Shall I tell you some more about the state of my work? Why do it now when you will, no doubt, read my thesis! Haha, of course not. You won’t read my thesis. So, I will tell you about the National Gallery in Canberra. The gallery is lined up alongside everything that is of consequence in Canberra. The parliament itself may not be super important, metaphorically. But it exists, mostly for ornamental value. Thanks to it, the zone is called ‘parliamentary zone’. It seemed very lifeless for a mid-day appearance and the walk seemed endless. Finally, when I arrived at the NGA after having passed many massive structures, all equally lifeless, it was just as I expected. It had an ambivalent architecture with some absurd installation in front of it. All befitting the artsy world. I was never big on appreciating it unless you show me some of those Medieval or Victorian paintings. I have heard Cambridge folks rave about the Sainsbury gallery in Norwich. I am as unimpressed now as I was before seeing it. I mean, who goes to Norwich to see that? And to Norwich?? That too more than once! Rubbish. Anyway, that is the depth of my art appreciation. But unlike the UK, Australia always has an admirable art collection from the First Nations (they are closer to heart and I am infinitely more appreciative of them).
I must have mentioned this earlier, Canberra doesn’t have people. So naturally, the NGA was empty. So empty that I sprawled on the floor and watched its shimmering surface. I managed to get some excellent shots of the blast of colours bounced back by the polished marbles and the vastness of the big rooms. I can imagine why people who live here must have been so tired of endlessly looking at the handful of things they have got. And the town has such bad reputation that the number of tourists isn’t – unsurprisingly – great. It is a blessing for someone like me – to have an entire gallery to myself for all of the afternoon! Their international collection was pretty boring, that is until I ran into the classic case of colonial thievery. It was a delight to spot the Hoysala and Vijayanagar sculptures – from the heart of my home state – but we all know how it came to be. They have made some effort to portray the violence and greed of the settler-colonial nation and that bit remains memorable. The rubble of nature and massacre of aborigines provide a stark contrast to the piled-up silver and gold cutlery that reminded the settlers of England and its polished ways of living. I hovered longer in the room that had put up a themed display – Hopeless Romantic. It literally mirrored me and my optimism about the work I do and the role of law.
National Museum, on the other hand, would have been duller but for Mahmood. I must say, these museums and galleries are confusing. Even if there is a genuine construction on the front yard, you will never quite figure out if that is a part of the infrastructure or a piece of the artwork. I had to circle the yard a couple of times to figure out which way is in. Once inside, I met the famous Mahmood who had little trouble in guessing my country of origin. There is always a bit of confusion with that, you see. Anyway, Mahmood is one hell of a storyteller – I was so captivated by his narration that I couldn’t tell if it was his real story or a narrative that he has mastered over the years to impress the visitors. For starters, he couldn’t have improvised the details. And let me guess, he will have to tailor the details to interest the people (for which he must gauge them well etc etc). Distractions, never mind. From what he told me: Born in Iran and having moved to India as a teenager, he completed his law degree from one of the central Indian universities and then spent some time travelling through the length and breadth of the country. When I told him, I was a lawyer too, he asked if I was on the good side or the bad side. Now, that’s a tricky question since I have not put the degree to any practical use. Since I was standing right in the middle of the museum and not wanting to move to any side, I let that pass. Mahmood continued talking. He then moved on to find a job in the UN Human Rights Commission – in some segment that was working on Uganda. After having worked long and hard on the Idi Amin report and seeing it binned eventually, he was disappointed. He then sought a future in Down Under but failed to find a job that yielded a secure source of income. That is, until one day he was asked to work as a translator for people bundled off to Manus and Christmas Island. In his own words, ‘even there, the money I earned lost its attraction when I experienced all the suffering that was generating the resources – resources for me and for the Australian government- so very frequently’. Eventually, he ended up being a guide in the National Museum, while being in possession of more than a dozen languages and an enthusiastic spirit to strike up a conversation with any stranger. As he spotted another family coming in, he shook hands with me and moved on to them. I watched them for a while wondering what he was telling them. I should like to know stories, many stories! Sometimes wonder is in not what you believe, but what you would like to believe. So is beguilement. But that is another story for another life.
Work is bringing no wondrous results and I am already in week 3. As you will eventually read in my thesis (just kidding), not having data is also a boon for those with itchy fingers for theorization. The vacuum is adding some precious dimension to law and jurisprudence and whatnot (I am sparing you a lecture). But that the proximity to the issue that I am working on, the suffering, the distrust – they are all adding up to the frustration as my research lives through the moment. It is like the smoke that engulfs us every evening, without any warning. You do not know the provenance of the smoke but instinctively, you panic. With every interview, both disappointment and confusion rear their heads. It takes a while to cast the feeling aside and get back to work. In the end, I am a lawyer. I have had years of training to take whatever material and evidence and smoothen its edges… (the plot thickens but to be continued at an indefinite later). And mind you, there is no dearth of mansplainers around. If men cannot come up with something substantial or useful to say, there is no need to address me every time they breeze past my desk with arrant nonsense. But I will pretend it’s alright.
It is increasingly hot now and people tell me it is just the beginning of summer. What do you mean ‘beginning of summer’?? It seems like an ending of a world. My only entertainment when I come back home is to fill the birdbath and splash water around. The magpies and currawongs usually sit around on the trees with a gaping mouth, trying to cool themselves down. Even the noisy miners are growing quieter. Rosellas look at me listlessly – all the earlier alarm and flightiness seem to have been subdued by the heat. The birds wait till I have filled the bath and as I retreat, they plunge into the watery paradise and cool themselves. At night a particularly evasive possum helps itself to a share while chatting noisily with god knows who. Five more days to Christmas and I am beginning to wonder I left a very lovely England at this odd hour. It is what I call home and for once, I have missed a place, that is not Oxford, dearly!! My longings have always been towards places, I suppose. Humanity will turn its back on you. But the land always remembers. I will yearn for the cold air that freezes my cheek and the line-up of London planes with bared branches. When the sky is grey, it carries a perpetual wistfulness. When the sky is blue, and the winter day sunny, it embraces you with an uncertainty that is not unsettling.
Anyway, off for the fourth week. You will be celebrating Christmas, I will be ambling in the countryside. So, I guess, you will hear again from me in 2020!
Defiant Ecologies 