Author: Amritesh Mukherjee

Why live? Why go through the ordeal of life? Why travel paths filled with pain and suffering? It’s a dilemma humanity has faced and thought about, for centuries. Literature is replete with such conundrums, sometimes disguised as declarations, on the pointlessness of life and the inescapable tragedy of every moment.

There is but one serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.
Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

There are more.

To be, or not to be, that is the question.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet

And more.

Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death awaiting me does not destroy?
Leo Tolstoy, My Confession

And many, many more.

One of the first signs of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die. This life appears unbearable, another unattainable. One is no longer ashamed of wanting to die; one asks to be moved from the old cell, which one hates, to a new one, which one will only in time come to hate.
Franz Kafka, Blue Octavo Notebooks

You get the idea, don’t you?

Care for a Challenge?

Long have I pondered over these thoughts too, an early quarter-life crisis ushered in by philosophers and authors who would fascinate and compel me to question the meaning behind any of it. Why wake up, why go through the same thing every day and hour and minute and second when you’re eventually going to die? Why go through the cycle of pain and suffering when it’s not going to bring you any feasible result in the end, only death and infinite oblivion? Why not embrace that earlier and skip through all the pain and suffering?

For any of my fellow readers who have wondered or still wonder the same question, let me try and persuade you to give The Tale of the Princess Kaguya a watch. The only motive with which I begin this argument is to show how this is one of the, if not the, greatest movies ever made, that the story is an assertive rebellion against Buddhist philosophy, a love letter to life itself, a story that finds meaning amongst meaninglessness. Not a tall order by any means, eh?

The Tale of the Bamboo-Cutter

Meiji era Japanese Woodblock Print: The Old Tale of the Bamboo Cutter

It’s an old folk tale passed down over generations of Japanese families, of a princess who came from the Moon. Raised by a bamboo cutter and his wife, who found her inside a bamboo shoot, she grows to be an enchanting woman. Over time, the bamboo cutter would also find riches inside the same bamboo shoot, making him rich. As the princess grows up, stories of her captivating beauty would travel far and wide, resulting in different suitors coming and asking for her hand, only for her to set them nigh-impossible challenges to avoid marrying any one of them.

But the news of her existence would also reach the emperor, who would ask to see her. However, following her refusal, he visits her and immediately falls in love. When he tries to take her away, she threatens to disappear if forced. But soon, her time on Earth is over, and several heavenly beings would descend to carry her back to the Moon.

All of this is a well-known story, but it’s what Isao Takahata does with the folk tale that makes the ensuing piece truly magical. But before that, there’s some more info dump coming your way.

Buddhism and the Cycle of Rebirth

Bhavacakra (Wheel of Becoming) CCA-Mistvan

As per Buddhism, we’re all stuck in the cycle of samsara, or the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. It’s an endless cycle where you keep coming into a new existence every time you die, and in case you think it’s a good thing, ummm. It’s not. Life is a cesspool of suffering and misery and pain and as per Buddhist philosophies, the highest state of being you can attain is when you get beyond this cycle. Become free of this binding process.

It’s a concept that continually features across literature and philosophy, whether Eastern or Western (or Northern or Southern). Life is a pain in the ass, everyone unanimously echoes. Some of the optimists too. Not having a life is preferable to having one, everyone approves. That’s exactly why this movie creates such an impact. That’s exactly why this movie is what it is. It’s a love letter to the living despite showing the harshness that accompanies life on earth.

While the story in its original format isn’t so much of an elegy to life, the movie we’re talking about is. Very much so, and in the best way possible.

The Tale of the Princess Kaguya

It’s this little climactic conversation wherein the princess has to return to the moon with the celestial beings and Buddha himself (another change the movie opts for intentionally, I think) who’ve come to fetch her. A celestial being inches close, coaxing her to come with them:

In the purity of the City of the Moon, leave behind this world’s sorrow and uncleanness.

But the princess replies back, almost shouts, with utter indignation,

It’s not unclean! There’s joy, there’s grief. All who live here feel them in all their different shades! There’s birds, bugs, beasts, grass, trees, flowers… and feelings.

(The birds, bugs, beasts… line refers to traditional Japanese songs called Warabe Uta, something that frequently features in Takahata’s story, with a few modifications here and there.)

This. This is what lies at the heart of this magnum opus of a cinematic experience. The beauty in humanity, a fight against the cruel meaninglessness of existence. The meaning in emotions that surround you when you observe something larger than your definitions of beauty, something that suspends your time and space, leaves you in a daze. The meaning in love that you feel for someone, the sound of something sweet and tender, the taste of something hearty and delicious, the smell of something evocative and pleasant. Is that meaning not enough? Do those meanings not make it worth living?

It’s the little tweaks that Takahata adds to the story which incorporate new philosophical dimensions to the story, making it more interesting and complex. What if the princess wanted to come to earth instead of being sent? What if she missed her life even after her return to the moon (or death, as Takahata interprets it)?

All of a sudden, life becomes something to be desired, something to be yearned for, and that’s exactly what the movie does. Make you yearn for life.

The Coming Together of the Movie

The Tale of the Princess Kaguya (Studio Ghibli, 2013, dir. Isao Takahata)

As is usually the case, it’s not just the final product that’s awe-inspiring. Consider creating a movie primarily using hand-sketched images, each painted with watercolors. Each painting giving the impression of a rough draft, creating a dream-like sequence from the beginning to the end, while also paying homage to the art form of the era this story is said to have originated from. (A rogue chain of thought makes me wonder if the rough sketches are meant to symbolize the rawness and simplicity of life itself.)

As you would expect, the enormity of carrying out something this difficult and complex was immense, why the movie would fail to meet deadlines one after another. The film will be postponed several times during its production, with many wondering if it’ll ever be brought to its conclusion. Takahata, in his search for perfection, went for the time-tested methodology of trial and error and eliminating the errors one at a time, until all that was left was, indeed, perfection.

From the music of the film (during and after watching Princess Kaguya, it’s hard not to wonder at times if you’re taking a mindfulness session, what with its serenity and tenderness) to the symbolic color changes (in one scene, the insides of the mouth go dark, to symbolize the feelings of the character while simultaneously highlighting the tone of the scene), everything reflects the hours and hours of thought and work that has gone behind it.

And what better way to create a movie on the beauty and meaning of life than creating it in a way that affirms your philosophy too? It’s a work that shows all that humanity can achieve when it puts its mind to something. In Isao Takahata and His Tale of Princess Kaguya, Yoshiaki Nishimura (one of the producers of the film) says:

“This is my movie,” I told Mr. Takahata.

He laughed and said, “You’re right. When everyone thinks it’s theirs, you get a good movie.” “I made this. The more people who think that, the better it’ll be.”

Sums up how this magnum opus was brought to life: everyone made it.

Final Thoughts

It’s too easy too often to get lost in the daily drudgery of life we have, in this modern world. It’s too easy too often to give in to the pain and suffering that is an inevitable part and parcel of our lives. But sometimes, just sometimes, admiring the petal, which has traveled through the wind, crossing who knows how many oceans, to fall at your feet, is enough. To take in the smell and touch of a fresh gust of wind that wants to embrace you. It’s enough. To laugh at the futility of it all, to chuckle at the beautiful absurdity that is our world. It’s enough. All that. Just that.

Or as Takahata would say, as long as you can answer back by being alive.

Cricket, a Metaphor for Sri Lanka: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka

By Amritesh Mukherjee

On 10/03/2023

In Book Reviews

The love affair between cricket and this reader began early on. The roots were watered and tended to by a father who loved few things as much as he loved the sport. Victories in anything, you see, are tiny miracles that have fate, talent, and timing conspiring together to make something extraordinary. It was one such night of victory that I, the reader, fell in love with the sport, a certain final that India won.

But there was an older love affair the reader has had, one with the quiet books in a library, and the colorful comics in a bookstall. And naturally, he wanted something more. He long desired to read a cricket novel where cricket is not some subplot relegated to the corners like some frivolous tea party you wouldn’t really mind missing out on. He wanted to read something that gave the same thrill as reading the live commentary of a game hanging on the threads of fate. He wanted something extraordinary. He wanted a victory, one that he found in the pages of this book.

Indian players celebrating the t20 World Cup win — Credit: AFP via Getty Images

And when Karunatilaka describes the finale between Sri Lanka and Australia in the 1996-97 World Cup, he felt the same euphoric thrill that makes you love life a bit more, the kind of thrill that gives you second thoughts about the impossibility of what you experienced right now.

Sri Lankans across the world stand taller, believing that now anything is possible. The war would end, the nation would prosper and pigs would take to the air.
shehan karunatilaka, chinaman: The legend of pradeep mathew

Why the Need for a Cricket Novel?

Cricket in literature isn’t a new phenomenon. Not quite common, sure, but not new either. What’s been lacking, however, and something a cricket lover can’t help but desire too, is the sport being a critical part of the overarching narrative, the Atlas to bear the weight of the globe if you may. This particular lacking is generously compensated through this vivacious, sprawling piece of literature.

But why this desire in the first place, one might wonder? Is cricket as important as politics or societal hierarchies or interpersonal relationships or one’s identity? Arguably yes. Sometimes even more.

Sports can unite worlds, tear down walls and transcend race, the past, and all probability. Unlike life, sport matters.
shehan karunatilaka, chinaman: the legend of pradeep mathew

Onto the Story…

It’s the story of an aging sports writer, Karunasena, to seek out a mysterious spinner who is, for all practical purposes, dead. There are no records of him, no trail to find where he might be now, nothing. All that exists is memory. Memory of watching him bowl some of the greatest spells in the history of cricket. It’s this chasing the invisible that forms the center of this mad frenzy of a novel.

But the story is also Karunasena’s. It’s his flaws, his addiction to alcohol, his philosophy that switches from nihilism to optimism in the blink of an eye, his commentary on those around him, his obsession with the sport he devoted his life to, and most of all, his humane unreliability that makes this novel what it is.

If all this is scaring you, don’t worry, for even if you’re someone new to the world of cricket and only thinks the word to mean that little chirpy insect, you wouldn’t be lost here. While you’ll certainly enjoy Karunasena’s ramblings more if you’re a lover of the sport, Shehan keeps an eye out for the newbies to the game as well.

Credit: Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew by Shehan Karunatilaka

In a section at the very beginning of the novel, rather wittily titled “Sales Pitch”, he goes so far as to say that if you’ve never seen a cricket match; if you have and it has made you snore; if you can’t understand why anyone would watch, let alone obsess over this dull game, then this is the book for you. Apt.

The Birth of a Cricketing Nation

All of this is well and nice, but what truly makes this novel a chef-d’œuvre in the world of cricket literature is the parallel metaphor of Sri Lanka.

It’s a country that’s faced one adversity after another. To then equate the Sri Lankan cricket team to the country they represent, to extrapolate the struggles within the cricketing world to give a commentary on the racial and caste divides that permeate the country, is nothing short of genius. It’s a country you’d be hard pressed to dismiss like some stray pebble on a rocky terrain, and yet it’s a country that would surprise you time and time again.

But the metaphors for Sri Lanka don’t stop there. Oh no, not even close! This is something you’ll notice often in Shehan’s stories. Even when Sri Lanka is not the opening batsman, it’s always there in the stadium, if only as a viewer. And, in a way, The Legend of Pradeep Mathew is, in a way, the legend of Sri Lanka too.

Like the elusive mystery spinner (I wonder if that description harks back to the supposed mythical greatness Lankan politicians have often talked about in the past), the country too has lofty ambitions but is often stuck up in conflicts within itself. Like Pradeep, the country has a lot of promise and talent, but due to numerous factors, it never quite reached all the places it could’ve gone. Like him, the nation has a diverse ethnic background, something that has painted the country red too often. And yet, like him, the country has survived, persevered in the face of impossible conditions.

A Cricket Autobiography

Outside of Chinaman, every other book on cricket adorning my shelves is non-fictional, most of them autobiographical. Biographies are to cricket what awards are to movies, there are simply too many of them. Keeping this in mind, it’s hard not to wonder if Shehan’s work in an indirect ode to the numerous biographies that have been written over the years. After all, from the first-person narration to photographs and sketches that populate the pages of this book, it would come across as an autobiography to someone just glancing through its pages.

It’s not just a stylistic choice, however. It serves to lend the book an air of authenticity, what with the narrative mired with real events and characters, that’s hard to shake off. You’re not reading yet another fictional narrative, you’re reading the history and life of a nation and its people. And all of that: it’s very much real. Therefore, by appealing to a sense of factuality in us, Shehan adds more life, more reality into his already phenomenal work.

Wrapping Up…

Coming back to the age-old question, why should you read this text clocking over 500 pages? Let’s try and give a pointless answer to this pointless question, shall we?

You love politics? Read this book.

You find intergenerational conflicts interesting? Read this book.

You find the unreliability of fictional narratives compelling? Read this book.

You want to know more about Sri Lanka (and its literature)? Read this book.

You enjoy cricket (the sport, not the insect)? Read. This. Book.

I rest my case.

Why Madeline Miller’s Song of Achilles is Queerphobic, Heteronormative, Misogynistic, Regressive, Problematic, and a Disservice to The Iliad

By Amritesh Mukherjee

On 02/03/2023

In Book Reviews

Song of Achilles, the beloved “retelling” of Greek mythology or more specifically Homer’s Iliad, and the seemingly modern take on the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is not what it seems. If you’re one of those who are yet to travel through its pages, let this piece serve as a warning (?). Okay, so, where shall we begin? Do I begin talking about how the original myths are more modern than anything that Miller writes here or do we look at the heteronormative themes present everywhere, or do we talk about the gorgeous irrationality that drips through these pages?

Let me make something clear right away. This is not an attack on Miller as a writer (or maybe it is?). I quite enjoyed reading Circe (the author has since changed their mind; Circe, too, was an abomination), a book that stays true to the original myths while adding a new perspective of its own, something I believe is the very purpose of a retelling. However, when it comes to Song of Achilles, tsk tsk tsk.

The Death of Patroclus

The Patroclus in Miller’s story is a direct contrast to the warrior in the pages of the Greek myths. This is Patroclus we’re talking about. The same Patroclus who had a higher death count than most of his counterparts. The same Patroclus who goes through the Trojan army like nothing. The same Patroclus who has to be stopped by a god (freaking Apollo himself!) because he decided to scale the walls of Troy by himself.

Come Miller’s Patroclus and he’s almost like a loyal follower of Achilles. He’ll follow him wherever he goes, and battlefields are a strict no-no. By changing this very basic fact about Patroclus, Miller changes everything about him. Retellings are supposed to change some elements, but here it’s almost as if she kills Patroclus and blabbers about some dead zombie (serving a socio-political agenda).

But Amritesh, I hear you ask, isn’t she changing the idea of what a hero can be? That a hero can be someone existing outside the stereotypes of masculinity?

Dear oh dear, you’ve got no clue, do you?

The Death of Rationality

I did not kill anyone, or even attempt to. At the end of the morning, hours and hours of nauseating chaos, my eyes were sun blind, and my hand ached with gripping my spear—though I had used it more often to lean on than threaten. My helmet was a boulder crushing my ears slowly into my skull.

It felt like I had run for miles, though when I looked down I saw that my feet had beaten the same circle over and over again, flattening the same dry grass as if preparing a dancing field. Constant terror had siphoned and drained me, even though somehow I always seemed to be in a lull, a strange pocket of emptiness into which no men came, and I was never threatened.
song of achilles, chapter twenty-two

This scene is set right in the middle of a battle. A live, actual battle. Even if we close our eyes and manage to ignore the way she reduces Patroclus to this pittance and how it’s disingenuous to the character yada yada, there remains another issue. It just does not make sense. At all. A soldier standing and dancing around on a battlefield? What is this, the Marvel Cinematic Universe?

And for the sake of justifying her “version” of Patroclus, Miller would cross seas and fight dolphins if she has to. She’ll change Iliad, she’ll change how these epic stories unfold, she’ll change what the characters represent and symbolize, she’ll murder nuance, and she’ll do other unspeakable literary atrocities too scandalous to deserve a mention here.

If I had to read stupidity, the masterpiece that is Fifty Shades of Grey is always out there. Why bother reading a Greek retelling?

But wait, there’s more. The climactic scene sees Patroclus crusading through the Trojan army by fluke. No, I didn’t make a mistake there. A guy who can’t fight, who’s always avoided battlefields breaks through the mighty Trojan army by fluke. It just happens. Somehow. Magically. Make it make sense to me, someone?

Heteronormativity: A Common Occurrence in Popular Gay Fiction

Achilles tending to Patroclus by Sosias (500 BC) CCA-ArchaiOptix

Heteronormativity in a relationship can be broadly referred to as partners exhibiting different behavior. It’s the popular seme-uke dynamic all over again, wherein a partner is dominant and the leader (seme) and the other is submissive and simply follows the other (uke). This aligns with the commonly asked (and homophobic) question: What are you, a top or a bottom?

Why is this problematic? It’s an attempt at converting homosexual and queer relationships into quasi-heterosexual ones. As if everything makes sense only when they exist in binaries, in extremities, in blacks and whites. Which is, I’m very sorry to say, not how the world functions. And certainly not queer relationships.

This doesn’t just end with this book, unfortunately. Almost like an extension of the popular straight man’s fantasy of watching two lesbians kiss and fuck, there’s a rise in “gay romance novels” by straight women in the market. As if the best friend trope wasn’t humiliating enough, now the authors want to use them to enact their personal fantasies on the page. Never for a second think that these books were written for queer audiences, for the target audience remains, by and large, straight women. This isn’t representation, this isn’t making things better, but only preserving the pre-existing dynamics. Miller’s book further adds to that.

Coming back to our book, the beauty of the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus in The Iliad is that they have an equal dynamic. Consider Achilles on one hand. The greatest warrior, a demigod, a hero, second to none. The Aristos Achaion. On the other hand is Patroclus, born to mere mortals, yet no less than Achilles on the battlefield. The man who single-handedly inspired the defeated and demoralized Achean army to battle again.

To take this equal dynamic and reduce it to whatever it is that exists in the Song of Achilles in order to make everything more palatable to audiences (or perhaps Miller herself?) is as regressive as they go. She goes so far in her process of creating this quasi-heterosexual relationship that Achilles barely shows any reaction to Patroclus’ death here. When in The Iliad, he cried with such intensity and for such a length that his mother had to come scampering to find out what was going on.

At this point, you might ask, but hey, doesn’t she make their close friendship a homoerotic one? Isn’t that a somewhat modern take on their story? Ummmmm…

Queerphobia, Regressivity, and Whitewashing

Someone not very familiar with Greek mythology might think that homosexuality wasn’t prevalent or observed in public spheres in those times. Barely so. While it wasn’t outright celebrated, the sexual and romantic dynamics used to be more ambiguous and complex than a lot of purveyors would have you believe.

And here’s where queerphobia creeps into Miller’s story. Instead of both Achilles and Patroclus having relationships with other women while also having a relationship with each other, effectively insinuating that they’re not “pure gays”, she creates this relationship that fits the Victorian idea of how a relationship ought to be. Taking something complex and nuanced and layered and turning it into something narrow and linear?

Part of what makes the story of Achilles and Patroclus so fascinating to historians and literary enthusiasts over the years is how it subverts expectations and categorization. This was a relationship that completely flipped the idea of how a homosexual relationship ought to be.

Someone remind me why this one’s considered to be a modern retelling, again?

The matter of her trying to fit our dear protagonists into her Victorian moralities is present in repeated incidences. Achilles doesn’t sleep with women, of course, because he’s such a noble at heart and because you can only love one person at one time. He might be arrogant and can dream of glory in all its vanity, but sexual infidelity? That’s where the lines must be drawn, sire. To fit these characters into this worldview, she alters the characters and the relationships of/with Briseis and Deidameia as well. To dump away these wonderful, complex characters away in order to enforce these traditional and regressive tropes over and over again: whitewashing in all its glory!

Look, part of what makes Achilles so compelling a character are his flaws. He’s a deeply flawed character in The Iliad, someone who decided to skip a war because a woman he “won” was taken away from him, someone whose anger knows no bounds. Not his charisma, not his bravery, not his strength, as this book will have you believe.

The Greek world of The Iliad is a far cry from a just and equal society in a lot of things. From societal injustices ranging from social and economic equality to the prevalence of patriarchy, there’s much that can be played with there. But the perspective that Miller tries to change here, it’s already more advanced and nuanced than her book can ever strive to be.

Thetis

You’d think all this would be enough. But no, what’s a story without some good old misogyny? If only she got satisfied after ruining the protagonists, it might be a tolerable book. But no, she makes sure she butchers everyone in the worst possible way. And when I say worst, I mean the worst possible way out there.

We’ll only look at Thetis here, for the sake of brevity. This is a woman who was raped by the person she was later forced to marry, by the gods. Oh, and the same person would keep on raping her for the rest of the next year. Let’s see what’s Miller got to say about the two of them:

An ordinary wife would have counted herself lucky to find a husband with Peleus’ mildness, his smile-lined face. But for the sea-nymph Thetis nothing could ever eclipse the stain of his dirty, mortal mediocrity.
song of achilles, chapter three

Yep.

Mind you, Thetis is one of the best characters (although a minor one) in The Iliad, a woman who was raped over and over and who left her husband at the first chance she got, yet a woman who loved her son madly and would go to any lengths to protect him (the legend of Thetis dipping Achilles in the river Styx to make him immortal is one of the most popular non-Homerian Greek stories), a woman who comes forth to aid Achilles over and over again during the Trojan war.

Thetis dipping the infant Achilles into the river Styx by Peter Paul Rubens (1630)

Miller transforms that woman into an evil, scheming, manipulative mother who can’t see Achilles happy. Her treatment of this character is hollow and cruel and even manages to outshine her butchering of Patroclus somehow. It’s misogynistic, and patriarchal, and makes you think if her sole intention behind this was to create the evil parent trope so common in heterosexual romances.

A Disservice to The Iliad

I pity those whose only contact with the Greek myths is this book. Not only does it sanitize and force a certain outlook on its readers, but it does injustice to, what essentially is, an artifact of history. Because, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, that’s what great literature is. A historical artifact, that gives a glimpse into a world gone by, like nothing else.

It’s a book that ditches all character growth and complexity for the sake of yet another heteronormative romance novel. It forsakes all the intricacy and beauty of the original myths, creating a regressive and bland story in the process. There are no two ways about the fact that the Song of Achilles is an absolute disservice to The Iliad.

To conclude…

It’s a book that rehashes and changes every single thing good about The Iliad and if that wasn’t enough, those very “changes” are hailed as “modern” to top it all off. If this is modernity, someone please throw me to the dark ages please.