A strange Rendezvous – Visit to Madam Tussad’s Wax Museum

Glowing sun was smiling graciously on the wild blue yonder, overarching the royal city of London. The elated caravan of the races and faces was rolling steadily on the concrete promenades. The big size hat lying comfortably on my upright head ,the camera swinging around my neck and  the curiosity and keenness peeping through my eyes  made me look like an arrogant (arrogance is perhaps a necessary skill) and accomplished photographer on his expedition to search for the unique, unimaginable and immortal masterpiece. I wished to capture the dark images of the miseries masqueraded behind the happy faces, hoped to imprison the young spirit immersed in the layers of wrinkles in my eager lens, desired to seize the images of the powerful dreams floating in the bright eyes of the fellow travelers – perhaps a few things can only be captured on the canvass of imagination. Thankfully, truth descended on me soon–I returned to my usual self requesting the travelers passing by for a nice click. Walking along the Marylebone Road our steps freezed and eyes glued to the beautiful light green dome of the Madam Tussad’s wax museum. It was an elegant and exquisite circular structure with the yellow letters of the name ‘Madam Tussads’s sparkling against the shimmering red stripe encircling the dome.  Maneuvering the Serpentine queue for the tickets, patiently and calmly (without the usual push and shove of ‘Delhi’),I walked  into the dimly lit room shrouded in the sheaths of mystery and mysticism , inhabited by the smiling  and lively wax sculptures of the ravishing beauties, authoritarian rulers, eminent  and illustrious people  from the various walks of life. It was pleasing to see Hitler and Churchill standing together in the silent wax graveyard, where ‘The dead’ are not buried. Every wax idol was telling his compelling story of rise and fall, ecstasy and agony, hits and misses. I was wondering;

Yeh kiya jagah hai doston , yeh kaunsa dayaar hai

The mesmerizing wax sclupture of the master blaster ‘Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar’ raising his helmet and magical cricket bat towards the sky, probably celebrating one of the ‘hundreds of the centuries’ is an inspiring story of glory ,grind and gumption. The high standard of the humility, simplicity and gregarious behaviour exhibited by him during such a long journey is exemplary for many of us living in a socioeconomic environment   where the plebian officers (managers of the corporate world belong to the same group) behave like conceited celebrities after the golden touch of the easy wins. His neighbour in the quiet museum was another gifted cricketer ‘Brian Charles Lara’, known for his long innings and classic drives. He was smartly dressed in a traditional white cricket uniform, resting his bat on his shoulder and spreading the infectious smile and his usual ebullience.

As I moved ahead, my feet stumbled and stopped before the commanding presence of the boxing champion ‘Mohammad Ali’, beautifully crafted and created with the art of wax. He was donning the elegant purple gown, wearing the enraged red boxing gloves he seemed almost ready and raring to knockout the invisible ‘Joe Frazier’. The excitement of his face and spark in the  eyes made  me believe that he would immediately break his silence and address the astound crowd  – ‘Honorable Ladies and Gentlemen, you remember me for  my heroics on the boxing ring but perhaps you have forgotten my  views on the injustice of Vietnam war that transformed my life’ . I nodded my head, confessing candidly, we have indeed forgotten your statement (‘I ain't got no quarrel with them Viet Cong,No Viet Cong ever called me nigger’) against your own callous state. Yours was a powerful voice of dissent that inspired the movement against the Vietnam War and Johnson administration.

Not very far from ‘Mohamad Ali’,the soul of  Tiger Woods chased by the scorned screaming women seemed to have found  the peace and shelter in  wax body. Alas!  He is not aware that the steel mallet firmly gripped  in his hand may not shield him from the prowling ghosts of the past.

The stories of the greats cannot be complete without the pompous manifestation of the glorious and glamorous British Monarchy. Momentarily, the pang of pain gushed over me - Princess Diana in her flowing white gown, standing majestically  in the  solitary dignified  space was looking  gracefully and gallantly at the aristocratic troika of Prince Charles , Camilla Parker Bowles , Prince Harry standing together on a separately erected  rostrum. The poignant song of the separation fell on my ears like the rain drops sprinkling the face in the dark winter night:

Tum mere kitne paas ho             Main tumse kitna door hoon

Aangan mein saanson ke diye  Kamron mein khushboo ke bhanwar

Aankhon  mein mere jism ka     Nannha adhoora aks hai 

Aye mehrban , aye hamsafar    Be-rehm hain sham-o-sehr 

In saa-aton ki daud  ka                Anjam kiya iske  sawa

Tum aur mere paas ho                Main aur tumse door hoon

The spirited and vivacious generation of the go-getters was falling over each other to embrace, touch, cuddle and hug their Hollywood idols and pop sensations. People of all ages were competing vehemently for getting filmed and photographed with the likes of Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Kate Winslet, Bradd Pitt, Nicole Kidman, and Julia Roberts as their adorable and alluring icons have descended on the planet earth from their world of fairytales and will vanish soon forever.

I kept walking along the red carpet –stopped for a moment to have a fleeting glance at the wax sculptures of the Bollywood heartthrobs standing close to each other. The vapid smile of Madhuri Dixit  and  vacuous expression of  Asihawriya Rai  could not hold my eyes for long  and I wandered into the crowded space of the word leaders with the  conflicting beliefs and thoughts coexisting  peacefully as vulnerable creatures of the frozen wax.

Barack Hussein Obama – the first black president of America, the noble laureate and the most powerful person on the planet earth is indeed the peerless political personality cast in wax among the current covey of the leaders running the world affairs The imposing figure of Obama standing in his supposedly Oval office beaming smile and pride was telling the story of the current world order. Just a few easy steps away, the wax sculpture of his hero, the prophet of peace ‘Mohandas karamchand Gandhi’ was magnificently placed beside the noble laureates Nelson Mandela and  Martin Luther .Coincidentally ,I was taken aback to an interesting question  asked  by a school girl in 2009 to Obama “if you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?” .Obama’s repartee ‘I think that it might be Gandhi, who is a real hero of mine’ provides an insight  about  his views on the Gandhian philosophy even though his action  reflects the otherwise.

Out of the blue, my thoughts got trapped in the time warp, I imagined that ‘Time factor’ would vanish, past and present would merge,Gandhi would walk out of its sculpture and barge into Obama’s Oval office reminding him firmly but gently that 'Gandhian philosophy' and 'Imperialism' are oxymoron. The powerful words of Gandhi kept ringing in the back of my mind;

Be the change you want to see in the world

With the imaginary dramatic conversation playing in my mind, I stopped to pay my homage to two iron ladies of Asia Indira Gandhi and Benazir Bhutto, who were brutally assassinated by the terrorists at different phases of the history. I appreciated the elegant sculpture and walked out of the spellbinding effect of the miraculous ‘House of wax’  thinking about these two women who could not  contribute significantly for the empowerment of the women in their respective countries.

 

                                                                               

The week that was - Excerpts from Nigeria Diary

Ramadan in Nigeria
It has been four weeks since we landed in the capital city of Nigeria. Initial fears of malignant mosquitoes and risky reptiles crawling around have withered but not over, it is still alive in the morbid imagination that takes over me in the scary silence of the secluded room. Even friendly encounters with the colourful lizards frolicking in the lawns and roads, freezes my feet. During the evening hours, I usually confine myself within the familiar walls of my comfortable abode, thanks to the friendly advises of the fellow residents. They cautioned us against the prowling mosquitoes coming out of their safe hidings for their routine postprandial walk (with their extended family) when the tiered sun is on its way back to the safety of the darkness.
It was not just another Saturday - ignoring the advice was the only possible choice ,I broke the self imposed curfew to have a glimpse of the delicate shy crescent that would mark the beginning of the ninth month of the Arabic calendar –holy month of Ramadan*. After failing to find the trace of the moon in the thinly overcast sky, I returned back to my residence with a profound sense of disappointment
Solitary place, unfamiliar culture and elusive sense of objective are distressing and disturbing but it also provides an opportunity to look into the mirror of past and cherish the beautiful memories. There was a time- long way back during my school days when the moon sighting particularly for Ramadan* and Eid* used to be exciting and thrilling occasions. We used to stand in the open sky outside the mosque after Maghrib prayer* competing for the first glimpse of the crescent.
Ramadan* is an auspicious month of spiritual reflection, worship and charity. Indian culture of Iftar parties, aroma of traditional Iftar, delectable and mouthwatering delicacies makes it further special.
Alas –The fervor and enthusiasm of the yesteryears are nothing more than faded memories covered with the dust of time. Needless to state -I would miss the unique buzz and excitement of the weekend Iftar parties and the delicious Iftar.

The Great Fall- Dwindling Dreams
World was watching with abated breadth - Journalists , economic experts and rating agencies across the globe were providing the minute by minute update from the proverbial boxing ring where the arch rivals Republication and Democrats were fighting for one-upmanship. Largest economy of the world was on verge of debt default that has already crossed $14.3 trillion (currently borrowing at roughly $47,000 per second.).Another interesting insight comes from the fact that the single biggest holder of American public debt is the Chinese government, which owns some 26 per cent of U.S. Treasury securities (a total of $1.16 trillion worth). Economic giant of 20th century is tumbling and trembling in 21st century.
Fall of American economic prowess does not augur well for the economy of the rest of the world as witnessed during the most recent of the US recessions caused by the subprime mortgage crisis. Its reverberation will be heard across the globe – though scale may vary.Economic progress, affluent society, unlimited opportunities and the razzmatazz of the American cities have attracted many young professionals from India. For the great Indian middle class dream of going to USA is cultivated by the young generation throughout their formative years. Those who accomplish are respected by the society, admired by the friends, envied by the peers and their parents feel proud and elevated in their neighborhood.
Economic downturn will reduce the opportunities for the fellow Indian computer savvy professionals who nurtured their American dream for years. Their desire to join the self proclaimed elite club of NRI and enjoy the glitz and glamour offered by the American cities may shatter like a sand castle washed away by the rising tide.
Human history is full of the stories of rise and fall of the companies, communities and countries. Every fall and decline of the country’s economic and political influence has its own dynamics – It creates serious and complex social and political imbroglio that strengthens the hand of jingoists and encourages the policy of protectionism
It is time for the new generation to chisel and reshape their dreams, to discover and explore the new destination. I would conclude the discussion with the beautiful and pertinent phrase- ‘Move with the cheese’ (This phrase was coined by Spencer Johnson in her motivational book ‘Who Moved My Cheese’)

Nigerian Literature
Literature is the mirror of the society- it reflects the cultural, social and political conditions of the people through the captivating tales of romance and revolution, heart wrenching stories of human tragedy and the anecdotes about redemption and hope. The written tradition of literature was introduced to Nigeria in the 15th century by Arab scholars and trader that was further enriched and augmented with the subsequent arrival of Christian missionaries. Nigerian literature in English has evolved over a period of time thanks to the collective efforts and endurance of the great writers that include Nobel laureate ‘Wole Soyinka’ ,’Chinua Achebe’, Amos Tutuola ,Abu Bakar Gimba and Ben Okri who won the Booker Prize for Fiction in 1991 for his book "The Famished Road"..
Nigerian women writers have made significant contribution to the development and evolution of literature in Nigeria. Flora Nwapa was the first woman in Africa to publish her work that inspired many other feminist writers. Renewed female writers of Nigeria include ‘Buchi Emecheta’, ‘Zulu Sofola’ and ‘ Zaynab Alkali’ who attained prominence with her debut novel ‘The Stillborn’.
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*Glossary:
Iftar: Meal served at the end of the day during Ramadan, to break the day's fast
Ramadan: It is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. For Muslims it is the month of fasting.
Maghrib Prayer: The Maghrib prayer is prayed just after sunset, is the fourth of five formal daily prayers performed by practicing Muslims
Eid: An Arabic term meaning "festival" and more specifically any of the following festivals celebrated by practicing Muslims
Eid ul-Fitr which marks the end of the month of Ramadan
Eid al-Adha which is celebrated to commemorate prophet Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son for God

Notes from Nigeria

A Night in Obajana
I was thrilled to see the panorama outside my bedroom window, rain drops were shinning like pearls in the white street light against the pitch black colour of the night. Green leaves of the trees were dancing and singing at the whim of the wind. Sound of the rain droplets falling on the roof in unison with the drumbeat of the roaring clouds and symphony of the wind was creating a perfect orchestra for the music connoisseur.
Night has just begun to grow darker and still in the village of Objana. It is small a place located in the central Nigeria far away from the capital city of Abuja. Objana is known for the Dangote Cement manufacturing plant –It has large sprawling complex, captive mines for the raw materials, dedicated power plant and two colonies for the employees and official guests. Roads in general are dilapidated and the primary mode of public transport is motor bikes that carry the men, women and children manoeuvring through the lanes and highways to their desired destination. Presence of Chinese bikes all around was telling the story of the shift in economic power(According to report ‘Digital Megatrends 2015-The Role of Technology in the New Normal Market’ published by ‘Oxford Economics ‘China will surpass the US to become the world’s biggest economy by 2018, when measured by purchasing power parity)
I am staying in a decent apartment with slanted wooden roof in the guests’ colony, surrounded by the brick wall and barbed wire; streets are well illuminated though gets shrouded in the layers of silence as the night descends; lush green lawn along with the trimmed shrub and trees spread around makes it a perfect place for soothing morning walk. Visitor’s colony also has a cafeteria that serves the Indian food along with the local delicacies.
Hands of the clock seemed tired, it was not even 9.00 pm and I had already finished my dinner and the ritualistic post dinner snooker practice followed by some lazy walk. Switched off the television as the screen was hazy and shaking probably because of the heavy rain. Sleep was still far away and the night had not covered even half of the distance, after enjoying the visual treat of the African monsoon through the transparent window panes, I got into the silent conversation with my best companion – the books.

Triple Bottom Line
I am reading the book ‘New capital Manifesto by Umair Haque’ which I bought at the airport while coming to Nigeria. It is an interesting book that talks about the constructive capitalism and has been written in the hindsight of great American economic crisis triggered by the toxic loans like the aptly named NINJA (no income, no job and no assets). Author states with the fine blend of ardour and anguish that ‘The unvarnished truth is that capitalism is past its prime .It’s an ageing paradigm that has hit the point o maturity .It was built in an industrial age, and the rust and iron on its weathered iron and battered rivets are beginning to show’ .He passionately suggests that ‘It’s time to replace it with a better kind of capitalism, that is intelligent, just, virtuous – and that does deliver the goods’. It is just a sheer coincidence that I started reading the book by an ardent advocate of the capitalism just after finishing the Arunadhiti Roy collection of essays ’Broken Democracy’. She has tried to draw the attention of the collective conscience of India about the appalling and alarming social conditions of the tribal and adivasis whom we have conveniently chosen to ignore for the years immemorial. She explains the phenomenon of industrialization (being described as the panacea for the ills and sufferings of the poor adivasis) that is bound to displace and rob off the millions of the adivasis of their living deity. She goes further and asserts that ‘There is an MOU, on every mountain ,river and forest glade .While for adivasis the mountain is still a living deity , the fountain of death and life , key stone of the ecological health of the region, for the corporation , it’s just a cheap storage facility Goods in storage have to be accessible’.
Every model of development (Invisible Hand of the market or the iron hand of the government control) designed to bring prosperity to the nation and its people (classes or masses) has and will always be debated, deliberated and challenged. There will be people on the either side of the rope, all making supposedly cogent, intelligent and intellectual argument to substantiate and strengthen their view points.
Irrespective of the development model chosen by the government of the day for the common good of its people – its results have to be measured and evaluated using the concept of ‘Triple Bottom Line’ (corresponding to people, planet and profit).This phrase was coined by John Ellington in his famous book ‘Cannibals with Forks’ for an accounting system that records and reflects the social and ecological performance along with financial performance of the organizations. Development model that fails on any of the three dimensions would not be sustainable and ultimately would lose faith and credibility of the people.

Nollywood
Nigerian cinema industry is popularly known as ‘Nollywood’. It is one of the largest film industries in the world in terms of the number of movies produced each year. I am yet to comprehend the science and art of the naming convention of the film industry that always ends on ‘wood’.

Nigerian PidginNigerian Pidgin is the lingua franca used across the Nigeria for the informal conversations. It is a made up of ‘British English’ alloyed with the local words and is spoken in the regional dialects.