On Balloons, Brinjals and 'Do Something, Brother' (Ch. 4)
Hello again!
For starters, Ink-uilab has migrated to Substack! We have a new logo and header too. I hope this transition improves formatting and scalability, and does not relegate my infrequent emails to your spam folder. Here’s Chapter 4, featuring an ontology of the balloon, mischievous wedding guests, and the meaning of life.
PS: I hope we’ve all lost hope in the assumed punctuality of this newsletter. Unfortunately, I find myself able to write only when I can, not when I should.
On Vegetable Artists and Junior Year Existentialism:
Junior (3rd and penultimate) Year at an ‘American University’ is a unique juncture of metamorphosis. It’s stunning (and shocking) to observe an entire cohort of students at a campus (and possibly across the country) experience simultaneous existential crises. All around me, friends and fellows are seeking the meaning of life, trading off morals for money (and money for morals), and playing the deadly roulette of internship applications. What is our purpose? What decisions can and should we make at this critical point in time? These questions lead us down the winding labyrinth that is the Nietzschean World Riddle. Sadly, although I can’t offer any answers, we can turn to the words and warnings of the wise that came before.
A young Marx, in a letter to his father [Berlin, dated November 10, 1837 - trans. Paul M. Schafer], brilliantly captures this pubescent period of chaotic change: “In such transitional moments we feel ourselves compelled to observe the past and the future with eagle-eyes of thought, in order to attain consciousness of our actual position … The individual, however, becomes lyrical in such moments, for every metamorphosis is partly a swan song, partly the overture of a great new poem that strives to win a pose in blurred but brilliant colors. At such times we wish to erect a memorial to what has already been lived, so it may win back in the imagination the place it lost in the world of action; and where could we find a holier place than in the heart of our parents, who are the mildest judges and the innermost participants, like the sun of love whose fire warms the innermost center of our strivings! … How at least could the often hostile game of chance, the straying of the spirit, better distance itself from the reproach of being due to a twisted heart?”
In a discussion with SPF Fellows, a pressing question of importance was raised. In this ‘hostile game of chance,’ can one be justified in pursuing a life as an academic? Putting aside the utilitarian and crucial job of school teachers and mentors, we should introspect on the archetype of the university person-of-letters. Could one be justified in seeking a seemingly ‘hedonistic’ life as a humanist researcher (for example) in the face of pernicious hunger, misery, and poverty faced by citizens of our world?
Cosmologist Nicholas Suntzeff discusses 'The Eternal Question' that all academics come to face in a highly thought-provoking article. He lays out the motivation of his piece: “I had traveled to Santiago from my home in Texas for a weeklong celebration of Chilean astronomy’s essential role in the discovery of the accelerating expansion of the universe ... And then the little girl brought me back to Earth—and to a question that has plagued me my whole professional life: Of what use is astronomy when there is so much suffering in the world? Why spend one centavo on cosmology when little girls are crouching in subway stairwells, begging?”
There are numerous defences to seeking the life of a university academic. Knowledge creation is a justifiable good, coupled with a self-interested quest for wisdom. Even if this curiosity is an ego-maniacal act, Nietzsche makes a case for the lifestyle choice: “But a curiosity of my type remains after all the most agreeable of all vices — sorry, I meant to say: the love of truth has its reward in heaven and even on earth.”
Some, like Stephan Wolfram, seek a life that is above all ‘productive.’ While I’ll be the first to admit the father of Mathematica and author of A New Kind of Science does take the strive for perfect productivity too far - his blog about it is well worth a read. Brace for a ‘walking laptop desk,’ a custom-coded alarm clock, and an analysis of file organization methodologies.
Regardless of the pathway chosen, however, the opportunities to do ‘good’ are multifaceted and multitudinous [yes philopshy students I hear you - I know, what does it even mean to be good…]. There is the Effective Altruistic (or ex-Effective Altruistic, as I have often been corrected) perspective that argues (or argued) that earning to give might allow one to do the most good. I find myself unconvinced that generating revenue as an investment banker and donating a percentage of your gains is a life of virtuous ‘good' - particularly given the negative externalities of banking (for example) and their direct contribution to net harms globally (financial instability and economic inequality, for example). On the other hand, there is much to do through direct coordinated action. From volunteering at charities and soup kitchens on the ground to engaging with careers in international development organizations (see a short list of opportunities here), we can maybe create a future career (and lifestyle) that places a socialised notion of directed ‘good’ at its core.
A persuasive and sagacious philosopher on this topic, however, is MS Jaweed, a ‘vegetable carver’ from Hyderabad. The subject of a short film by Kassia Karr, this fascinating character’s life story has lessons for us all. This beautifully directed four-minute film explores the life and motivations of the artist, salesman extraordinaire, lover of the vegetable, and stoic:
He says ‘khaali haath aaye they khaali haath jaayege’ (trans. ‘we can empty handed and will leave empty handed). Words to live by methinks.
Let us end this section how we began, with an extended quote by Marx: “Everyone has a goal which appears to be great, at least to himself, and is great when deepest conviction, the innermost voice of the heart, pronounces it great. ... This voice, however, is easily drowned out, and what we thought to be inspiration may have been created by the fleeting moment and again perhaps destroyed by it. ... We must seriously ask ourselves, therefore, whether we are really inspired about a vocation, whether an inner voice approves of it, or whether the inspiration was a deception, whether that which we took as the Deity’s calling to us was self-deceit. But how else could we recognize this except by searching for the source of our inspiration?”
On What is to be done?
I recently stumbled across Jean-Luc Godard’s pamphlet, titled 'What is to be done?’ Mentioned in one of the many op-eds and obituaries about him in light of his recent demise (1930-2022), the pamphlet is exceptional and moving. Published in January 1970 and directed towards an audience of filmmakers, revolutionaries and revolutionary-filmmakers it lays down twenty-three symmetric commandments. In a superb demonstration of word-play and the Hegelian dialectic, Godard calls for idealism and anti-idealism, truth and anti-criticism - and a celebration of the real. In line with our preceding discussion on an academic’s purpose, he posits they are:
“(16) To carry out 1 is to understand the laws of the objective world in order to explain that world.
(17) To carry out 2 is to understand the laws of the objective worlds in order to actively transform that world”
There are a lot of (revolutionary) texts and experiments that share the title ‘What Is to Be Done?.’ I wonder how many of them are a nod to the original Chernyshevsky novel or the biblical verse (Luke 3:10–14) and how many are mere taxonomical coincidences? Who is to tell? Here’s a little bit about some pieces that I’ve enjoyed reading that share this title -
What Is to Be Done? by Nikolai Chernyshevsky. Published in 1863, this masterful work of fiction is radical, in all senses of the word. The book sparked ridicule from Dostoevsky and Nabokov and inspired a miscellany of Bolsheviks and socialists in the centuries following its publication. Through the life and (four) dreams of Vera Pavlovna, we are introduced to the paradigm of rational egoism, as it gives way to a utopian society built on the ideals of equality and freedom. This article in Politico offers a survey of the book, which is certainly worth reading in its entirety.
What Is to Be Done? by Vladimir Lenin. This 1902 political pamphlet is titled as a homage to Lenin’s intellectual guide. Lenin, who is said to have read Chernyshevsky five times in the wake of his brother’s death, lays down a skeleton plan for this politically directed and party-rooted Marxism. Simply, he makes a case for an increased focus on political means to incite revolution in contrast to the vastly economic stimuli for change that were the rage at the time. In a style typical of Lenin, the text is impactful albeit (overtly) precise and technical.
What Is to Be Done? by Tolstoy. One of his ‘long short stories’, the text is an evocative and powerful analysis of the socio-economic conditions of the Russian Empire. Inspired by experiences in the slums of Moscow, he highlights the fallibility of philanthropy and instead calls for a re-thinking and re-structuring of societies in their entirety. Tolstoy writes - ‘The vocation of every man and woman is to serve other people.’
What Should Then Be Done O People of the East by Mohammad (Allamah) Iqbal. A masterpiece of philosophical poetry, the book was published first in Persian in 1936 and later in Urdu. The polymath uses sublime verse to explore themes of dissent, asceticism, faith and poverty. A good translation is available on the ‘Iqbal Cyber Library’.
In looking for the dates and links for these, I discovered that the motto of the United States Army Criminal Investigation Division (CID) is ‘Do what has to be done.’ Do with this information what you will/must.
On Balloons & Boyhood
This photograph by Kasia Karr, from her collection Dus Saal of a balloon seller sent me on a reflective trip down memory lane:
There is something inexplicably nostalgic about balloons, specifically these neon red and green balloons with white streaks. I’m immediately transported back to the rare moments when we’d break away from the never-ending crowds of a wedding party to seek out the gubarra-wallah (balloon-man). He would always be strategically waiting outside one of these bustling weddings, drawing out the mischievous children with his toys and trinkets. He would attract customers through sound - rubbing together the balloons to produce a weirdly relaxing ‘shrieking’ sound, much like the one you’d hear as you sat in a plush leather chair. Thronging around the balloons seller, your nose would pick up the acrid whiff of cheap rubber and wet cardboard. Eventually, you’d give in to your temptations. You’d hound your distracted parents for some money, haggle a little with the balloon-man and pick a bibelot that caught your eye.
As a corollary, why do we enjoy balloons so much as children? What is it about a rubber bladder inflated with air that makes them so enjoyable? Why did you garland the white walls with balloons during your ninth birthday party, or throw a tantrum in the atrium of a shopping mall when you wanted a Disney-themed balloon? I posit that the temporality of pleasure offered by the balloon makes it uniquely special. It is unlike plastic toys that offer durability during playtime and children’s literature that offers endless worlds of limitless imagination. The humble balloon is just a static-producing sphere that lasts a few hours. At any moment you could lose your balloon, either to a sneaky nail sticking out of a doorframe or through the loose grip of a sweaty palm. As it escapes from your fingers, you watch it rise into the air and gradually disappear into the clouds. This sphere, which was the centre of your undivided attention for the last few n-minutes ascends towards the heavens, almost like a cliched metaphor of giving up a part of yourself.
Interestingly, there is also a thrill to gambling with the survival of the balloon. Hark back to the moments you’ve pricked a balloon with a needle, or chased one with a pack of boisterous boys in an attempt to catch it and stomp on it until it bursts.
This clip of a wedding home-movie oozes nostalgia. I think it originates from Pakistan. There is no better representation of irrational youthful mischievousness.
Balloons also reminded me of an interesting story about public health brought up by a dear high school professor of mine. He mentioned an experience in his youth when a deluge of free public contraceptives coupled with a lack of public-health education led to children inflating the government-provided condoms like balloons to play with. On looking it up, this fascinating failure of public health intervention is not simply a relic of the Indira Gandhi era. This article from 2017 from The Wire recounts flaws in population control policies in rural Uttar Pradesh that cause such absurd (and disheartening) instances that persist today. The lessons for development policy-makers are simple - resource distribution is not enough. It must be coupled with education and integration for effective policy adoption.
It would be unfair to discuss balloons and not mention Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s film Anand (1971). Hailed (and rightfully so) as one of the greatest Bollywood films made, it recounts the last months of a terminally-ill man named Anand as he lives his life to the fullest. A wonderful musical scene from the film features balloons. A joyful Anand runs across Bombay’s Chowpatty Beach, tugging on a bunch of red balloons and playing with a motley crew of children as he contemplates the nature and temporality of life. You can find the soulfull song and the scene here:
Through his exuberant joie de vivre and witticisms, Anand transforms the lives of those around him. The film is sure to tug at your heartstrings, and you can find a copy on Youtube with little effort. Much like it is the temporality of the balloon that gives it value and makes it a source of tremendous pleasure, there is something oddly reassuring (at least to me) about the mortality of life. Although life is short and inexplicably unpredictable, there is so much to do … so many wonderful conversations to have, so many cups of coffee to brew, and so many bright red balloons to chase after. As Anand quips, “Babumoshai, zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nhi.” (trans. Mister, life must be big, not long.)
As always, some verse, in closing:
In keeping with the theme of human purpose - A poem by M. Gopalakrishna Adiga (1918-92) asks that you ‘Do Something, Brother’. Adiga, a modern Kannada poet, has an angst-ridden and interrogative style that captures the tumultuous disillusionment and dissent of the time.
I was unable to find a good translation online, so here’s a scanned copy from The Oxford Anthology of Modern Indian Poetry (1997).
An excerpt (no fraction can do the poem justice.):
Then there's the Well of Life.
Rope the wheel and axle,
pull out all the water.
Reach the last dryness of the rock;
grope, grope with the grappling iron.
'V for Victory,' brother.
Break down the atom,
reach for the ultimate world within.
Find God's own arrow
and aim it straight at the heart
of God's own embryo-world.
Do something, anything,
anything, brother.
Idle men
are burdens on the land.
Do, brother, do something.
Keep doing something all the time
to lighten Mother Earth's loads.
This is right. This is natural.
This is the one thing needful.
(All errors are my own, and a by-product of editing this way past bedtime at an Airbnb in Philadelphia.)
BM