On July 8, 1947, Cyril Radcliffe arrived in India for the first time. He had five weeks and four judges to settle the boundary between the newly independent India and a newborn state of Pakistan. After drawing the “ Radcliffe Line,” the British officer burnt his papers, refused his fee, and left the wounded continent never to set foot on it again. Based on W.H. Auden’s famous poem, “Partition,” this is an illustrated account of the man who oversaw the controversial border settlement which left one million dead and twelve million homeless and permanently displaced.
One day I decided to film one of our guards, Ramesh Ji—the ji here is an honorific—who is from Madhya Pradesh. From outside, the guardroom is a confined place—a voluntary prison. As I stepped inside the room, I expected the monotony of waiting, the slow passing of moments to dull me. But I was wrong. As I listened to the Birha enactment of an oral tale in a dialect of Hindi that was playing on his mobile phone, slowly, the complex and subtle knots of his world revealed themselves to me.
As I breathed and immersed myself in the human dynamics of the oral tale, I realized the world that Ramesh Ji inhabits is an old one, passed down from the times when our ancestors lived in a cave no different than this room, in form of oral tales, oral history, folk songs, in languages that have evolved or disappeared, in a language that is losing its relevance in the global English village.
Now the way I look at Ramesh Ji or his people’s way of storytelling has changed: a man without his people’s stories is poor and deserves pity; the man who knows his people’s origins and history is always rich. I no longer think he lives in a prison—his room is a doorway to a cultured world, just as yours or mine. These stories are our roots, our common heritage on the blue and green dots of a planet. (more…)
As a writer and filmmaker, I was deeply disturbed by the death of Junaid Khan. “I Am Junaid”, our latest video is an appeal to remember and awaken the secular spirt of this great country.
Please watch and help spread this message of peace and solidarity.
Stop Lynching: Note In My Name – Appeal to PM Modi
At Not In My Name protest in New Delhi today against lynching of innocent people by criminal and extremist groups across the country, I saw this young gentleman in handcuffs, holding Tiranga—the Indian national flag—and a copy of the Indian constitution for Prime Minister Narendra Modi. Please watch and share this video: he had really important things to say for our country…
हिन्दुस्तान के नाम एक नौजवान की पहला और आखिरी खत:
हे राम, तेरे हाथों मेरा नाम हराम हो गया। — भारत
It doesn’t matter whether you are living a sheltered life in a valley, or struggling to scrape a living in exile, the war always finds brutal and ingenious ways to come to your home or school. I wrote “Kohram – The Wailing” at the height of the people’s war in the Himalayan territories, before the red rebels signed a comprehensive peace accord with the ruling parties in 2005. Already in my late teens, I covered those turbulent years as a young citizen journalist and blogger, writing and reporting for my blog (now private), “Kathmandu Speaks,” national and foreign publications. Two years later, I would decide to quit journalism, and leave the city in which I grew up to become a lifelong student of arts, technology, film. Wow, it’s been quite an incredible journey!
Mithila is a glorious kingdom ruled by philosopher kings in the Sanskrit epic Ramayana. Millennia later, say in an alternate universe, it’s a decolonized terrain beset with intolerance and violence, a symbol of a civilization in decline.
Science fiction and fantasy that draws its power from actual science and history—a scientific spirit based on evidence, logic and rationality—could be a fluid and powerful language of protest in the new era of demagogues; science fiction could be a new language of awakening and enlightenment in the post-truth world. This was the core belief around which Ajapa and I built Mithila Review, a new kind of open journal with an inherently global bent in an increasing privatized and closed world.
Mithila Review grew out of our innermost fears, needs and concerns. We wanted to counter the growing climate of hate and injustice that surround us, and we knew we couldn’t do it alone, from an invisible, electrified patch of our planet. From the beginning, it was self-evident that we couldn’t hope to win against our enemy—the ideology of segregation and hate—without recognizing, addressing, or overcoming the many differences within and outside SF communities.
We chose to stubbornly believe that Mithila, as a referent, could speak to the times when we have felt that we don’t quite belong; when we liberated our anger and pain in ways that have fed the creative river within us. It’s been deeply gratifying to see that we were not wrong in our belief. Flash-forward a year, Mithila Review is a beautiful example of what we can accomplish together; it’s the result of a global mindset and collective effort. With contributors from Africa, Asia, Europe and the Americas, Mithila Review has evolved into a global platform for a spectacular gamut of humanity—not a single language, gender or race, its singular tribes or colorful nationalities.
A Brand New Anime Series From the Makers of Badass Buddha
Zig flickers against the static wind, resisting the strong pull of the Furnace, a dark skeletal figure sucks the blood off the horizon. The contour of Zig’s body vibrates like strings. All around him the phantom city falls to eerie shambles while the wordcreatures feed on the radiation off the glowing abyss down where the asphalt road ends and the heart of the Furnace begins.
Awakened like wrath of the god with a million eyes, the Furnace rumbles and shakes the earth like a kamikaze bomber. A spear of black light, emitting hatred, turning into radiation, rise to pierce the starry veil of the night sky, followed by an ear-splitting boom. The first wave of the dark light cracks Zig’s chest, knocking him off his feet on the charred ground. Hungrily, the Furnace scorches everything—man obsessed with his machines, women with their décor magazines, children working on models of rockets and spaceships—that lay on its path, extending from its reactor-heart to edge of the island coast, a dead mass unmoored from its orbit, drifting aimlessly until it settled in a new course, if not worse.
“Come, Kid,” says Boar, the leader of the sounder. His body a smooth bump against the raggedy landscape. “Offshore safe and pretty, let us go.”
So Zig follows the snorting succession of the boars, trailing each other like holy monks, their hooves barely touching the charred ground. He still feels it was wrong to leave the city in ruins. “We could start rebuilding.”
“Can’t, Zig,” Boar says. “Worse than poison, the dark force; nay, it doesn’t kill. Wordcreatures shine, glow, and then p-u-f-f—boars or not, out like shooting stars everything goes.”
Boar is right, of course. He is a radiating halo among other death stars. Every second they stay on the coast, they grow more dependent on the evil force—the radiation is corrupting something within them, and they know it. Perhaps their soul.
“We swim to the new island,” Boar says. “Build home. Come now.”
Reality is always difficult to recreate. The boy who dreamt of these worlds lies entombed by a planet.
The curator projects the hand-drawn cartoons stored on a micro-ship on a giant white screen aboard Yama IV. A thick wall of light, modified aluminium and carbon shield them from the vast burning cold of the space outside.
We change a few details here and there, lift source materials and transpose them in worlds that we build.
“I was better off dead,” Zig declares, raggedy and torn, bending time and space and pulsating everything about him like a teenager. “You wake horrible and wicked things with wordmagic.”
“Harmless Zig,” asks Boar, “What wicked things?”
“The Furnace,” he replies. “You soak and scrub the air and water, but it’s no use.”
“We feed on radiation without getting eaten up. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not for every wordcreature.”
“You have a plan?” Boar feigns interest.
“Something like it.”
“You don’t know a thing.”
“What did I miss?”
“The whole point,” the boar snorts, his back turned against the grim coast. “We’re deader than dead, and everything on this coast. The coast yonder and beyond. We all ghosts here on a phantom planet. One big hell.”
The curator is a short man in his fifties with taut features of Asian stock. His audience is fifteen something.
Hiro was four, he said, when he first saw a boar in the wild. They had trapped the boar for a relative’s housewarming party. It was a huge menacing beast with sharp rows of grating teeth, save for its clown ears and snout. They put the poor beast in a cage in the back of their van, which would later reek of urine and shit and fear.
You have seen green-blue egg picture of Earth. Pretty, yes, from long distance. But closer you went, the filth shot at you. The innards of the cities were filthy, ugly—much like it is today.
The curator pauses for effect.
They slaughtered the boar for the party later that evening, but Hiro couldn’t bring himself to eat it. Next morning he went back, gathered the mess of hair and scattered bones in the boar-pelt, and buried it in a hole in the riverbank. Afterwards, he moved to the city to study arts, and apprenticed to a popular animator of his time. You probably already know that story.
Years later, when he returned to the village to scatter his father’s ashes in the Lai River, he saw the ruins of a tall and spent brick furnace, where he had once buried the remains of the boar, preserved by a tangle of weeds and grass. Old memories shook him like cold waves of the sea.
There were big holes along the riverbank. But the river had long changed its course, and then dried up. He could count the inhabitants of the village on his fingers, he said. Young people like him didn’t want to live there anymore. So they moved to the big cities. The whole place was almost deserted. The shocking clarity of the moment, he said, became the basis for the film that we just saw, and his subsequent fantasies. You can’t erase or incinerate that sort of childhood encounter from your being, the place where no instrument of man can reach.
We don’t know much about the circumstances of Hiro’s father’s death. But I tend to believe their relationship was similar to the one the boy has with the boar in this film. We are a million years away from Earth, but we can still experience the emotions that were the basis of his work. That is genius—a gift of humanity, which we carry with us, within each one of us as our common inheritance.
Cut to Zig swimming back to the old coast with a dark shadow. A blue and red line of ghosts bound with tattoo spells protects the Furnace from wordcreatures. The skeletal beasts look less intimidating than the towering figure itself, rising hundreds of feet above the ground, daring the Sacred Buddhas to confront it. Gathering courage, Zig steps inside the line of spell, and begins to turn to dust, white as children’s bones and teeth. Slowly, the dust gathers and moulds, and takes the shape of a boar. Every cursed spirit that comes near him transforms—their skin no longer appear inked or incriminated.
“They are now free from the cycle of karma,” the curator informs his rapt audience.
Soon more animated boars arrive at the scene. “Kid, you done it,” their leader snorts. The boar kid smiles as he leads them to the massive heart of the radiating monster. They lick and soak all the waste and ionizing heat. When they return outside, the first green saplings curl and breach the reclaimed territory. “Welcome to postcalypto!”
Now old seeds buried deep within the breasts of the ocean drift ashore, followed by a rapid-motion of a new wave of evolution. The red-green vegetation encroaches the rim of the coast, and then the Furnace. The first saplings touch the spirits freed by Zig, and they start to lift toward the sky as if propelled by life—“pure energy,” Boar calls it—with calm and grateful expression on their round, blanched faces.
All the boars huddle around Zig, the boar-kid, as they snort and watch the spirits leave, without a trace of contempt or envy.
“They are Bodhisattvas,” the curator intervenes, “All of them bound together by suffering.”
The crowd bursts into a loud applause when he turns back the light.
“Thank you,” the curator starts. “We’ll now open to the floor.”
Manokamana – Poetry on Film Series #4
Title: Report, Length: 45 seconds
Language: Nepali, Subtitles: English, Nepali
I don’t remember exactly when I wrote this short poem. “Report” is about the relationship we have as poets and artists with the country we choose to take refuge in, build a home, serve. It’s about the desire to see peace and prosperity flourish in the lands we traverse, be it our own or foreign. It’s about the collective failure of a people, a nation, which has become a Salusa Secundus of the modern world. (more…)