The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen

I had not heard of Jonathan Franzen till a couple of months ago when Time lifted me out of slumber and informed me that he was the current big American novelist, cast for fame – and perhaps immortality – in the mould of Saul Bellow and John Updike. That made me curious enough to scour several stores in two big towns of South Africa till I found one copy of The Corrections. It would not have mattered and indeed it was a bonus that the 650 plus page book was even priced reasonably.

The story of Lambert family is an attractive tale of great sadness. A dull ache runs through the book and as you turn each page, you keep looking for relief that must arrive, perhaps with delightful suddenness. You never lose hope because the characters are not evil; they are simply us. There is always a chance then that a new window would open and defeat the sad gray enveloping the Lambert life. But, as is life, this is not a story with dramatic twists and turns that change the course so suddenly that one has to catch ones breath or say aha! Even a leading character’s fall from a luxury liner fails to alter anything and the trajectory corrects itself into a smooth wave again. In fact, if it were a film, it would masquerade as a reality-show like documentary, where the characters had no clue that they were being filmed incessantly. It rings true to life and one can trace bits of oneself littered innocuously across the pages, some that have already been lived and other, one suspects, might be lived a bit later.

I wish I could put my finger on one thing and say that this is a book about ‘old age’ or ‘love’ or ‘family’ or ‘character’ (Half a dozen more ‘themes’ readily spring to mind); It is hard for me to say it in one word what the background music of this symphony was. But it is certainly a poignant tale, one that makes issues of responsibility, loneliness, love, selfishness and individuality fellow-travellers on one journey, sometime walking on different paths but always converging and looking in each other’s eye for answers.

It is an enjoyable read, of course, but, for me, had several stretches that were relatively pointless – Albert Lambert’s tryst with his turds, for example – and the writing is deliberately not ‘tight’ in most part. Like most things American, it is a big book that takes a very small slice of time and spreads it delightfully on a large canvas, celebrating each detail with every stroke of the brush. Franzen is no Ian McEwan (one of my favourite authors) and he isn’t so by choice. By the end, it became very clear to me why, when posed the question, McEwan forgot to mention Franzen as a great contemporary American novelist.

For me, much as I enjoyed the book thoroughly, even I – with my extremely limited familiarity with English literature, mind – would hesitate to pin the lapel of greatness on this book.

The Long and Winding Road

When I sat down to write this piece, I wondered if HIV infections - and its dreadful consequence AIDS - make for a suitable subject anymore. Hasn’t all that needed to be said already been said? Haven’t the horrendous reach of the affliction in the land we live in, the heart-wrenching human story, the pathos and the urgency of meeting the challenge already filled up all the print space – and all of our consciousness? Are we not oh-so-completely aware of statistics like over 23 percent incidence, the problem of the ‘missing generation’, the budding adolescents who embarked on the journey of life with the unwanted inheritance of disease already stamped into
their fibre, the hapless women who may not be in control of their own destiny and the dispossessed strung out in inaccessible areas unable to benefit from the growing support system and the contours of the massive combat that is underway?

It has been some time since I began to educate myself on the extent and depth of this issue that stands between progress and decline like a demon with arms crossed over its chest and defiance in his eyes. There are several questions I have been asking myself:

What is the true dimension of the problem?

Do we really have a measure of it or are statistics the convenient pegs on which the issue has fuzzily been hung?

Are we rising to the challenge or has rigor mortis of hopelessness begun to stymie our efforts?
Are we winning, losing or running hard to stay in place? How and by when can we beat back the
scourge?

I have adopted the route of observation and anecdotes to arrive at my own conclusions. This is no scholarly research – I flinch when I use the words ‘scholarly’ and ‘research’ – but a layman’s journey to understand one issue bedeviling the country I have come to love so much. As we go along, I hope to share my stories and conclusions here with fellow travellers.

Today, I want to begin with the end. What is it that, in my opinion, should lie at the heart of the matter? What is it that we, the civil society, should do to lend our shoulder to this gargantuan enterprise in which the government, the professionals and the NGOs are so deeply engaged?

It would appear to me that two picket fences separate us from the road that lies ahead. I call it a 'picket fence' because one can see the view across it and
with some effort, it can be torn down too.

One, there is the real danger of getting tired of spreading the message against the causes of the pandemic. Sometimes, sheer repetition can lead to ennui and enervation. No matter how horrendous the problem, human mind – individually and collectively – can begin to exercise
‘acceptance’ simply because there appears to be no light at the end of the tunnel. Some call it denial. Many a society has lulled itself into beliefs that flew in the face of all rationale. This is a challenge we need to guard against with persistent determination. No matter how long and arduous the road and how elusive the success, the messengers and the warriors must not allow inertia to chip away at the heroic battle that is underway.

More heroism, not surrender, is the need of every hour till we have the issue by the scruff of the neck.

Two, we must work towards destigmatization the existence of the problem. Once the matter is seen for what it is – a disease like any other that need support not shunning – communities will begin to engage in the effort far more than has been the case. There are successful stories from elsewhere – Uganda for example – where it was the civil society that became the biggest support system for those who were affected. I am no expert (of course!) but perhaps that is where the salvation lies. It is the community that can take charge and spearhead the battle;
that will only happen when layers of stigma are peeled off and the problem is looked at in the eye – not with shame or aversion, but unblinkingly, and with love.

Eavesdropping on Satyajit Ray

In The Argumentative Indian, Amartya Sen invokes Ray to propagate his view that it is possible - indeed desirable - to completely retain 'indian-ness' while remaining open to other cultural influences. He provides an insight into Satyajit Ray's approach and thoughts; speaking of the problem of making films that contain nuances of language and so on that the foreigner may find hard to grasp, he says:

Such difficulties and barriers cannot be avoided. Ray did not want to aim his movies at a foreign audience, and Ray fans abroad who rush to see his films know that they are, in a sense, eavesdropping. I believe that this relationship of the creator and the eavesdropper is by now very well established among the millions of Ray fans across the world. There is no exception that his films are anything other than the work of an Indian - and a Bengali - director made for a local audience, and the attempt to understand what is going on is a decision to engage in a self-consciously 'receptive' activity.

In this sense Ray has triumphed - on his own terms - and this vindication, despite all the barriers, tells us something about possible communication and understanding across cultural boundaries. It may be hard, but it can be done, and the eagerness with which viewers with much experience of Western cinema flock to see Ray's films (despite the occasional obscurities of a presentation originally tailored for an entirely different audience) indicates what is possible when there is a willingness to go beyond the bounds of one's own culture.

Sen then quotes Ray:

There is no reason why we should not cash in on the foreigners' curiosity about the Orient. But this not mean pandering to their love of the false-exotic. A great many notions about our country and our people have to be dispelled, even though it may be easier and - from a film point of view - more paying to sustain the existing myths than to demolish them.

Steve Jobs on Life

Knowing the purpose of life, and investing time and effort only to it are the keys to fulfillment.

There has to be 100 percent integrity in using one's time, without any exceptions for self-gratification.

When A Crocodile Eats A Sun

When I began reading it, I was cautioned that this is a White man’s version of contemporary Zimbabwe. Even if I assume that it does suffer from that implied infirmity of bias and discount for it, the narrative is moving, heartbreaking and compelling. It rings with credibility. It is a tale of twin and parallel furrows of despair and love, of hopelessness and courage, cruelty and generosity. And yet, this is no outpouring of bitterness alone; just beneath the surface hope for humanity is visible, swimming serenely, waiting for its time to rise.....

This is a tale of the family of ex-policeman Peter Godwin as it negotiates an increasingly bleak and even cruel landscape in the country of its adoption. It is a human story that makes the contours of political and economic life in contemporary Zimbabwe rise in relief and we see a vivid picture.

Zimbabwe: the horrors of land-distribution, the sheer anarchy, the dark despotic shadow over millions of lives and the de-humanizing of a generation or more are a – for want of a better word – madness that has afflicted it, like the disease of a moment of passion. One aging man appears to have put Zimbabwe into an unstoppable tail-spin that can have but one ending. Or so one fears.

Reading it, I once again marvelled at the miracle of neighbouring South Africa and silently thanked Him for Nelson Mandela. In the post-apartheid decade, this country too could have careened onto the path of vengefulness. It too could have unleashed the pent up fount of vitriol and, in the name of ‘righting the historic wrongs’ destroyed a beautiful country. Even today, the fears of a Zimbabwe-like slide have not entirely stopped haemorrhaging; we can hope though that with the horrendous example of Zimbabwe to learn from and with the passage of each year, that ominous spectre will fade beyond retrieval.

The book is lovingly crafted, each sentence a surprising necklace, studded with imagery that shines and shines in its own lambent brilliance. Sunday Times blurb on the cover got is exactly right, “A moving meditation.....”

The House on the Hill

32 - mostly retired - people live in Haga Haga. These include the couple that run The Store – the only grocery in the village – and, of course, Mark and Liz, the gracious owners of the House on the Hill.

The Hill can only be reached by a gravel road that winds through a fenced area on either side for some fourteen kilometers of up-and-down, before sliding towards the sea and losing itself among houses, and a solitary hotel. Like everything else, the hotel overlooks the ocean that sweeps gentle breeze through its portals, caressing table cloth in an open bar, where later I was to wash down a mean Lasagna with an unapologetically sweet Martini.

There are no street lights in Haga Haga; indeed there are no streets beyond brown etchings on the slope. There are very few sign posts either and Mark, who magically appeared out of dark in his bakkie to receive and guide us, confided that the community wants to keep the landscape as unspoiled as it can.

The community in question is also very warm and friendly but there is no unanimity for pining for more tourists. That might attract crime to this haven, some feel. Right now Haga Haga is an island of peace where its inhabitants are happy to remain unseen by passing ships wanting to berth. The worst that can happen here is an occasional petty theft by men or monkeys clambering over walls. Dogs, even benign ones, ward off both.

The original visitors came here more than a century ago, farmers from Transkei and elsewhere, caravans of wagons snaking to the hill. They parked themselves on the slopes while their oxen grazed freely. Legend has it that commandeering those animals to water needed vocal persuasion; shouts of ‘haga haga’ were found to work the best. There are stranger ways a village can acquire its name but this is right up there among the quaint.

Mark is of Irish lineage and is quick to assert that he is a South African first and last. Liz was born in Scotland. On our request they join us for a drink and we are rapidly and interestingly made richer in our understanding of a microcosm of South Africa. We also hear what we have heard before – most Whites did not support apartheid. They might have been beneficiaries of that abominable system but that often fails to reflect the fact that many never supported the authors of this practice, the National Party. They are proud South Africans, not visitors to a distant land. I detect no rancor in their description of the changes that have come about since 1994. But more than once, I feel a pulsating unease of the approaching unknown.

We walk the beach on a cloudy and cool day. The dog from the house accompanies us with the studious air of a reticent guide. Once he senses that we are not visibly grateful for this effort, he jettisons our company for a while and swims in a lagoon. The water is cold and he enters it gingerly, bringing memories of my own childhood winters when I would skirt the shower till I could no longer defy my mother's stern encouragement from outside.

The sea is in low tide, baring a forgotten battlefield of black coral reef. The sand is pleasantly damp all the way to the hill, marking the impressive nocturnal reach of high tide. Inland, two young men wade through a lagoon, carrying strange contraptions. I join them to learn how to catch sand crabs for fish-baits. You push a giant tubular syringe shaped squirt-gun into soft sand beneath still waters and suck up as much sand as you can. Decant it into a net and voila, you have a few captive crabs, tremulous and confused by the sudden change of light and air.

Another older couple complete the instant demography. The man is standing in knee-deep water waiting for fish to take the bait. There has been no luck so far, he tells me but I sense from his sun-beaten face that he has seen enough not to be disappointed over it.

His wife Elizabie sits on a rock, watching birds. She has an illustrated book in Afrikaans to help her. They are farmers, she tells me, and were neighbors of the recently killed white supremacist leader Terry Blanche. I ask her if it was true that he was butchered over pay dispute. She rubbishes it out of hand and offers me a credible alternative argument that masquerades as evidence of darker designs. She would not say who engineered the murder but there is apprehension pealing through her voice like a distant fire brigade engine.

They are farmers and this is not the first time in the past year and a half that I have noticed stark uncertainty among this community over the trajectory their future might take. There has been no Zimbabwe style attempt to grab and redistribute land in South Africa. No horrors of the sort that Peter Godwin chronicled in When a Crocodile Eats the Sun. Yet, there is a palpable throb of anxiety that neither bursts nor disappears. Incidents like the gruesome killing of Terry Blanch and the diatribe of some youth leaders of ANC in its wake can hardly help.

Elizabie slowly warms up to me and reveals such remarkable layers that in turn warm the cockles of my heart. She is quite clearly a serious bird-watcher. She points out a seagull to me, identical in detail both on the sand and on her page. She is a farmer and tends 150 cattle-heads. She is also a tennis coach and only recently decided to lay down the racket after 32 years of smashing the ball around. She has 18 gold-medals for cross country wins. “I am quite well-preserved” she tells me, “and I still run with these legs.” But now her effort is limited to 4-km races, she says with sincere regret. After all, she is in her mid-sixties now.

Elizabie knows a great deal about India. She agrees to pose for me and insists on writing down my name in her book, next to the seagull she had introduced me to.

Farmers are not the only ones that live in uncertainty. In post-apartheid era, business owners were asked to have black-partnership in their enterprises. Some were forced to transfer majority shareholding and a few chose to give up painstakingly built businesses instead and took up fresh vocations. Even large grocery stores were affected. These had traditionally ‘supported’ the community by offering wares on soft loans. Once the store was no longer viable, the owner quit. It was like taking away the oars of the entire community.

Yet, the post-apartheid South Africa is a miracle, conjured by that ultimate magician, Nelson Mandela. There are ripples and undercurrents but the ocean is largely serene.

I watch a brilliant dawn as sky breaks into beautiful azure and bright pink-byzantine, slowly sponging all the blackness out of the sea.

I hope dawns over South Africa always remain the same.

A Basotho Wedding

We drove up to the mountains to the town of Teyateyaneng (quite a mouthful, I know. Everyone calls it TY) and then branched off on to a narrow road to the village of Ha Mohatlane. Brilliant African skies canopied over us and, as you can see from the picture, massive chunks of pure white clouds rested against the horizon, like elephants in afternoon siesta.

We were on time but like all weddings, things were nowhere near ready. The bride’s wedding dress hadn’t arrived from the shop that rents it for 2500 Malutis. The guests were trickling in. Smell of fresh vegetables being cooked over slow fire was wafting out of a window.

So we decided to explore.

We walked around, looking at the traditional Basotho hut where Mohtalane’s mother stays even today, the tent erected for the ceremonial feast with its rich decoration and the kitchen where beef, chicken, beans, vegetables, salad, rice, maize meal ‘pap’ and desserts were being readied.

Now, the Basotho hut is being very slowly but surely nudged out from Lesotho’s landscape by modern construction. But it is a marvel in itself, this Basotho hut is; its roof is a strong weave of grass that keeps the inside cool during summers and traps heat during winters. Not a drop of water seeps through it, Mohatlane tell me. And you need to change the grass only once in 20 to 30 years.

The weddings here are a two-part ritual; in fact, it is two weddings rolled into one! On Day One, the wedding takes place at the girl's place - church function, speeches and a grand feast. All the main relatives and friends of the groom travel to the girl's place - as this lot did to Mafeteng. They return home that evening with the bride and a couple of her relatives. We met the two sisters who had accompanied the bride.

On Day Two, it is the groom's family's turn to get into the act and another wedding ensues - church, speeches, a photo session and a feast fit for kings.

I met all of Corporal Mohatlane's people - his mother (we chatted, even though I don't know enough Sesotho and she is not familiar with English beyond a word or two!), sisters, wife, children (seen in a picture) and friends. And, of course, we met the groom – Corporal Mohatlane's younger brother – and the bride. We took pictures. Everything looked exotic to us. I am sure we looked no less exotic to everyone else.

The bride looked vivacious and radiant in a flowing wedding dress. During the photo-session (held at Blue Mountain Resort at TY to obtain a backdrop befitting a wedding), she laughed and giggled while the groom looked subdued, even puzzled. In one photo setting, he was made to lie down by her feet. The closest I have seen ‘another ones bites the dust’ in action! So what was on his mind?

Not the dowry. The ‘dowry’ is called 'lobola' and it is paid by the boys’ people to the bride’s family. The initial 'lobola' for this wedding was agreed for 25000 Maluti or Rs 1.5 Lac! And later they might have to pay another installment of the same amount!

Manish charmed many with bits of Sesotho (‘O shabahala hantle’ or ‘you look pretty’, ‘khotso bo n’tate’ or ‘May peace be with you revered gentlemen’ and ‘O phela juang me?’ or ‘How are you Lady?’). I chipped in too.

And I looked at the flowers and wondered if ‘rose’ can ever be any different in any language?

On the Robben Island

Nelson Mandela spent a greater part of his 27 years in this cell on the Robben island. For many like me, visiting it is a pilgrimage.

Nelson Mandela, who, last week, celebrated the 20th anniversary of the day the South African apartheid regime decided to bring him out of incarceration (he did it with a dinner with his family and his ex-jailer!) is a miracle. South Africa is work in progress, for sure, but the distance it so rapidly put between itself and its immediate past is a miracle too. And the two miracles are completely intertwined.

Another View from the Cape Point

What is it about oceans that inspires awe? Is it the vastness that instantly brings home our own tiny place in the scheme of things? Is it the unseen retreat of our egos as it cowers in face of evidence of a Higher - indeed a Bigger - intelligence at work?

Deserts inspire too, as due vast blue skies and open spaces. And huge mountains. So the scale has something to do with it, huh?

At Cape Point - Looking Down at the Atlantic Meeting the Indian Ocean

I peered hard and long to spot the 'line' where the Atlantic washes into the Indian Ocean. I did not spot one, of course. I also wondered if the waters of the two were different. And they are!

As we drove down to beaches a few kilometers on either side of cape Point, we found the water of the Indian Ocean distinctly warmer (there being a perfectly geographical explanation) and cleaner. Maybe that was just our patriotism working up. Or maybe the beach was actually neater and cleaner for other reasons.