Blood Is Remarkably Red Against Green
Viktor Shklovsky [ A short excerpt from A Sentimental Journey: Memoirs, 1917-1922. Viktor Shklovsky, a leading figure in the Russian formalist movement of the 1920s, borrows the title from Laurence Sterne. In the book he describes the travels of a bewildered intellectual through Russia, Persia, the Ukraine and the Caucasus during the period of Russian Revolution. A Sentimental Journey is also an important experimental literary work–a memoir in the form of a novel.] —————————– I took my milk home. I walked through the park. The foliage, the cool of the shade, the lawn, and –the sun. I walked along and thought absent-mindedly about my past. About Opoyaz. “Opoyaz” means “The Society for the Study of Poetic Language.” About something as clear to me as numerators and denominators. When you think, you get absent minded. I blew myself through absent-mindedness. This is how it happened. We didn’t have enough primers. And primers are indispensible. We needed them in case of retreat and we needed them to destroy the bombs that the Whites were dropping on us. Those bombs didn’t always explode. I had brought from Nikolaev some little white cylinders of German origin that I thought were primers. Mitkevich tried to assure me they weren’t. They actually did seem to have an aperture for a safety fuse, but it was too wide. You could stick your whole little finger in it and it was constructed in such a way that it was impossible to make the opening narrower. I asked one of the men to make me a safety fuse out of a smoke bomb and I went to the edge of the ravine to try it out. It was a nice day. The grass was green, the sky blue. In the distance there were some horses and a little boy. There were old trenches all around with dark holes at the bottom. What was inside those holes I don’t know—probably just darkness. I started to insert the fuse into the cylinder, which looked like a first-grader’s round metal pencil case—about the circumference of a three-kopek piece and about six inches long. The fuse was too small: it wouldn’t stay in the aperture. I wound paper around it and measured it to go off in two seconds. So I wouldn’t get tired of waiting. I lit a cigarette. A safety fuse is lit with a cigarette, not a match. Everything according to the rules. I puffed on the cigarette, picked up the cylinder and bent over it with the cigarette. What happened next I don’t remember in detail. Probably I accidentally lit the paper wrapped around the safety fuse. My arms were flung back; I was lifted, seared and turned head over heels. The air filled with explosions. The cylinder had blown up in my hands. I hardly had time for fleeting thought about my book Plot as a Stylistic Phenomenon. Who would write it now? It seemed as if the explosion were still resounding, as if the rocks still hadn’t fallen back to the ground. But I was on the ground. And I saw the horses galloping in the field, the little boy running. The grass all around was splashed with blood. Blood is remarkably red against green. My arms and clothes were all in shreds and holes. My shirt was black with blood and through the straps on my sandals I could see how twisted my feet were. The toes were out-of-joint and stood at various angles. I lay on my belly, shrieking. The exploding bomb had already finished its shriek. I clawed the grass with my right hand. I think the soldiers came running right away. They heard the explosion and said, “There it is. Shklovsky’s blown himself up!” They brought up a wagon. Fast. This was the wagon they used for potato expeditions. The men were badly fed, so they bought potatoes and cooked them at night. The platoon leader and Matveev, the big fellow, came running and started to lift me into the wagon. I was already coming to. The student named Pik came up, absolutely stunned. They put up in the wagon and stuck my linen hat with the soft brim under my head for a cushion. Mitkevich came up, as pale as when the bridge caught fire. He bent over me all out of breath. There was still a ringing in my eras. My whole body quivered. But i know how to behave. I doesn’t matter if I don’t know the proper way to hold a spoon at the dinner table. I said to him: “Take a report: the object given to me for purposes of experimentation proved to be too powerful for use as a primer. The explosion took place prematurely, probably because the outer covering of the safety fuse had been removed. Use regular primers!” Everything was done according to the rules, as in the best of families. There are rules about how a wounded man should behave. There are rules about what a dying man should say. I was taken to the hospital. ************************ One of my soldier students sat at my feet and kept feeling them to see I were getting cold. We got to the infirmary. After some trouble with the orderlies, everything proceeded in customary fashion. I lay there and sadly began to recognize things. I was put on a table and soaped. The flesh on my bones was quivering. Now that I hadn’t seen before. A fine tremor agitated my body. Not just the arms, not just the legs—no, the whole body. A woman came up—the doctor. I knew her from Petersburg. Hadn’t seen her for eight years. We started to divert each other with conversation. I was already being shaved, which is essential for the bandaging. I talked to her about the great Russian poet Velimir Khlebnikov. They bandaged me up to my waist and put me in bed. My wife’s sister came to see me the next day. I had told them not to disturb
Tales from an Asati (Asati-Kathan)
Anjana Chakrabarty for shaitaan Pebble Dipping at this river In dress untainted Sankha-sindoor adorned At your tread thakur this pebble I fix to a twig No, not seeking children Nor husband’s health An unalloyed asati I am Another’s husband Who I have desired all my life Fasten him to this pebble And drop him—thhok! Right in front of my feet thakur Just for once. ****************** He My cross My nails My crown of thorns My tortuous death I have lugged them all unto him Smiles, vanity, this make-up Beneath jollity waking up With such ease can he spill blood Everyday *********** Tigress Sniffing, sniffing, the pale telephone A stray knock, leaping to the door Pointless nail scratches so Phone calls one or two, an sms may be (work related) Or perhaps a shadow lengthening there—afar Ah, then wagging tongue –swishing, twitching Raised tail, ah-tu-tu fondness Vaulting upto the moon To be doggish more than a dog can be Is how the days go by… And people think—tigress ! ********** Global Warming How close does the sun come to the earth? Days of rain have evaporated, like a miser’s perfume In every direction a scalding sun now, its rays blistering Phanimanasha Brambles Weariness Two people, unable anymore to lie together Poems, too, are combustible Sets ablaze The destined twosome **************** After the Rain Finally, it all eked out today Chunks and chunks of pain Golden filigreed sun One or two sparrows come out to play Wiping wet eyes they look up at the sky On such cloud-clear days I even wish I could love your wife. *********** Hazarduari A house met in a dream Rows of closed doors, rooms And you sleeping in one Your light body awake in lean darkness From such a distance its spark And heat Raging, flaring colour Scorching down a whole lifetime Just that I don’t know How many more demons Succubus Man-eating boa Three-headed dogs have I to cross Before that door comes unhinged ************* Shame In the dream there were no clothes Since you have not looked at me for days Since you have not shrouded this hungry body with yours Since you have not bedecked my naked body with a caress In this winter With no food, clothing In public, among so many people I was dying, splintered by shame ************** Otherworldly Following every ritual—pindo-daan, mukhagni Communes, fraternity, relations Beyond all trials and chhi chhi Quitting the vestures of our bodies Our souls have emerged The electric furnace has devoured Body and all else Ashes mingled with water Come now Let us draw close and make love Scrape claw lacerate each other For one more lush life ************* Relationship A lifetime of alap-vistaar Surdas? Shall this muffled, garbled relationship Never arrive at that jhala? Yours and mine? ************** Tune Tune is disguised fire Which you did not know Scalding throat tongue lips it will Slide you off your perch And then pour over you a river of fire *************** Bolted Attic No, I do not unlock the door anymore Do not dust Or spray baygon No garland or chandan Long ago I have tossed you Into the bolted attic Just beside the broken doll ************ Anjana Chakrabarty teaches English at Beltala Balika Bidyalaya, Kolkata. adminhumanitiesunderground.org
Gossip, Gossip, Gossip ! The Jail is Full of Gossip.
Snehangshu Kanta Acharyya [S.K. Acharyya was in prison in 1963, under the Defense of India Rules, which empowered the Government of India to imprison whoever it wanted as long as it wanted, without trial or charge. Barrister Acharyya was later the Advocate General of West Bengal. Here is a selection from his meticulously maintained diary.] ————————————– I entered the Presidency Jail at about 9 PM. After long spending time in the general lock up. I was taken to Ward No. 18 and there I found an advocate of our High Court, Kazi Mohammad Ali who was known to me for I had appeared as his senior in some cases he brought to me. Apart from Kazi, there were two New Zealanders who were kept there as under-trials having involved in some smuggling cases. I was surprised to find two other detainees, members of the C.P. I., who were in the same ward as me though sleeping on the floor and staying downstairs in Ward 17 but without the privilege of being in Division I. After my arrival, I talked through the door which separated the next ward on the western side where all other detainees of the C.P.I. were lodged. When I saw these two detainees in my ward, I got the first hint of the division which had broken out openly in the C.P.I. which was reflected inside the jails as well. ******************** The evening was the dullest part of the day. Lights were bad, making serious reading an impossibility. The greatest irritation was that the lights were not turned off at night and as I had this habit of sleeping in the dark, the bright lights made sleeping a near impossibility. The convicts somehow managed by playing cards and then take a few puffs of ‘ganja.’ But for time hangs heavily. I felt that it would have been better to have been in the thick of it and suffered than to have been in the fringe doing no good either to my family or to the movement. Anyway, this has cured me of vacillation. ****************** There was an announcement by the Jail authorities that persons donating blood will have remission of their sentences. This was greeted by continuous boos and howls. Some of our ‘Faltus’ commented that blood would be sold by authorities and not used for poor patients needing it. One of the prisoners told me that he had witnessed a strange sight: one night he saw in Kidderpore a lorry pick up some destitute and he joined them too. They were brought into a hospital having a blood back and all these persons were forced into a room and blood extracted. Some were paid paltry sums and after a heavily sugared cup of tea they were brought back in the lorry and left at Kiddepore again, but in a different route and were shooed off. ******************* The Librarian came and I returned all the books which I had taken, except for Agni Bina by Kazi Nazrul Islam. I somehow feel too overwhelmed to read novels, so I had selected some old Bengali dramas to renew my long lost memory. God alone knows when the books send by my wife will be ‘cleared’ by the Intelligence Branch for delivery to me. ********************* When I was in Conakry last October , I saw the prized representatives of the countries ruled by lesser Nehrus. All these representatives are typical boot-lickers of different Metropolitan Powers and are inordinately fond of European ways! ********************** Gossip, gossip gossip. The jail is full of gossip. What goes on in different wards. Yesterday, the P.D Act boys asked whether I shall be freed today. They had heard it in the office. I told them that my fate is not to be guessed by any jail officer. One new chap who has come along, has been, it seems, deliberately planted amongst us. The jails in India are run by convicts….The faltus do our work, bring food and also keep watch on us and on each other. ******************* The latrines are just too awful and I never go anywhere near these, unless I am literally forced to go. The bath, or the reservoir is full of cockroaches and insects floating about on the surface and the dropping of the birds and lots of feathers. The room or the ward is dirty, the roof is full of soot which descend on us quite often. The food, as I have said, is muck. The British had treated Indians as animals and convicted prisoner is certainly a creature below an animal and therefore this utter disregard to human desires or even human squeamishness. The Congress government and its champion Nehru, being a Harrow boy, has the identical mental attitude towards sub-human Indians, in general, and inhuman prisoners in particular, and have, therefore, kept the British system intact. ******************** There was a sudden visit by the Jailer and his deputy to carry on a search of our bed, body and boxes. Then suddenly the Jailer asked me if I had bought four exercise books for writing and have asked for two more. I said that it was so. He wanted to see my writings for censoring. I told him that I shall not give them to him under any condition. These writings were my own thoughts put to paper. I would like to see the rules which state that he could see them. I am of the opinion that there were none. But in case there were indeed such rules, I shall burn my writing rather than allow any ugly and mentally deficient stooges of Nehru look into them. He told me that I had better talk to the Superintendent. I shall take this matter up, I replied, to the Home Department or to the High Court if necessary. Anyway, I have started another book with only cryptic notes, in case my writings have to be destroyed. ********************** While I was writing a series of terrible shrieks came out
That Titillating Object of Capital: Reading the new Airtel advertisement
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9BlI9nhqTE Manash Bhattacharjee The new Airtel advertisement, which shows the relationship between a man and a woman where the woman plays the boss in office as and the wife at home, has provoked interest and discussion in the social sphere and the media. Two broad positions have emerged from the discussions. One view looks at the advertisement as a progressive innovation on gender roles, where the man soberly accepts the wife’s dictates as boss in office, while the boss also takes care to cajole her husband with her culinary skills at home. The other, critical but straightforwardly feminist, view is that despite the transformed power equation in office, the gender stereotype is restored by the wife cooking for the husband after work. Both views overlook the complete nexus of titillation the advertisement holds out to the consumer as much as they gloss over a fine reading of the advertisement itself. Reading an ad, like reading a film, involves a detailed and close insight into the political codes of the audio-visual medium. An ad, after all, is propaganda for a product, which in turn is a product of the larger capitalist machine that produces the circulation of such a promotional art. The reading of the ad film will aim to dismantle this (superficially) coherent object of titillation. Placing the Titillating Object: It is important to first re-cover the language of the ad to see through it. The ad begins with a scene in a corporate office, where a woman boss tells her two male team members that includes her husband, a particular work is urgent and needs to be finished within the day. The husband, addressing her by name, tries telling her it isn’t possible. But she insists with a touch of apology, the work simply has to be delivered. This sets up the tensed atmosphere for what follows. As the woman leaves office, she checks with her husband engrossed in the work she has assigned him. There is a resigned look on the husband’s face as the woman enquires about the work at hand. While leaving, she tells him to call her if he needs help. On her way back, the woman calls the man from her car, this time addressing her husband by name, asking him what he would like for dinner. The expression on the woman’s face suggests that the husband has given an indifferent reply. Next, she is shown at home, in casual clothes, raking her mind for the perfect cuisine to prepare for dinner. The husband receives her call at work, asking him to come home, to which the man gently indulges in mock play telling the wife his boss has given him work to finish, and disconnects the phone. But the man immediately receives a video call where the wife shows him the delicacies awaiting him at the dinner table. She teasingly asks him to tell the boss that his wife is calling him back home. The man teases back, prodding her to tell the boss herself. There is a smile of reconciliation on the man’s face and the wife ends the call by once again insisting he return soon and that she is waiting for him. The temptations for the man are in place. The fruits of a good day’s work await him. He has satisfied his boss at the workplace the way a child satisfies his teacher at school, and has suitably earned the right to enjoy his reward. The coquettish boss-cum-wife and the aromatic dinner at home are equally inviting. They are also charged with erotic content. Wife and dinner are both appetising signals sent through the smartphone. The man at work, having served the conditions of corporate urgency well, is now being asked to return home and feast on his fantasies. The fantasies have been laid out before him. The woman has changed her role from boss to wife. This double role play keeps the man on his toes. The work and pleasure principles have been evenly distributed to keep the client’s ego balanced and satisfied. Economy of the Titillating Object: It is an incredibly neat ad, with both the man and the woman playing their roles in tune with the smooth background score. There is a delectable transition from workplace to home space, and the new-age couple fits hand-in-glove into the larger bourgeois dream of a perfectly run nuclear family. Their personal dreams merge with the capitalist dream and both worlds are happy together. Within this rosy scenario, smartphone smartly inserts its presence and completes the picture. Unlike the feminist complaint, the woman is at the top of the power equation, both in office as well as at home. Just because the wife cooks for the husband, the gender stereotype doesn’t fall into place. The gender equation between the woman and the man has to be understood within the new, advertised economy of their relationship. Just as the woman, as the suave and persuasive boss in office, holds control over the man’s productive capabilities, as the inviting wife who calls him for the dinner she has herself prepared, she holds equally supreme control over the man’s libidinal proclivity. The woman, enjoying power in the smart move to reverse gender roles, is the very symbol of capitalism in this newly erected capitalist economy of the ad. She alone owns the power to dictate, control and lure the subject of labour, the man’s labour power. She alone owns the power to dictate, control and lure the subject of desire, the man’s libidinal power. So what if she cooks for the man? Capitalism can cook for you to extract the necessary amount of your labour power, and to lure the excess of your libidinal power. Capitalism can cook for you to suck your blood. If the idea of labour is a norm in the capitalist economy, any form of desire (for food and sex) is the excess, the exception that needs to be tamed, controlled and dissipated within the