Jodi Kantor's new book The Obamas reports that "Barack refuses to miss dinner with his family more than twice a week". Apparently, this is not good. Obama's family-centric approach "left him, when the going got tough, short of friends, short of people who owed him, short of people who felt that the White House was interested in them". Effective presidents are meant to be out and about, schmoozing with potential allies.
Powerful men across the political spectrum face the same trade-off - between family time and schmoozing - on this side of the pond. David Cameron, Nick Clegg and Ed Miliband are all in what the Economist calls their "Gruffolo years", the time when dads read stories to their children. By most accounts, all three party leaders make time for their families.
I clearly sympathize with Obama's and Cameron's choice (I'm writing this after having read out The Blackberry Mouse to my daughters). I want to believe that work can and should be organized so it can be done within defined working hours. But the truth is, there is a trade-off. I inhabit a less exalted world than the Obamas' and the Camerons', but even in my little world, schmoozing is clearly useful, but it is a potentially infinite drain on time and energy.
How much easier it must be for Manmohan Singh. He didn't have to face these hard trade-offs between bedtime stories and professional schmoozing when he became Prime Minister of India, aged 72. Maybe working into what used to be the "retirement years" isn't all bad.
I caught the Tintin movie on a flight recently, and it was a
mixed bag. I loved the look. The motion capture technique works well. It
strikes a nice balance between
maintaining the texture of the original comic and creating something
contemporary. But the movie takes a bunch of
arbitrary, and entirely unnecessary, liberties with the story and
characterization, which grates on committed, long-term Tintin fans like me.
Like, for example, Captain Haddock's Scottish accent. There
is no indication in any of Herge's comics that the Captain is Scottish. One doesn't have to be a Scot to love Scotch. Sure, Captain Haddock still is endearing even with his accent, but why
introduce this Scottish distraction?
Scottish identity is especially distinctive and pungent
right now, with a referendum looming on Scotland's independence. A Scottish
accent also communicates class. The Scottish upper classes - the kind of people
who trace their lineage to colonial naval captains, are heirs to stately homes,
and are christened Archibald - typically speak with upper-class English accents. Even The
Scotsman is not sure how to react to this Scottish Haddock. Embrace him,
because he is cool and Scottish? Or cringe, because he reinforces the
stereotype of the Scot as a drunken grouch with a heart-of-gold? I don't think Spielberg
is trying to stir these ghosts, but by treading on this ground, he inevitably does
so.
Fortunately, Spielberg's Tintin hasn't been saturated with a
specific identity. He remains the Tintin we grew up with - the Tintin of
indeterminate age, social class, nationality, sexuality and politics - which is
the genius of Tintin. His ambiguity is his strength. Tintin is neutral. So, it
is easy to project any self, any identity, into Tintin. As a Tam Bram boy in Madras, I didn't have to make an effort to locate myself in Tintin's skin, and go exploring the world of the Incas, Tibet, Al Capone's Chicago, Syldavia or
the moon. I would have had a harder time getting myself into a Scottish, or
even an explicitly Belgian, Tintin.
Another grouse: they don't sail to the Caribbean in
search of Red Rackham's Treasure. Surely, they can't edit out that sequence!
Exploring the wreck of the Unicorn in Professor Calculus' anti-shark submarine
would make for some wonderful cinema.
I blame Steven Spielberg for these grating deviations from
Herge's script, rather than his co-producer Peter Jackson. Steven Spielberg
first heard about Tintin when his Indiana Jones character was likened to
Tintin. Peter Jackson grew up as a Tintin devotee. He also grew up as a Lord of
the Rings devotee, and he struck that delicate balance between fidelity and re-interpretation
perfectly when he made the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Peter Jackson will be
directing the next Tintin film, so I'm optimistic that the next film will show
a more refined instinct for what is, and is not, sacred about Tintin.
Peter Jackson could do worse than to cast himself as a Kiwi
Captain Haddock. He looks the part. Check out the featurette below...
Che Guevara is an iconic hero, universally beloved and
revered. Fidel Castro is often seen as a villain, hated and reviled as one of
the world's last Stalinist thugs. But, are they really all that different? Or,
did Che just have the advantage of dying young and therefore remaining pure,
while Fidel lived on, grappling with and being tainted by an imperfect world?
This thought was triggered by the book I reviewed in my last
blog post, The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ, by Philip Pullman. Pullman's
intent was to contrast noble, idealistic Jesus with his cynical fictional twin
brother, Christ. Pullman conceived Christ as a metaphor for the institutional
church. I understood Christ even more broadly, as a general metaphor for institutional life. The
tension between an organization's ideals and its reality is universal. The only way to be genuinely Jesus-like is to die young, and to therefore
avoid the failures and compromises that inevitably come from engaging with the
messy real world.
To further strengthen the analogy, Che and
Fidel have really cool beards, like Jesus and Christ. Though I don't think
either Jesus or Christ smoked cigars...
I read, and enjoyed, a book that called Christ a scoundrel. The book is by Philip Pullman, a well known atheist. Pullman isn’t being subtle about his name calling, Christ is referred to as a scoundrel in bold print, in the book’s title.
Initially, I wasn’t sure if I should be blogging about a book that calls Christ a scoundrel, I'm not here to offend people. Then, I found that the Church of England Newspaper called the book “magnificent” (while noting that five hundred years ago Philip Pullman would have been burnt at stake as a heretic). The former Bishop of Edinburgh wrote a thoughtful and positive review in The Guardian. The Archbishop of Canterbury’s review found in it “a voice of genuine spiritual authority”. My blogging about the scoundrel Christ should be okay.
Pullman’s book is a retelling of the life of Jesus, with a twist.
In Pullman's telling, Jesus is born with a twin brother called Christ. Jesus is a passionate, charismatic idealist. Christ is a clever, careful pragmatist, an apparatchik. Jesus connects with real people, and moves or exhorts them to a more fulfilling life. Christ hero-worships his brother Jesus, diligently records his words, and conceives of an institution he calls “the church” to celebrate and immortalize Jesus, an idea Jesus despises.
Jesus says “if anyone hits you on the right cheek, offer him the left as well...love your enemies, and pray for them...The road that leads to life is a hard one, and it passes through a narrow gate, but the road to destruction is easy, and the gate is broad...do to others as you hope they would do to you.”
Christ says “think of the advantages if there were a body of believers, a structure, an organization already in place...I can see the whole world united in this Kingdom of the faithful...local groups under the guidance of a wise elder in the region, the regional leaders all answering to the authority of one supreme director, a kind of regent of God on earth...I can see Caesar himself having to bow down before this body, and offer obeisance to God’s own kingdom here in the world...I can see the majesty and splendour of the great temples, the courts, the palaces devoted to the glory of God, and I can see this whole wonderful creation lasting for generation after generation.”
Pullman makes no secret of his contempt for the church, his anger about “the Crusades, the witch-hunts, the heretic-burnings, the narrow fanatical zeal that comes so swiftly and naturally to some individuals in positions of power when faith gives them an excuse”. His character Christ is written to be the object of this contempt, this anger. Pullman explains: “I wanted this Christ to embody as much as possible of what the church later did to alter, edit and ignore the words of Jesus, and to benefit from his death and supposed resurrection.”
So, in Pullman's story, Christ betrays Jesus to the Romans. The church needs the crucifixion to happen, to serve as its founding myth. Pullman sees the church as the judas who betrays Jesus.
Yet, paradoxically, by writing Jesus and Christ as distinct characters, and by juxtaposing them, Pullman liberates the good man Jesus from the scoundrel Christ. Jesus' greatness is so much more apparent when the evil that has been done in his name can be decanted into another character.
Even his portrayal of the scoundrel Christ is kinder than it might have been. Pullman explains, “Christ developed in a way I hadn’t expected, and found himself with a human conscience, tempted and torn and compromised”. The modern church has good reason to be so relaxed about Pullman’s heresy.
I find I can relate to this tension - between an ideal and an institution that claims to stand for that ideal - more directly, more emotionally, by porting it into an Indian context. These lines from Tagore’s Gitanjali are often cited as the animating spirit behind India’s freedom:
"Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--- Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake."
Unsurprisingly, the Republic of India doesn’t always live up to Tagore’s ideal. That isn’t a reason to lose faith in either Tagore’s ideal or in the Indian republic.
Perhaps the only certainty with any institution is that the institution seeks to enhance its own power. This is true for nation states, churches, business corporations, NGOs, universities, armies...the whole shooting match...they’re all out to turn themselves into something majestic, splendid and glorious, lasting generation after generation. In the process, they can do terrible things. Limiting their power, so terrible things happen less often, is good. Yoking that power to a higher ideal, doesn’t always work, but is not bad.
So, just how much of a scoundrel is Pullman's Christ, thought of both as a character in this story, as well as a metaphor for the church as an institution?
Pullman's narrative starts
at Jesus' conception. The story continues along Jesus' noble path - rejecting
Satan's temptations, the sermon on the mount, the cleansing of the temple -
until it descends to the squalor of Christ taking money from Caiaphas to betray
Jesus. That narrative arc feels like the fall of man. it shows Christ as a
scoundrel.
However, Jesus is not Adam. His story didn't begin at his conception. Jesus was born into a context, a context which is
apparent even in Pullman's tight narrative. Jesus was born into a world of
brutal Roman oppressors, of the rigid and corrupt Jewish establishment, and of
any number of transient spiritual cults. These cults, however transient, gave people
something they valued - a sense of purpose and belonging. In that context,
creating an durable institution that would provide people with some of this
value feels like the right thing to do.
Was it worth betraying Jesus to create such an institution?
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe Pullman's Christ is like one of John Le Carre's spies,
Smiley's people, doing shady deals that may or may not work, for a cause that may or may not turn out to be just, like Kim Philby, the upper-class Englishman who betrayed his people to spy for the soviets because he sincerely believed in the communist ideal. Maybe Christ's dilemma was like Brutus':
Brutus loved Caesar, but loved Rome more. History judged Brutus kindly. Either
way, Christ seen in context is an ambiguous character, not obviously a scoundrel.
Or maybe (I don't like this thought, but it is too strong to resist) it comes down to youth. Jesus had the charisma, idealism and moral clarity of youth. Like John Kennedy, Jim Morrison and James Dean, like Gautam Buddha, Adi Shankara and Swami Vivekananda, Jesus died young, and remained pure. Christ lived on, to be tarnished by an imperfect world, to be called a scoundrel for his troubles. Looked at this way, the benediction that follows most naturally from the life of Jesus and Christ are the words of another man who was once called Judas: "may you stay, forever young".
"Nobody ever did anything very foolish except from some strong principle". I chanced upon this quote a couple of months ago, and it has stayed in my mind ever since. It is an old quote, by the 2nd Viscount Melbourne, the young Queen Victoria's political mentor, but it has stayed in mind because it feels contemporary, and is less cynical than it sounds.
Good principles - like, for instance, that all human beings are created equal - tend to be very abstract. It is never obvious how these abstract principles translate into programs of specific action, into doing. However, it is always tempting to invoke these principles to build support for a program of action.
The problem with linking an action plan closely with its animating principle is that it makes it harder to abandon the action plan, which is a pity, because only certainty with any action plan is that it will be made to look silly by "black swans", by real-world conditions that the plan did not, and could not have, known about. The bigger the agenda, the more quickly the black swans will strike.
A program of action which is tightly linked to a cherished principle usually means a program of action that isn't adaptive enough. von Moltke the elder was pointing in the same direction when he said "No battle plan survives contact with the enemy"
Kolaveri Di has lived out fourteen out of its fifteen minutes of fame. So, one final thought to occupy that last minute: Kolaveri Di has what it takes to win the Eurovision song contest.
This thought comes straight from Only Mr. God Knows Why, an article by Anthony Lane (which, refreshingly, is still visible to the public on the New Yorker website). Anthony Lane's thesis is that a Eurovision contestant's main problem is reach out across a continent which doesn't know your language or culture. Consider these extracts:
“Europe has a problem...if you don’t speak English, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. The Greek guys? Good song, but it’s in Greek. Will they play that on the radio in France?"
...of the songs that have reached the finals over the years, two hundred and sixty-three have been in English, the lingua franca of pop. French, with a hundred and fifty, is the only other language in triple figures; the rest lag far behind...
On the one hand, the contest is an obvious chance for European nations, especially the less prominent ones, to flaunt their wares by singing in their native tongue. On the other hand, when you sing in English, you may be blasting through the language barrier to reach a wider audience, but are you not abasing yourself before the Anglo-American cultural hegemony...
...there are three well-established methods for avoiding it.
One is to be France, whose performers, as you would hope, grind away in French, year after year, repelling all intruders, giving only the barest hint that other languages, let alone other civilizations, even exist...
The second method is to be Ireland, the nation that has won the contest more often than any other. Seven times it has struck gold, and no wonder; if you can sing in English without actually being English—all the technical advantages without the shameful imperialist baggage—you’re halfway to the podium already.
The third method, which is by far the most popular, and which has brought mirthful pleasure to millions on an annual basis, is to sing in Eurovision English: an exquisite tongue, spoken nowhere else, which raises the poetry of heartfelt but absolute nonsense to a level of which Lewis Carroll could only have dreamed. The Swedes are predictably fluent in this (“Your breasts are like swallows a-nesting,” they sang in 1973), and the Finns, too, should be hailed as early masters, with their faintly troubling back-to-back efforts from the mid-seventies, “Old Man Fiddle” and “Pump-pump,”
...hence such gems as Austria’s “Boom Boom Boomerang,” from 1977 (not to be confused with Denmark’s “Boom Boom,” of the following year), Portugal’s “Bem-bom,” from 1982, and Sweden’s “Diggi-loo Diggi-ley,” which won in 1984. The next year’s contenders, spurred by such bravado, responded with “Magic, Oh Magic” (Italy) and “Piano Piano” (Switzerland). Not that the host nation relinquished the crown without a fight, as anyone who watched Kikki Danielsson can attest. Her song was called “Bra Vibrationer.” It was, regrettably, in Swedish.
Kolaveri Di fits this third formula perfectly. One doesn't need to really know either Tamil or English to get into the spirit of Kolaveri Di. "Distance-u la moon-u moon-u, moon-u colour-u white-u", is right up there with anything the Swedes, Finns or Portuguese can create. Please note: it is entirely conceivable that India will participate in the Eurovision song contest one day, last year's winner was Azerbaijan.
On an aside, maybe the Punjabization of India I posted about last week is because Punjabi is the most onamatopoeic of Indian languages. I don't know Punjabi, yet, I have no problem understanding "Chak de India" or "Tootak tootak tootiyan hey jamaalon". The language used by Premchand, Tagore, Bharatiyar, or for that matter, Shakespeare, is necessarily for narrower audiences.
The Rugby World Cup is on. I am cheering for the All Blacks.
India is not playing, so I can swear allegiance to any team in the tournament. I would, ideally, choose my team based on their skills, tactics, character and creativity. However, sadly, I don’t know rugby well enough to exercise that kind of nuanced judgement. I’ve worked out the scoring system and sort of know the main rules – like you can’t pass the ball forward – but I still find penalties baffling, and I can’t tell a fly-half from a hooker. No, I didn’t become an All Blacks fan because of their game.
Some people think I’m supporting the All Blacks just because they are going to win the World Cup. That is not the case. Yes, the Kiwis are the bookie’s favourite, but I’ve been a sports fan for too long to read much meaning into the bookie’s reading of the tea leaves. My natural instinct is the opposite: to support the spunky underdog rather than the favourite. The truth is, I am cheering for the All Blacks because I love the Haka.
There is a lot to love about the Haka. The lilting melody, uplifting lyrics and the balletic grace of the performers never fails to stir the spirit. But, on reflection, I think the main reason the Haka resonates with me is its political symbolism.
The Haka is obviously a Maori war ritual, yet, both Polynesian and Caucasian Kiwis embrace it as their own. It doesn’t seem to be an in-your-face assertion of Maori pride, like say the Tommie Smith’s Black Salute at the 1968 Olympic Games. It doesn’t seem to be an ironic or mocking adoption of Maori imagery by a dominant Caucasian culture either. Daniel Carter and Malili Muliaina both seem to perform the Haka in the same spirit, with the same pride and conviction.
I sometimes hear about being "tolerant" of other identities in multi-cultural societies. Personally, I don't actually like being tolerant. When I'm being tolerant, I'm just keeping the lid on irritation, resentment or even anger that are simmering beneath the surface. A zestful, whole-hearted embrace of another identity, like the Haka, feels so much better than mere tolerance. Maybe that is the path to genuine, successful multi-cultural societies.
The way John Lennon might have put it:
"You may say I'm a dreamer But I'm not the only one I hope one day you'll join us And the world will do the Haka as one...."
Chennai Super Kings, my home town cricket team, just won IPL 4 in style. They have clearly been the best team on show since the inception of the IPL, with two trophies, one runner up spot, and one semi-final finish.
Many reasons have been ascribed to this performance, from MS Dhoni's captaincy, to the stability of the squad, to Stephen Fleming's coaching. I really like the tactical intelligence of CSK's game plans - Ashwin opening the bowling, Hussey and Vijay playing traditional cricket shots rather than low percentage slogs and Dil-scoops, Badrinath's clear role as the crisis man, Dougie Bollinger's yorkers at the death, shuffling the batting order to maintain left-right pairs - good, smart cricket.
But, as the many erudite Mylapore Mamis in CSK's fan base will be happy to explain, success does not derive only from one's tactics, from the flow of one's deeds on the field of action, from one's karyas on the dharmakshetra. Success also derives from karma, from the stock of goodness accumulated through many small acts of kindness and decency. These acts happened long before the men in yellow stepped onto the dharmakshetra of Chepauk.
One of these karmic factors working for CSK, which mainstream cricket commentators seem to have completely missed, is their co-ed cheering squad. CSK were the only IPL team with both men and women in their cheering squad. They were led by a shaven-headed fifty one year old drummer called Sivamani.
I certainly don't mean to pass judgment on the all-girl cheerleading squads, or on their admirers, as "bad". But CSK's co-ed approach just feels better, more comfortable, more natural. There is no obvious reason why leading a cheer for a sports team should be sexually charged. Cricket has long had a tradition of colourful, noisy and committed fans: Sri Lanka's Percy Abeysekara, India's Sudhir Gautam, West Indies' Trini Posse, England's Barmy Army. This cheering was never sexy (though the Barmy Army's chat with an Aussie fielder at the boundary line could involve pointed references to his sexuality). Sex and cricket always were fulfilling, but distinct, aspects of life.
When cheerleading was invented in America, at Princeton University in 1884, it was an all-male activity. Presidents Dwight Eisenhower and Franklin Roosevelt were cheerleaders in their time. Somewhere along the way, cheering a sports team morphed into the stylized sexual displays put on in the USA today in football and basketball (but not in cricket's cousin baseball). The IPL imported this into cricket in the name of "marketing".
Perhaps the greatest failure of NFL style cheerleading at the IPL is not moral but material: it doesn't seem to work in marketing terms. Several teams with great looking all-girl cheering squads are failing to fill their stadiums, or to animate their crowds. Ultimately, people who want to watch dancing girls can watch them elsewhere, without the annoying bat-ball distractions. The men and women who pitch up at cricket matches are there to enjoy the cricket. Sivamani and his co-ed troop successfully orchestrated the cheering of these real fans. CSK's fans were easily the most passionate and vocal in the IPL, effectively adding another player to CSK, making them almost invincible at home. Long may the force remain with CSK, and with Sivamani.
I first encountered Bashi Bazouks in The Crab With The Golden Claws. At the time, I didn't really wonder who or what they were. I just accepted them as another Haddock-ism, like lily livered landlubbers, or fancy dress fatimas, or ostrogoths, all good ways of describing people who don't understand that Loch Lomond whiskey is sacred. Nonetheless, I was delighted when I found Bashi Bazouks in a totally different context.
It turns out that the story of the Bashi Bazouks is much sadder than that of odd-toed ungulates, or duck-billed platypuses or even billions of bilious blue blistering barnacles.
I came across Bashi Bazouks while reading about the Ottoman-Russian war in 1876. Bashi Bazouks were irregular fighters in the Ottoman Army. They were unpaid, non-uniformed, and used as lookouts or sentries. They gained international notoriety when they were involved in horrific escalating tit-for-tat violence in Bulgaria, between Christian Bulgarian nationalists and Muslim Ottomans, which culminated in the Bashi Bazouks' massacre of the entire mountain-town of Batak.
It is hard to know what actually happened at this time. Open sources like Wikipedia can be unreliable when describing emotionally-charged political history like this. But to the extent that my Googled-up references can be trusted, the Bashi Bazouks were both tragic victims and brutal aggressors. Many of them were Muslim Circassian refugees from the Crimean wars, displaced from their homeland and repeatedly brutalized by the Bulgarian majority, before retaliating with even more brutality when they were finally given license by the Ottomans.
This story has a surprisingly contemporary feel. The soul-destroying ethnic violence in the Balkans and the Caucuses is still going on. The great powers are still learning that fighting proxy wars with low-cost irregular troops usually ends in tragedy, whether you call them Bashi Bazouks, Tamil Tigers, Sandinistas or mujahedeen.
Changing tack a bit, ever wondered who Archibald is? Captain Haddock's first name is Archibald. Fortunately, this Archie is not a carrot-top.
I generally review books after I have read them, but I'm posting about Red Plenty when its still in my Amazon shopping basket. I heard about this book's premise on the radio, and the premise may turn out to be its most more interesting part.
Here is what the front flap says:
Once upon a time in the Soviet Union...
Strange as it may seem, the grey, oppressive USSR was founded on a fairy tale. It was built on the twentieth century magic called "the planned economy", which was going to gush forth an abundance of good things that the lands of capitalism could never match. And just for a little while, in the heady years of the late 1950s, the magic seemed to be working.
Red Plenty is about that moment in history, and how it came, and how it went away; about the brief era when, under the rash leadership of Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet Union looked forward to an future of rich communists and envious capitalists...
This was the time between the launch of Sputnik in 1957, and the Cuban missile crisis in 1962, when the Soviet Union looked and felt rich and successful. It felt like the Soviets had invented a wonderful new world, both morally and materially superior to the West. So...this was the illusion, the chimera, that lured Nehru's India into decades of socialism and stagnation.
Red Plenty's hero is Leonid Kantorovich, the only Soviet to win the Nobel Prize for Economics. He invented linear programming (among other things), and so helped create the impression that Soviet science could allocate resources more effeciently than capitalist markets. The book is a melding of fact and fiction about how that vision was, and was not, true.
The other book in my Amazon shopping basket is Michael Lewis' The Big Short. I've actually started reading this book, but I didn't finish my father-in-law's copy on our last trip to Madras. It feels like a nice counter-point to Red Plenty. It too takes us back to a far-away past, the time between the fall of the Berlin Wall and the fall of Lehman Brothers, and reminds us that capitalism can also fall into catastrophic science-induced hubris.
I was on a business trip to Istanbul recently. All I had time for was the airport, hotel, and conference center - annoying when visiting one of the world’s most fascinating cities. Fortunately, my hotel was Absolut Istanbul, on the grounds of the old Dolmabache Palace, overlooking the Bosphorus. Plus, I got another shot of Istanbullu from my in-flight reading. The Sultan's Seal, by an American anthropologist called Jenny White, successfully transported me to the Ottoman capital circa 1887.
I entered a world where the Ottoman sultan was very much in charge, but the glories of empire could no longer be taken for granted. The campfires of the Russian army were visible from Istanbul rooftops, as the Czar’s troops chipped away at the empire’s former Balkan heartland. The British resident was a big figure in Istanbul, since it was the British guarantee of protection that kept the Russians at bay. The resident’s sweet, pretty and idealistic daughter believes, in all sincerity, that the Ottoman empire becoming a British protectorate would be good for all concerned, as had been amply demonstrated in India and Africa.
At this time, the province of Syria, which included all of modern Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Jordan, and parts of modern Iraq, was an integral part of the Ottoman empire. Mecca and Medina were also a part of Ottoman Arabia, a natural part of the domain of the Sunni Caliph.
The term Turk referred to the unsophisticated peasants of Anatolia. The genteel upper classes of Istanbul were Ottomans, not Turks. Idealistic, romantic sons of this genteel class met in Parisian coffee houses and debated whether reform could restore the empire’s glory, or if revolution was necessary, and if talk of revolution constituted heresy since the Ottoman sultan was also the Caliph. The Jews of Istanbul's Galata ghetto, loyal subjects of the Caliph for over four hundred years since Catholic Queen Isabella kicked them out of Spain after the reconquista, were fighting to keep the liberal Ottoman Caliph in power.
This was a world where village boys, or even grown men, would never have seen a woman's face outside the immediate family. In genteel society, men and women would see and greet each other, but would converse in gender-segregated groups. Eunuchs from the Sultan's harem were a powerful and respected cadre in this Istanbul, where casual homosexual encounters at the hamam were unremarkable, but where full male nudity was shocking and strictly taboo.
In this world, a girl from a poor family could be sold to richer relatives to work in their home as a servant and companion. This girl would be educated and married in an honourable way, as a family member, but would sleep on the floor in separate quarters and eat her meals after the host family, as a servant. I was a little shocked at how easily I got the ambiguity and duplicity of that relationship.
Notionally, this book is a murder mystery, but the plot is too byzantine for a whodunit. By the time I got to the denouement in which the hero rescues the heroine from terrible danger, I had entirely lost track of which baddie wanted to bump which heroine off, and for what reason. I didn't mind.
I enjoyed the book for transporting me to a fully-realized world, one which is both familiar and strange, not for the cleverness of the detective's investigative work. I have a hunch that Jenny White wrote the book in much the same spirit. The whodunit never was anything more than a vehicle in which to package Jenny White's encyclopaedic knowledge of Ottoman society and politics. Regardless, it injected some local flavour into what might have been a sterile business trip, and illustrated a favourite old perverse-theory: that the point of tourism is to work up the enthusiasm to read the guidebook.
We don't need no education, We don't need no thought control, No dark sarcasm in the classroom, Teacher leave them kids alone, Hey teacher! leave them kids alone! All in all it's just another brick in the wall, All in all you're just another brick in the wall.
I spent a chunk of my youth chanting along with this Pink Floyd rock anthem. So, I was intrigued to learn that one of the leading lights of the recent student riots in London was the Pink Floyd lead guitarist David Gilmour's son, Charlie Gilmour. The rioters were protesting the government's plans to raise university fees.
David Gilmour thinks education is worse than a waste of time. Yet, his son Charlie believes education is very important, and should be massively subsidized by the state. How did father and son wind up having such dramatically different views?
Or are their views really all that different? On reflection, I suspect not.
Neither father or son really has a point of view on the positive externalities created by subsidized, over-consumed higher education. They are not policy wonks. They are musicians. They are expressing an emotion. I think both father and son are expressing exactly the same emotion.
Jack Black captured this emotion precisely in School of Rock:
"The Man is everywhere. In the White House, down the hall, Mrs. Mullins (the head mistress), she's the Man. And the Man ruined the ozone, and he's burning down the Amazon, and he kidnapped Shamu and put her in a chlorine tank! And there used to be a way to stick it to The Man. It was called rock ‘n’ roll."
I think that is what both father and son were doing. As young men, they were sticking it to The Man. Once upon a time The Man said "go to school". Now, The Man says "you can't go to school unless you pay for school". Regardless, rock 'n roll wants to stick it to The Man.
Admittedly, the son did get a little excessively carried away. But one lesson he will have learnt from his father, and his father's friends, is that sticking it to The Man does not preclude making it up with The Man at some later stage. For all David Gilmour's angst about education, he still sent his son to an expensive private school, and on to read history at Cambridge.
I was at the club, meditating on a cappuccino, while the kids were at tennis class. Muzak played in the background. Billy Joel floated up on the Muzak track, singing:
She can kill with a smile, She can wound with her eyes, She can ruin your faith with her casual lies, And she only reveals what she wants you to see, She hides like a child, But she’s always a woman to me...
I noted that the saddest thing that can happen to art happens when music turns into Muzak. This does not apply to made-for-Muzak specialists like Yanni, Norah Jones or Richard Clayderman. But when the work of real artists, like Jim Morrison, Neil Young or Bob Dylan is stripped of its emotional heft and piped around supermarkets, to people hearing without listening, that is profoundly sad.
Point noted. Billy still banging on:
...She carelessly cuts you and laughs while you’re bleeding, She brings out the best and the worst you can be...
Maybe I just was not in the mood to sympathize with unrequited love. Billy, I asked myself, as he built up to the crescendo...
And the most she will do is throw shadows at you, But she’s always a woman to me.
...what exactly would happen if she did not remain a woman to you? What if she stopped being a gorgeous babe who kills with a smile, who causally throws shadows at poor besotted Billy? Would she turn into a flitty, flighty, fluttering, fairy? Would she turn into a hag, or a fire breathing dragon?
A tautology like “always a woman” is worth stating, even in a pop song, only if it has another layer of meaning, a layer in which it isn’t obviously a tautology. For instance, when Crosby Stills Nash and Young sang, “A man’s a man who looks a man, right between the eyes...” they were pointing to an ideal of manhood, of integrity, that boys should aspire to but seldom achieve. Billy's tautology implies that the only women worth the name are babes, deadly babes, the sort of babes who promise you more than the Garden of Eden.
What about my buck toothed, bespectacled second cousin who chain-reads Agatha Christie? Or my caftan-clad maiden aunt, who is excessively proud of her almond burfi? Neither of them is a crush-worthy babe. Neither of them is the flirty type who might throw shadows at Billy. But surely, they still are women. This is so unfair.
This is what Noami Wolf called the Beauty Myth, feminism's last great battle-front. Women have shaken off many myths of womanhood, expectations which once bound their lives. They are now at liberty, at least in my circles, to walk away from purity, chastity, motherhood, servitude, delicacy, vulnerability. "Frailty, thy name is woman", would not have occured to Hamlet if he had seen watched Serena Williams wallop a forehand crosscourt.
Yet, after all these victories, women are still bound by one final myth, the expectation that a woman must be beautiful, desirable. This final myth leaves women vulnerable to countless soul-destroying insecurities, and open to exploitation by men, and by the market. Besotted Billy's lyrics, unknowingly, are reinforcing this nasty myth. Stupid Billy.
As it turns out, this post is not a political rant. It is about the value of even a little research. I had totally misunderstood the song. Billy gets the shackles imposed by the myths of womanhood, and is on the right side of the argument.
Wikipedia tells me, authoritatively as usual, that this song was written for Billy Joel's first wife Elizabeth. She had become Billy Joel's business manager at a time when his life and his finances were on the rocks. Elizabeth sorted out his finances, became his wife, and managed Billy to platinum albums like Piano Man, The Stranger and 52nd Street. She was considered "unfeminine" in the industry for being a tough-as-nails negotiator. Billy wrote this song as a rejoinder to that "unfeminine" label. "She only reveals what she wants you to see" is not about her decolletage, it is about her negotiating style. Regardless, she's always a woman to Billy.
Another song in The Stranger, I Love You Just the Way You Are, was also written for Elizabeth, and expresses the same sentiment, without the delicious ambiguity.
Unfortunately, Billy and Elizabeth divorced, and Billy doesn't enjoy either Always a Woman or Love You Just the Way You Are anymore. He tries not to perform them. So this John Lewis' Christmas advert, which I think captures the open-hearted spirit in which the song was originally written, has vocals by Fyfe Dangerfield. Enjoy.
"There was nothing wrong, he reminded himself, in appreciating a bourgeois paradise when every other sort of paradise on offer had proved to be exactly the opposide of what paradise should be."
These wonderful words were spoken by art gallery owner Matthew Duncan of Edinburgh, the kind hearted but unremarkable son of a rich father, in The Unbearable Lightness of Scones. Haven't quite put my finger on it yet, but this sentiment is a big part of the reason why Alexander McCall Smith now occupies such an exalted place on my bookshelf, not too far away from PG Wodehouse.
"I started my management career in a backward village in Etah, Uttar Pradesh. I lived in the village, as one of the local people, trying to improve their lives.
Women in my village walked five miles each way, every day, to get water for their families. This was obviously a big effort; it left them physically drained. Couldn’t we improve these women’s lives by putting in a water pump, right here, in our village? Of course, easily done. My company bought and installed a new water pump in the village. But that didn’t work out. The women still had to do their daily hike for water because the water pump never worked. It got vandalized at night, either for components or by local boys with nothing better to do. My company repaired the pump, again and again. But it never worked.
The breakthrough came when the company stopped buying the pump, and said the villagers would have to buy a new pump themselves. Sure the company could top the pot up with cash if needed, but each family in the village would have to contribute towards buying the pump. There were no exemptions for poor families. The could make really small contributions of one or two rupees. But everyone had to contribute. It took months of conversation, cajoling and threats of being socially ostracized to get every family to contribute. But once they got there, once the villagers had their pump with their own hard earned money, the pump stayed in repair. People would protect their pump from thieves, vandals knew they would be ostracized. Nobody cares about a company’s pump."
This is not a parable. I heard this story as a historical account, from a friend who now teaches at Stanford. He started his career with Unilever India as a management trainee. This prestigious Unilever program places trainees in villages in Etah, a backward part of Uttar Pradesh, for six weeks.
This placement provides Unilever trainees - who mostly are privileged, ambitious, well-educated, upper-middle-class youngsters from India’s metros - with a lifetime supply of interesting stories. There have been insinuations that the sole purpose of the Etah placement is to equip management trainees with good stories. These insinuations are not true. Unilever has a dairy factory in Etah. The company is engaged in an Integrated Rural Development Program (IRDP) in the surrounding villages to improve the supply of milk to its factory. Management trainee placement in Etah is a part of this larger serious-minded program.
This story keeps coming back to my mind because its insight, call it the Etah Insight - that public enterprises work only if the populace are emotionally invested in the enterprise - feels bleeding obvious, but is so often ignored.
For instance, just last month, the Con - Lib government in the UK announced an emergency budget. They are raising the personal allowance by $1000; so 880,000 families will be taken out of the income tax net. This sounds both pro-poor and fiscally responsible, and has attracted almost no comment from the mainstream media. However, looked at through the lens of the Etah Insight, it could actually mean 880,000 more families have less of an emotional stake in their society’s success.
Taxes need not be about revenues. They could have a role to play even in households who receive more in benefits than they would ever pay in taxes. People who realize that benefits and government services are not free are more likely to use these services responsibly and respect the society which provides these benefits.
Taxes could be re-framed, like voting, as a part of a broader social contract. Benefits become a part of a contract rather than a pure entitlement. Taxes, despite being involuntary, could help foster a sense of ownership in the “broken society” that David Cameron’s Conservatives once cared so much about.
Stimulus spending, which is a bit like buying water pumps for villages, is in the news across the pond. The commentary is predictably sterile and partisan, with the left talking up spending and the right claiming that the $787 billion stimulus did not work. The Etah Insight suggests that the more creative conversation is in the middle and a few levels deeper; about precisely where stimulus spending would work, which depends mostly on whether the social norms to make stimulus work are in place. Will the stimulus pumps remain intact, or will they just get vandalized by the local yobs?
The Etah Insight also suggests that the pain of paying taxes matters. It is clearly easier to collect taxes like VAT and TDS, which are perceived as higher prices or lower incomes rather than as a price paid for governance. However, making it necessary to pay hard cash for government services could produce a more engaged, and ultimately more successful, citizenry.
The Etah insight is not on the public agenda, but the bookies are one constituency who seem to get the idea. Betting remained robustly recession proof through this World Cup. Why? Skybet’s advertising slogan hit the bunny on the nose: it matters more if there’s money on it.
CMJ’s son Robin retired from first class cricket a couple of weeks ago. I looked looked him up on Cricinfo, and came across a delicious little nugget: Robin Martin Jenkins played in the same Radley College XI as Andrew Strauss and Ben Hutton.
The reigning England captain, a county all rounder who was once considered England material, and the captain of the county that calls Lord’s home – these guys all played together in a school team. Wow! What sort of school boasts such a fine cricketing tradition?
A very posh school, it turns out. Radley College is one of three remaining all-boys all-boarding public schools in England, along with Eton and Harrow. Its campus is five miles south of Oxford, sprawls across eight hundred acres, includes a cricket pavilion, a golf course and, since 2008, a real tennis court. It is only about 150 years old - Eton and Harrow are both more than 400 years old - but, regardless, an interactive web-tour of the Radley College campus confirms that it is as comfortably upper class as PG Wodehouse’s Wrykyn ever was.
Christopher Martin-Jenkins, the sonorous voice of the MCC establishment, sent his son to Radley College. That fits. Andrew Strauss’ nickname in the England dressing room is Lord Brock, after an old Etonian TV presenter famous for living the high life. That fits. But Ben Hutton? Does he fit?
The name Hutton is sacred in cricketing lore because of Ben’s grandfather Len Hutton, who, as recently as 1951, became the first professional to captain England. He was the son of a builder from a Yorkshire village called Pudsey. He went to a local council school, trained as a carpenter (perhaps, coincidentally, like Jesus Christ), set the world record for the highest test match score with 364 against Australia, and he captained England to successive Ashes victories.
Len Hutton was more than just a great player. Like Frank Worrell, the West Indies’ first black captain, Hutton’s achievements are drenched in special meaning because of who he is. Yet, this working class hero’s grandson went to one of England’s most exclusive public schools. Interesting.
Arnold Toynbee has a theory on why this is not just OK, but is profoundly good. Toynbee takes it as a given that every civilization is shaped by a ruling elite. This has been empirically true through history, including in supposedly communist or socialist societies. The vast majority in every civilization, the “internal proletariat” in Toynbee-speak, are outside the ruling elite. Toynbee believes that the relationship between this ruling elite and the internal proletariat is the most critical difference between a vital civilization and one that is breaking down.
In a vital civilization, the ruling elite have a natural legitimacy. The elite have a hold on the imagination and aspirations of the internal proletariat, who voluntarily seek to become more like the the ruling elite, a process Toynbee calls mimesis. Conversely, in a civilization which is breaking down “the internal proletariat, that majority in society which had formerly given its voluntary allegiance to a creative leadership, but which is now increasingly alienated from its own society by the coercive despotism of its corrupted masters... registers its secession from society by adopting a spiritual ethos which is alien in inspiration”. In this calculus, the Huttons are a part of a healthy civilization, one in which the best of the working class seek to become like the ruling elite.
Ben Hutton is not the first public-school-man in his family. His father Richard attended Repton, a school as exclusive as Radley College. Richard Hutton would have been eligible to enroll at Repton in 1955, when Len was the reigning England captain. It seems like Len, at the pinnacle of his career, respected the prevailing power structure even though he was not born into it, and chose to give his son a more privileged upbringing than he himself enjoyed.
England’s cricket captain sent his son to the best school that he possibly could. That fits well enough, regardless of whether the captain was a gentleman or a professional.
Would you want your brand to be associated with an icon, who, for centuries, has been associated with unearned privilege, wanton indulgence, promiscuity, and the furious hatred of the common people? Apparently, yes, if you are in the luxury goods business.
The exquisite pink marble Trianon palaces in Versailles, from where Marie Antoinette reigned, are being restored to their former glory. This worthy effort is being sponsored by Breguet watches. I noticed the Breguet logo is discreetly but clearly displayed all around the complex on a recent visit.
This is not common or garden corporate philanthropy, it is considered brand-building. Breguet’s advertising boasts that Marie Antoinette wore a watch crafted by the original Mr. Breguet. Breguet bought wood from an oak tree that was being felled near the Petit Trianon palace, under which Marie Antoinette “liked to day dream”, to build a special presentation case for the Marie Antoinette watch. The brand is clearly working hard to enhance this association. Their customers, people who pay ~$25,000 for a wrist watch, are probably telling them that they like the Bourbon heritage.
Will that change? My bet is, it will.
My reflexive associations with Marie Antoinette are negative, probably because I first learnt about her in my middle school history text books. In that austere world of Indira Gandhi’s socialist India, Marie Antoinette’s opulence felt obscene. Breguet chose to invest in the Marie Antoinette association in a different context, in an age of plenty. This was a zeitgiest in which a Labour minister could say that he is “intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich”, and be better regarded for that attitude. If one is intensely relaxed about the filthy rich being filthy rich, it becomes a lot easier to see Marie Antoinette as a glamourous, gracious but misunderstood heroine.
For better or worse, that age of plenty has come to an end. Whatever comes next, for a few years at least, frugality, conspicuous frugality, is going to matter. History's verdict on Marie Antoinette will continue to shift shape.
I clearly sympathize with Obama's and Cameron's choice (I'm writing this after having read out The Blackberry Mouse to my daughters). I want to believe that work can and should be organized so it can be done within defined working hours. But the truth is, there is a trade-off. I inhabit a less exalted world than the Obamas' and the Camerons', but even in my little world, schmoozing is clearly useful, but it is a potentially infinite drain on time and energy.
