To have or not to have Boli?

Aditi Raychoudhury. Animal sacrifice. Kali Pujo. 2019. Gouache and Watercolor.
Aditi Raychoudhury. Animal sacrifice. Kali Pujo. 2019. Gouache and Watercolor.

While India and Indians across the world celebrate Diwali and worship Lakshmi, it is overshadowed by a lesser known festival, Kali Pujo when Kali, a more virulent form of Durga is worshipped through the night with great fervor in Eastern India. As a Bengali, I was very much a part of this tradition, and we would go out late in the night, to see beautifully decorated idols of Kali, resplendent in her garland of blood red hibiscus flowers, and have bhog, the highlight of which was an oxymoron – the unusual vegetarian goat curry. If you think this curry is made out of trendy fake meat, you are very much mistaken. Kali Pujo, is too old for this modern take. What apparently makes this curry “vegetarian” is the lack of onions and garlic that are otherwise always used in a traditional Bengali goat curry. The goat for this curry is made from a male goat that was sacrificed at midnight, a ritual that I was witness to just once when I was a little girl.

We were at my dida’s (maternal grandma’s) house in Purnia. My widowed grandmother, was a devotee of RamKrishna, a Bengali saint, who in turn was a devotee of Mother Kali. So, we would always pay a visit to the Purnia Kali Bari (Kali’s home) , a visit that I very much enjoyed everytime we were at my grandma’s. I loved the rythmically bumpy rickshaw ride all the way to this little temple, on the banks of a river and surrounded by lush green tropical trees. I enjoyed looking up at the various tall palm trees, with little clay pots strung right where their leaves ended. It looked like the trees were adorned with necklaces around their neck. I admired the men high up on the trees, with minimal safety gear, collecting the sweet sap from the pots that tasted similar to maple syrup and was used in making my favorite desserts. I loved the distinctly slightly smoky nutty flavor that this sap, or nolin gur as we call it in Bengali, imparted to my favorite desserts. Others were used to make toddy. What that tastes like, I can’t tell, because I have never had any.

Collecting sap from palm trees.

But this trip was different, one that is seared in my memory. It was the night of Kali Pujo, and we were going to the Kali Bari, whose usual serenity I loved very much. But, this new moon night that lay suspended between the end of an Indian autumn and the start of winter, lacked the peace I had come to associate with this place as prayers were being offered to a black male goat. He looked so handsome with his garland of bright red hibiscus flowers that contrasted vividly against his shiny black fur while he was gently being guided towards the sacrificial altar. When the goat realized its ultimate fate, its weak trembling plaintive bleats still managed to sear the night and I ran as far away as I could and shut my ears, waiting for that blissful serendipity of the place to return. A few short moments later, all went numbingly quiet, as the giant sword, swiftly decapitated this goat in one fell swoop, but the memory of those plaintive bleats had broken my heart along with the serendipity I had come to expect. The sight of that goat curry made me gag. Even though it didn’t make me a vegetarian, and I continued to enjoy our Sunday goat curries for many years, I never forgot this one goat. I hadn’t even caressed it, like I often did the goats that reigned the roadside on my way to school.

In the process of painting this, I came to realize that I had been so shaken by that event that I had forgotten what time of day the ritual had taken place, and that while I couldn’t eat that particular goat, it didn’t stop me from partaking of other goats.

Animal activists have long been up in arms and many places have stopped this ritual and sacrifice a gourd in place of a goat. But despite all their activism, slaughterhouses continue to thrive as we have become more and more alienated from empathizing with the terror of an animal that feels no different from a human who knows he will be killed. Is it really so terrible to occasionally eat a few small bites of meat of an animal that was treated with care, and killed with compassion, and fed many, than to stock up our freezers with mounds of beautifully butchered shapes of meat that bear no resemblance to the being that they came from? Ironically, eating meat and the number of brutal slaughterhouses have certainly gone up in India even as many temples have given up this once in a while ritualistic sacrifice. As we ramp up to Thanksgiving, I question our activism resulting in hiding from sight what we can’t stand to bear. Out of sight is out of mind? As we gather around any festive table, perhaps what we should be most thankful for is the being that gave its life to bring us together around the table to cherish our friends and families.

Aditi Raychoudhury. Animal sacrifice. Kali Pujo. 2019. Pencil on Tracing Paper.

Pashmina by Nidhi Chanani: An In-Depth Look At a Misnomer

cover

I have been hesitant to write this, even though it’s been a while since I read the book. After all, Pashmina by Nidhi Chanani answers the call for diverse books. For so many American Indian kids, it is exciting to see themselves and parts of what seems to be an authentic India in a graphic novel. The book has done so very well that it is being made into a movie by Netflix. I am happy for the success that has come to its creator Nidhi Chanani.

Pashmina, is a graphic novel about, Priyanka, a teenage girl whose mother emigrated from India years ago, leaving her father behind. Priyanka is eager to learn about her father and her Indian heritage, but her mother refuses to discuss it. When Pri’ finds an old “pashmina”, she is magically transported to the India of her dreams whenever she dons it, and the shawl takes on the role of a sootradhaar (a person or object that is integral to the holding the narrative thread), as she finds out more about her mother and India while tracing the history of the shawl.

Even though I know that I am taking a pretty big risk by critiquing a very successful graphic novel, I feel compelled to stay true to the culture and the people the book and the shawl ought to and seeks to represent. Firstly, I feel deeply disappointed by the many inaccuracies in the book, especially since it’s written by an Indian American. I also feel disappointed by the lack of due diligence on the part of her agent, publisher and reviewers, not a single one of whom checked the book for authenticity. I find the lack of research rather perplexing in an age when a whole universe of information is no further away than a few taps of a keyboard. From the diversity panels I have attended, and posts by organizations such as We Need Diverse Books, I was under the impression that the tide was turning towards representing minority cultures in the US with greater accuracy, but that still seems quite a ways away.

In our desperate call for diverse books, let’s not forget the enormous responsibility we bear to finally change the misconceptions we seem to accept when it comes to non-eurocentric cultures, and truly speak for the silent populations implied in those books. Some of the visual representations of the places that Pri visits in India are also inaccurate. I am writing this because I feel obliged to transmit truths about India to my daughter and others Indian Americans like her, starting with why this book should never have been called Pashmina in the first place.

The bright red shawl unfurled on the cover is as far away from the exquisite and painstakingly made Pashmina as America is from India. Pashmina is accorded a GI (Geographical Indication) which is the equivalent of the appellation d’origine contrôlée (AOC). Now, imagine this egregious error in a coming of age graphic novel called Champagne, where a French American girl is tracing her roots and finds that the grapes for Champagne are picked in Britanny, processed in Burgundy, and bottled in Paris. Would that pass muster? So why do we not accord the same respect and scrutiny to cultures of color?

Pashmina: GI.

The GI on a Pashmina

Livemint reports that “Pashmina, a very delicate cashmere wool from the pashmina goat found in the higher regions of Kashmir, has become a much exploited word”. Pashmina comes from the Persian word, “made from wool”. The wool comes from the same breed of goat that gives us cashmere. The soft underfur is seasonally shed and traditionally collected by local villagers in Kashmir – a conflict ridden state nestled in the high mountains of northern India. It is harvested by combing as opposed to shearing. All steps from combing (removing impurities and guard hair, and aligning fibres) and spinning, to weaving and finishing, are traditionally carried out by hand by highly specialized craftsmen and women based in and around Srinagar, Kashmir. Pashmina fibres are finer and thinner than cashmere and the quality and price of the finished shawl is dependent on the fineness of the fiber and the skill with which it is woven.

weaver

A Pasmina weaver and his traditional loom.

The US FTC doesn’t recognize the labeling term “Pashmina”. However, it does encourage manufacturers and sellers of products to explain what they mean by the term. I wish the author had also felt responsible to do so, given that it is an extremely prized and endangered product produced by highly skilled, underpaid, craftsmen who continue to create magic on their looms, despite often having lost family members in the conflict. Just Google/Wikipedia “Pashmina”. The wealth of information on why this product is not a synonym for any shawl will become more than apparent. 

I understand that setting a story for children against a highly complex decades old conflict was not the author’s intention. So, why name the story after a shawl that it just isn’t? Why take the reader through a long-winded tour of places that this shawl would, at best, be sold at? 

Not only does a story around a shawl that is a Pashmina completely ignore Kashmir, we run into further set of misrepresentations starting with Pri’s aunt saying that the Pashmina might be made of Sualkuchi silk. Sualkuchi is a town in Assam in the northeastern part of India. It is a center for manufacturing different types of Assamese silks (muga, pat and eri) that are eventually woven into gorgeous Mekhela-Chadors (for women) and Gamosas (for men). The patterns woven into them evoke the history and geography of Assam, which is pretty much the case with most Indian motifs. These silks, too, bear a GI.

 

 

However, in the book the Sualkuchi factory is in Nagpur in central India, and the shawl is still called a Pashmina.

 

In the book we travel from Nagpur to Warangal (known for its carpets) in Telangana in southern India (nearly 2500 kms away from where Pashminas are actually made) where the shawl is embroidered by Rohini Mitra, (a Bengali), who could (in the real India) potentially be a weaver of Taants, Jaamdaanis and Baluchuris in specific areas of Bengal or Bangladesh, but never of a Pashmina! These sarees, too, bear GIs.

The moment we start using proper nouns, not just in India, but my guess is any ancient culture, we need to start being specific, just as the moment Indians hear the last name  Mitra, they will know that he or she is Bengali.

Even the UNCTAD, WTO and UNESCO have argued that the crafts form a substantial part of a country’s cultural heritage and the skills related to the crafts affiliated to a community must be protected in the areas of their origin.

Map of places labels

The location of Pashmina production vs. the places the author assigns Pashmina to.

Outside of this primary misrepresentation, there are many others, such as women not being allowed to drive cars, the slums of Jadavpur, the visual depiction of New Market and more. Jadavpur is a middle to upper middle class neighborhood and home to a reputed university. One doesn’t have to go to Jadavpur to search for poverty in India. It hits you smack in the face the second you step out of the confines of your middle-class or affluent gated community.

There are American Indians, like Jhumpa Lahiri and Sanjay Patel, whose attention to detail and authenticity are truly remarkable. The Interpreter of Maladies takes me right back to summers spent at my grandma’s, and Sanjay Patel’s jaw-droppingly accurate depiction of the pitted stone statue in Sanjay’s Super Team looks like it’s been transported right out of a temple in India. In the Google documentary, Pedaling for Peace, producer Fhay Arceo, ensured that the edited version of the film was accurately subtitled by hiring a native Hindi speaker, even though the entire raw footage had been professionally subtitled. She even made sure that the Hindi script one can barely see as it floats around at lightning speed is accurate.

Why then did Nidhi Chanani (nor her agent or publisher or reviewers) not follow suit in starting with perhaps questioning the accuracy of shawl she depicts and whose name the book bears? 

Are we so desperately hungry that the creative pipeline and their gatekeepers feel justified in feeding us anything that simply confirms and reinforces the Indian stereotypes and familiarities of elephants, peacocks, samosas, paisley motifs, disenfranchised women and a few Indian Hindi words scattered throughout a book? Yes, we do need diverse books, but we also we need them to be true, so that children, like my daughter, don’t have to grow up with misinformation about their heritage.

 

Updated Post: Why Obama’s [Original] Tax Plan Will [Would Have] Help[ed] Us

Its Election day tomorrow. With the economy sliding faster than a ride in “Great America”, we are justifiably nervous about the issues that have featured prominently – albeit not always answered with clarity – in the Presidential debates – the continuing war, government spending, tax reforms, jobs, education, mortages…

Sadly, in the Bay Area, even a 100k annual salary, is, shamefully, short of a mortgage on a three-bedroom home, quality K-12 education, and an occasional night out. The sad state of public schools in some of the Bay Area urban spots – San Francisco, Berkeley, and yes, the infamous Oakland School District, where I live, is testimony to the misplaced priorities even in this otherwise relatively liberal state.

Besides the crumbling public schools, Oakland, CA, also has the dubious distinction of being the homicide capital of America. But I disagree with such stereotyping. It is easier to stereotype than to scratch underneath such definitive descriptions, and find a solution for change. Continue reading

A Rare Find: A Daring, YOUNG AND RENOWNED Architect!

Greg Lynn. Blob Wall. 2008. Plastic. Photo Credit: Ajay Khanna, 2008. 

Greg Lynn. Blob Wall. 2008. Plastic. Photo Credit: Ajay Khanna, 2008.

 

In a profession, where mostly jaded and abusive old men with rich wives or inheritances, have long held sway over jaded and abused young architects till they find their rich spouses or inheritances, Greg Lynn is a breath of fresh air – young, innovative, and refreshing.

Using digital software, Lynn has majorly influenced how we design and conceive space. Lynn’s “paperless” practice brings computers into spatial conception – as opposed to the traditional practice of using digital software to transform an initial sketch into a workable form.

“You define space in the computer with curves,” he says. “Usually an architect would draw points, and connect lines and planes with them. With these programs, we’ve shifted to thinking of space as the sheltered enclosures of a flexible handkerchief.”

Frank Gehry. Disney Concert Hall, Los Angeles. 2003. Photo Credit: Aditi Raychoudhury.
Frank Gehry. Disney Concert Hall, Los Angeles. 2003. Photo Credit: Aditi Raychoudhury.

Not unlike his predecessor, Frank Gehry, Greg Lynn has adopted programs that were developed for auto designers and film animators, to create “biomorphic” forms. Lynn’s forms are spatially and structurally coherent – although the installation here does use a couple of props!

While digital software – typically used for designing aerodynamic structures such as planes and cars – is revolutionizing how we conceive, design and build space, I can not let this “revolution” pass without mentioning Antonio Gaudi, who, long before the age of computers, bent and sculpted space and light in ways that continue to baffle the mind. As a student of architecture, in a computer free generation, I often wondered where would one even start to make the blueprint for the Sagrada Familia.

Antonia Gaudi. Sagrada Familia, Barcelona. 1882-present.
Antonia Gaudi. Sagrada Familia, Barcelona. 1882-present.

A visit to that building more than a decade after I graduated from architecture school, made the answer to that question even more unanswerable. Walking through this building of fluid space, shifting colors and abundant light, even an atheist like me, could understand what drives an overwhelming majority of our populance to seek God.

This feeling of liberation from physical confines, and awe at the limitless capacity of the mind to imagine, and its spirit to persevere, was an unforgettable experience – one that I can’t quite use to describe my experiences at the Disney Concert Hall, Experience Music Project, The Weisman museum, and The Fish.

All in their own way, embody the city they have chosen to call home –

Gehry – neon lights, glamour, silicon and botox, and the disturbing pursuit of eternal youth in Hollywood.

Lynn – cheerful and dynamic like the ocean, skies and pretty wild flowers of the coast.

Gaudi – the fiercely defiant and unflagging spirit of a city that has experienced 2000 years of turbulent history, and home to artists who constantly re-invent – Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, Joan Miro, Ferran Adrià Acosta…