the human living world. An exponent of poetry and seven explicitly bold autobiographies, she straddled the creative planes of writer, poet, performer, dancer, singer, teacher and a social activist with aplomb. Her autobiographies are rare pieces of literature which have rendered memories into lyrical poetry and works of art. She wrote inside out about her personal experiences as a poor, black female in racist America. The bildungsroman memoirs are delineations of self-exposure of a black girl child to a black woman, rife with revelatory stories of rape, prostitution, broken marriages, alienation, segregation, loneliness and exploitation. Personalized accounts of horror and shame etched in ink and paper saw the light of day and became a novel  style of penning memoirs. Her experiences of depression, disappointment and discouragement are all encompassing, but her message of courage rings loud and clear- “Still I Rise”:

‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’ is the most highly acclaimed of Angelou's autobiographies. Its first person narrative is the collective ‘we’ of the black experience and includes her library of literary canon and the oral tradition of African storytelling. Its triumph lies in its core of ‘Mother Wit’ the collective wisdom of the African-American community as expressed in folklore and humor and is used to demonstrate that in spite of severe racism and oppression, ‘they thrive and do so with some passion, some compassion, some humour, and some style.’ She has stood true to her oft quoted quote “What you're supposed to do when you don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. Don't complain.” Elements of blues are all pervasive through the works, inherent in recounts of personal struggles, ironic understatements, metaphors, rhythms and imagery.

Her poetic journey landed her the honour of being the first woman-poet to recite her most well-known poem ‘On the Pulse of Morning’ at President Bill Clinton’s inauguration. Her theatrical rendition rested on her years of being a singer, actor and the oral traditions of African American heritage. Her second hailed poetry performance was at the fiftieth anniversary of The United Nations. On a personal note, I have always been inspired by her poems – ‘Phenomenal Woman’ which has given strength to millions of women to be themselves and thrive in their strength and natural endowments.

 Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

 Doubts, fear, mistrust, criticism  entraps our mind , keeps us small.  But then, there are those like Angelou who ride beyond the chaos and dark waters to soar like birds in the sky. As a caged bird she sang out aloud and finally flew high like a eagle in the sky.  I quote from her poem –‘ When Great Trees Fall’

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.  Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.
We can be.  Be and be
better.  For they existed.

We at Navhind Times hail the spirit of Maya Angelou!  God bless us All!

Ruskin Bond

The Indian Bond – Ruskin Bond

                                                                                      or                                                             

                                                               Indian Bond turns 80

“As a writer, I have difficulty in doing justice to momentous events, the wars of the nations, the politics of power; I am more at ease with the dew of the morning, the sensuous delights of the day, the silent blessings of the night, the joys and sorrows of children, the strivings of ordinary folk, and of course, the ridiculous situations in which we sometimes find ourselves.”  That’s our Indian Bond – Ruskin Bond, who turned eighty on 19^th May.  He is in the pink of health and continues to write simple stories imparting wisdom to his readers to be simple and cultivate humor to be happy.

His first book Nine Months went unpublished, but then at seventeen years, he won the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, a literary prize awarded annually for the best work written in English and published in UK. The Room on the Roof was published in England shortly after he left for India for good.  “I am as Indian as the dust of the plains or the grass of the mountain meadow” – a feeling that has solidly anchored him in the Indian milieu for decades.  Best known for his short stories and poems, he has written a few novels and novellas, too.

“To be happy, be like a flower, this attracts butterflies, bees, lady birds and gentle people.

A flower doesn't have to rush about in order to make friends.  It remains quietly where it has grown and sweetens the air with its fragrance.

God gave this power to flowers and gentle people.” -  Ruskin Bond, To Live in Magic

The poem ‘A Flower’ is an apt summation of his own qualities of gentleness and sweetness.  He has had a following of the whole Indian continent and abroad, too. Film makers have flocked to him to adapt his stories into films, and he has readily obliged by reworking his novellas into screen scripts. The foremost example is that of A Flight of Pigeons, based on the 1857 mutiny made into film by Shyam Benegal.  Thereafter,  Vishal Bhardwaj worked on the book Biniya’s Blue Umbrella, and the short story  Sunnana’s Seven Husbands – and made them into films titled The Blue Umbrella and Saat Khoon Maaf.  His first published work Room on the Roof was adapted into a BBC TV series  - The Dehra kids.  In 1990, there used to be a TV show Ek Tha Rusty, based on his Rusty series, with many an autobiographical reflections in it. Several stories have been incorporated in the school curriculum in India, including "The Night Train at Deoli", "Time Stops at Shamli" and Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra. Scenes from a Writer’s Life and A lamp is Lit are leaves from a journal about his life as a growing child and later years as a writer.   So much for being a gentle flower!

What classifies Bond as a unique writer and segregates him from others is that in spite of his British descent, his writing is not Eurocentric. After a four year sojourn in England, he chose to settle in India permanently.  He writes like a man completely and absorbedly immersed in the vast landscape called INDIA. The stories are an authentication of his deep appreciation and love for India and its people. And yet because of his background,  he is able to distance himself and render an overview of all that is not right in his adopted country. The personal travails of his protagonist are juxtaposed with the social, political, cultural, religious and communal fabric of the geographical area around him - a subject of much critical acclaim in his works.  Women on Platform 8 and The Eyes Are Not Here, are must read stories.

The poem, Cherry Tree is about  the  poet’s ecstasy over a tree of his own which took eight

years to grow.  He is expressing his wonder at the ways of nature and how the cherry

blossoms are fragile and quick to fall. The tree gives him immense joy when he can see

the stars and the blue sky through dappled green tree.

Eight year have passed

Since I placed my cherry seed in the grass.

“Must have a tree of my own,” I said,

And watered it once and went to bed

And forgot; but cherries have a way of growing,

Though no one's caring very much or knowing.

And suddenly that summer near the end of May,

I found a tree had come to stay.

It was very small, five months child,

Lost in the tall grass running wild.

Goats ate the leaves, the grass cutter’s scythe

split it apart and a monsoon blight

Shrivelled the slender stem...... Even so,

next spring I watched three new shoots grow,

The young tree struggle, upward thrust

Its arms in a fresh fierce lust

For light and air and sun.

I could only wait, as one

Who watched, wandering, while Time and the rain

Made a miracle from green growing pain.......

I went away next year-

Looking up through leaves at the blue

Blind sky, at the finches as they flew

And flitted through the dappled green.

While bees in an ecstasy drank

Of nectar from each bloom and the sun sank

Swiftly, and the stars turned in the sky,

And moon-moths and singing crickets and I—

Yes, I!— praised Night and Stars and tree:

That small, the cherry, grown by me.

If you love the ‘Blue Mountains’, are awed by the spectacular and mystical creations on earth, and enthralled by the petty foibles and exchanges of human beings – read his literature; a truly spiritual quest.