Asterix is 50

What is it about a Gallic villager with a drooping moustache that is so endearing that everyone across the world loves him? I think it’s just that the only thing he fears is the sky falling down.

Asterix celebrated his 50^th birthday on October 29.

It’s unfortunate that he’s not a big phenomenon in North America.

He occupies a very large place in my life. He’s a friend I’ve known for many years who makes me smile every time I meet him.

I can’t say that of many people I know.

Growing up with comics

Like most Indian kids who grew up in the 1970s in Bombay (it was called Mumbai only at home), I had a limited choice of comics. It was because we didn’t have money and comics were frowned upon.

One of my most enduring friendships – with Naresh Pandya – started because of our fascination for comic books.

They were called comics. Not graphic novels. And, the choice we had was a mixture of Indian and foreign.

Phantom and Mandrake were ubiquitous and predictable. Phantom was racist (White man in African jungle, fighting bad men to save innocent savages). Mandrake was insufferable. Indrajal Comics, which published them, was a part of the Bennett Coleman group.

We could get hold of DC & Marvel comic only when these reached the recycle newspaper shops (for some reason these were called Old Paper Marts, as in Vijay Old Paper Mart).

Justice League

Justice League heroes were a personal favourite, and among them Batman is a hero even after all these years. He’s a superhero without superpowers. Spiderman was only popular because he was on TV. Superman was a chocolate hero with an Elvis Presley bouffant.

Then there was the girls and kids category that included Archie (girls), Walt Disney and Looney Tunes (kids). Archie’s was an alien world. One could – and did – identify with his situations. Although even now I find it amazing that anyone could have so much pop.

Walt Disney and Looney Tunes comics were there, too, but one couldn’t be caught reading the “children’s” stuff.

Commando comics again were for the true connoisseur, or the comparatively well off kids. The pen and ink drawings were to die for.

I bought an omnibus Commando in Mumbai (by now it’s called Bombay only to deride the locals) just prior to immigrating. It’ll reach Canada in some years from now; hopefully.

Amar Chitra Katha

Among the Indian ones, there was the almighty Amar Chitra Katha. It’s charms unrecognised and unacknowledged. Over the last four decades, it’s become the landing page, the default destination, for Indian culture, mythology, history and society.

I read the multi-volume Mahabharata to Che a couple of years ago; he loved every moment of it.

There was Chandamama. Even then, I found it plain rubbish. It was infra-dig to read Bahadur.

Attempts to introduce Indian characters in the comic book format or to Indianise the content occurred only after I had graduated to better comics.

In recent years, Shekhar Kapur and Deepak Chopra along with Richard Branson tried to give Indian mythological stories (Ramayana) a graphic novel format, but nothing much has been heard about the effort for the last few years.

Asterix

That brings me to Asterix.

I discovered Asterix quite by accident. Again, Meghnad was instrumental. Not quite happy with my obsession with comic books, he suggested that I should read Asterix. It came recommended by one of his colleague, an artist.

I read one book he had got home. I think it was Asterik and Cleopatra. It was different from anything that I had read and was reading. I discovered that Sunday magazine also serialised Astrix. I’ll save the Sunday story for some other time.

Over the years, Asterix became the epitome of creativity in the comic book format. It’s only recently, after I began reading graphic novels in Toronto (thanks to Toronto Public Library) that I finally found something that was as good – and occasionally better – than Asterix.

Even after all these years, Astrix remains an endearing part of my life that has shaped my thinking in so many different ways.

Shaping my mind

For instance, I’ve never really thought of Julius Cesar as that epochal figure that he is in western history. To me he’s that silly man punching a fist on his palm, whizzing around in a circle in a tent outside that Gallic village, devising ways to defeat the indomitable Gauls.

I have often wondered how the books would read in the original French in which they were created, given that they read so well in English translation (Much like how would Crime and Punishment read in Russian).

Also, I divide people into two categories: Those who like Asterix and those who like Tintin. If you don’t belong to either of these categories, you’re either too young or too different.

Gandhi High

Meghnad, my father, would’ve been 75 yesterday. It’s been 12 years since he died.

Yes, he died young.

Two good things happened yesterday. One planned, other delayed.

The planned one was going to see the play Gandhi High. The delayed one was Prabodh Parikh accepting my invitation to be a ‘friend’ on Facebook.

Both made me smile.

I had decided to take Mahrukh and Che to see the play on Meghnad's birth anniversary after I got to know of the play through Janice Goveas (Diaspora Dialogues).

Jehan, a Muslim adolescent

Gandhi High is a play about Jehan, a Muslim adolescent fighting his inner demons. Jehan has had a troubled childhood. He is unfairly compared to his over-achiever elder brother who’s a decade older than him.

A laggard at school in Vancouver, Jehan constantly got into trouble, the last one being involved in a car theft. His exasperated parents move to Toronto, hoping that Jehan would somehow stabilize.

Jehan finds solace among a group of young people. Like him, they're as angry with the world as they are with themselves.

He falls in love with Carly, starts drinking with his friends and becomes a cat burglar.

Jehan and his father are constantly bickering, neither wanting to hear the other’s point of view.

His father is fascinated by the teachings of the Mahatma and wants Jehan to study his life. Jehan feels that the likes of the Mahatma have no place in today’s world.

Transformation

When he’s robbing a home that belongs to a South Asian family, Jehan has a sudden transformation.

While working on a school project he discovers that in the late 1980s, a move to name a school after the Mahatma in Toronto was blocked by those opposed to the ideals of religious tolerance.

Just when Jehan seems to be coming to grips with the realities of life, his father suddenly dies, leaving him emotionally stranded.

His world is crashing all around him. His friends are spiralling down in the dungeons of youth crime that is seemingly all pervasive in most of greater Toronto’s schools.

Jehan launches a hunger fast to focus attention on the safety of his young friends and to name his school after the Mahatma.

Inner demons:

But his inner demons get the better of him. Jehan he tries to commit suicide by taking an overdose of drugs and jumping off his apartment window.

The lesson that Jehan learns reading about the Mahatma’s life and times is that it is virtually impossible to get together people who don’t wish to be together; or to teach tolerance to intolerant people.

However, that doesn’t mean one gives up.

On the contrary, one keeps trying. Jehan’s friends are annoyed with him, but mend their ways so that their friend ends his fast. The community begins to support his demand to name the school after the Mahatma – hence the name of the play - Gandhi High.

Gandhi's teachings

MJ Akbar recently wrote – half in jest – that the Mahatma is a lesser of a draw than Jinnah. The exigencies of Indian politics may make it seem so.

On a larger canvas, Gandhi’s teachings of tolerance continue to inspire millions – right from President Obama, who tells an audience of 9th graders that he’d want to have lunch with the Mahatma, to a Jamaican-Canadian middle school teacher in Toronto, who says that the Mahatma’s views helps him tolerate other people’s prejudice against the colour of his skin.

Prabodh Parikh

Now, for the second occurrence that made me smile – Prabodh Parikh.

Prabodh is a writer, poet, litterateur, filmologist, teacher and more than anything else, a splendid human being. He is a true renaissance man, the likes of whom aren’t made any more.

When Meghnad died, Prabodh got together a few poets and writers and organised an impromptu tribute.

For me, that singular gesture really made Prabodh stand apart from the legion of friends that Meghnad had when he was alive.

Sathyu's Garam Hawa

Just before I immigrated, I had the occasion to go and see Garam Hawa (1973), the MS Sathyu film on the wounds of the subcontinent’s partition.

Prabodh organised the screening of this classic. I met him at the screening quite by chance and he was as ever effusive and warm.

I want you to listen to a qawwali (Maula Salim Chishti) from the film.

It was Meghnad’s favourite.

Michael Fraser

You can’t but like a poet who says women are like books without pages.

Poetry touches Michael Fraser with warm hands. He not only writes exquisite poetry, he also encourages other poets to read their works once a month at The Central at Mirvish Village.

I got to know of the Plasticine Poetry Series quite by accident. Michael and I happen to be co-mentees at Diaspora Dialogues’ mentoring program this year.

Of course, Michael is an award-winning poet. I’m unpublished.

I met him at Helen Walsh’s home in Spadina at the get together of the mentors and the mentees of this year’s program.

Michael, warm and effusive, came and greeted me. He said he wanted MG Vassanji to be his mentor. Vassanji was my mentor.

Michael said he organises poetry reading at The Central at Markham Street (Mirvish Village) every month, and would I be interested in attending?

Sure, I said. I’d certainly be interested. I write such bad poetry that listening to other poets may probably improve my poetry or rid me of the desire to write poetry.

I thought Michael was a media professional, perhaps a public relations guy. He turned out to be a schoolteacher.

My interest in poetry is recent. I’ve personally known two poets whose works have interested me. One was my father. The other shall remain unidentified.

I’m never going to able to write poetry that’ll match their poems. That, however, won’t prevent me from trying.

One gets shameless when one gets old.

For the last three months, every third Sunday evening, I’ve been going to The Central and have a glass of beer and listen to great poetry.

I can’t claim to understand everything that I hear or for that matter like everything that is read, but for sure, it’s all so much better than what I write under the mistaken belief that it’s poetry.

I’ve enjoyed the experience, met new writers and discovered a cosy, warm place where I can lose myself in the crowd; sit back and listen to some great stuff.

If you’re interested in knowing more about Plasticine Poetry Series, come to The Central. It’s at 603 Markham Street 1 Block W. Of Bathurst subway (www.thecentral.ca). The next reading is November 22 at 6:00 PM.

You may also contact Michael on e-mail: sambahead@yahoo.com.

Image: http://www.wcdr.org/wcdr25/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/michael-fraser-rps.jpg + photoshop

Diwali in Toronto

Time flies.

It’s our second Diwali in Toronto. This year we did what Mahrukh described was the “NRI thing to do” – go to the massive Swami Narayan Temple complex in Toronto for the Diwali night celebrations.

The question about my identity is -- surprisingly -- becoming an issue.

I hadn't thought it would ever assume importance in my life. It's something I haven't been able to resolve to any degree of satisfaction.

Lately, I've been wondering what is it that is making me so conscious of my identity. Is it connected to my new status in Canada: "Visible Minority"?

Is my identity connected to my status as a minority? And therefore, does my identity necessarily need to have religious and cultural bearings? Visiting a temple on Diwali is not a religious thing for me. But is it merely cultural? Is this how most Muslims feel in India?

I don't know.

There aren't simple and straightforward answers. I don’t remember the last time I went to a temple prescient. It was probably in Ahmedabad when I had gone sightseeing the same institution’s main complex -- Akshardham. That was many years ago. Thereafter, some years later, terrorists attacked the complex.

Here in Toronto, the Somali cabbie who took us to the temple from Albion mall was awestruck at the number of people – and cars – that had assembled there.

There were thousands upon thousands of mostly Gujaratis from across Greater Toronto Area with a sprinkling of Punjabis and other Indians; but surprisingly not too many Sikhs.

We went to see the fireworks. It lived up to its billing. See the video. Sorry that took too long to upload. So just a photo.

Then, as most Gujaratis would do, I made a beeline for food.

There was the ubiquitous pav-bhaji and the quintessentially Gujarati dabeli. I heard a locally born and bred Canadian-Indian (who had obviously never seen a dabeli before) tell his wife, “Look, they’re serving burger style pav-bhaji.”

There were food stalls with spicy farsan, Indian-style Chinese food and vegetarian pizzas. And -- would you believe it -- papdi no lot (Che read that in English, and asked me "What's papdi?")

When Indians are with Indians, they behave as they do in India. So, there were no queues for food. There was groping and grappling. There was hollering and fisticuffs. There was chaste swear words, spoken in rough-hewn Gujarati.

Almost everyone spoke either English or Gujarati – both mixtures of the Navsari and the Etobicoke accents.

In the morning, we had lunch at a wayside Punjabi restaurant who was serving a Diwali buffet for less than $10. And we bought hand-made mithais cooked on by kerbside of the restaurant.

The owner was as happy serving us, as we were happy devouring the spicy Punjabi food, and watching a local Punjabi TV channel's special Diwali program.

We shared the table with a group of Jamaican-Canadians. They didn’t find the food spicy at all. Apparently, Jamaican peppers makes food spicier.

All this eating would make anyone resemble a beached whale. Sadly, I'm no exception. I’m now bordering on turning into a hopelessly obese North American – that’s just about everyone who’s a Gujarati in the US and Canada.

I’m bald, pot-bellied and old. And, all that extra weight is making me too full of myself.

Another event: I’m on Facebook. I wanted Generally About Books to be on Facebook. But that it didn’t quite happen the way I imagined it would.

No harm done. I see many familiar faces on Facebook. Most I want nothing to do with. Some I have reconnected with, and some who don’t want to reconnect with me.