Literature.

Technically, Pinter's 'The Homecoming' should leave me seething with anger. The essence of the play is sexist in itself. The concept is one that has sadly endured the steady wearings of time. That women use their sexuality to manipulate men. That they cheat and lie and conspire against men and get away with it because they manage to flip their hair and smell pretty while cheating, lying and conspiring. 


However, as difficult as it is to admit this, none of this was on my mind while I was reading the play. Because Pinter's 'The Homecoming' is a masterpiece that explores relationships between family members in a way that few others have managed. 


'The Homecoming' is not a wordy piece. The characters are mostly men. Men who do not share emotion, who do not admit to ever being scared or feeling alone. Men who, ironically because of their struggle to communicate with each other and talk about anything that truly matters, reveal to the audience the tensions that abound in a household that at first glance seems to be completely normal. Pinter manages to explore themes such as male relationships, sexuality, violence and rape all without making his characters talk much. All by leaving them to their conventional stereotypes, a method I would normally disapprove of. There are no emotional diatribes, no brilliantly phrased speeches. The short  length of the play ensures that we don't ever find out much about our characters. Hence there is plenty of room for assumption. And the only two women in the play are portrayed as conniving and shameless, more than ready to turn to prostitution in order to make money. 


I read the play for my A level literature course. I wasn't quite sure how to react to it. The play goes against something I myself am extremely passionate about. That women should not be judged based on sexuality. That there can be little progress for the woman unless society stops judging her based on how sexually active or inactive she is. I should hate it.


But I don't. I can't deny that however blatantly sexist Pinter is he is STILL a damn good playwright. One who knows how to make his audience care about his characters. And I enjoyed the play. Even though nobody thought I would.


For me, defining 'good literature' is difficult.You can't really rate a play or book or an art film. However, after reading 'The Homecoming' I realize that really, all good literature is convincing. It makes you believe in it. And if it can't do that then the least it can do is to make you second guess yourself. Even if it's just for a second. 


Kudos Harold Pinter. You almost had me there for a second

Dreaming

'The Homecoming' changed my life. Before the play, I thought words were just vessels of meaning; after it, I saw them as weapons of defense. Before, I thought theatre was about the spoken; after, I understood the eloquence of the unspoken. The position of a chair, the length of a pause, the choice of a gesture, I realized, could convey volumes'
John Lahr


Sometimes I wish I could just sit backstage and breathe in words and silences for the rest of my life.

Moving Forward

Funny how people waltz into your life. Waltz may actually be too graceful a term. It certainly doesn't apply to everyone. People crash and stumble and knock you over. They stroll in, whistling casually. Maybe even winking. They smile, they coerce, they walk in backwards. Sometimes you don't even notice that they're there till the last minute.

And then they leave.

Funny how sometimes you think you can't live without them. Moments in alleyways, pauses in conversations, shared smiles alll deceive you. All make you think that this is it. There's no living without this now. This feeling, this spring in your step, this person.

And when they leave, you're shocked to discover that  life actully does go on. And you go on without them, But then again, why wouldn't you?

Today

I got my first university rejection.


=/

Blah.

Sometimes it worries me that I'm surrounded by people who don't seem to care about knowing.

Today

I realized I fucking love postmodernism.

Published in the streets of Dhaka

I’m not too big on poetry. I certainly don’t have the knowledge to appreciate Ghalib and Rumi. But sometimes I come across a poem that really makes me want to major in Literature instead of Sociology and Politics next year.


Here’s one I read yesterday


Here I will stay, plumb in the centre
Of monsoon-mad Bengal, watching
Jackfruit leaves drift earthward
In the early morning breeze
Like a famous predecessor used to
And take note too
Of flashing knives, whirling sticks, burning bombs,
And accompanying gutturals and fricatives of hate,
And evil that requires no axis
To turn on, being everywhere
And should all these find their way
Into my scribbles and into print
I’ll cut a joyous caper right here
On the tropic of Cancer, proud to be
Published in the streets of Dhaka

Kaiser Haq

I love this poem. I’m not sure why. Maybe because you can read it all in one breath, maybe because the phrase ‘monsoon-mad’ makes so much sense to someone living in South Asia (and the irony that comes with that, the fact that we have taken the English language and made it our own) maybe the dramatic ending or the rich picture it paints. Or perhaps because the poet takes the good and the bad, the beautiful and the disturbing and casts them all in the same light of love. Whatever it is, I am writing this one on my bedroom wall.