Coming to New York in the Thanksgiving season means that apart from the wild shopping one enjoys during Black Friday and after, there is also an almost-Christmas air around the high street, with department stores already decked with holly. Especially enjoyable are the fairy-tale decor at Saks and the jewel-like facade at Tiffany’s. The only odd part is that the weather here has been as unpredictable as the English climate. Last week was positively warm, with all of us walking around without coats one day, only to find that the next day we were battling icy cold winds and snow. While New Yorkers were undoubtedly puzzled by this evidence of climate change, being a Londoner, I am well-trained in weather vagaries, and was an oasis of calm, not quite blown away by the wind.
But what was blowing in the wind was music by Bob Dylan, being played at the Beacon theatre by none other then the maestro himself. It was quite a spectacular evening to listen to a live concert by the man who has enchanted so many generations with his trademark lyrics. What surprised me completely, however, was the fact that the nasal twang I remembered from the days of yore has completely disappeared. Bob Dylan, now at 73 years, sings in a much heavier voice, a voice that many feel is much better and resonates well with the listener.
It was also interesting to see this once rebellious singer appear before a somewhat staid audience seated within a beautiful theatre, and perform without any fuss whatsoever. One is so used to legendary singers throwing tantrums or at least acting like celebrities that it was refreshing that a truly iconic musician could be so disciplined. Not only was Bob Dylan punctual, he went through a stirring repertoire seamlessly moving from his harmonica to behind a grand piano, without a pause. He was accompanied by a live band and though I missed his thin reedy voice, the performance was mature and very impressive.
It was made more so, when towards the end he sang the Blowin’ in the Wind, but with a completely new melody. This is obviously a man who continues to create new horizons for himself, and is not satisfied resting on past laurels. Perhaps that’s why the audience comprised of all age groups and we had teenagers rubbing shoulders with 70-year-olds. But the only difference from the rebellious hippy days was that while the audience was listening and cheering, there was no one dancing in the aisles.
New York can never be complete without a visit to Times Square and theatre. And this time, to my pleasant surprise, there were shows that dealt with both Indians and Pakistanis. Does that mean that Asians have arrived? Or does it mean that we are still being portrayed through the colonial lens? Alas, the latter seemed quite true. Indian Ink, for instance, even though it is a 1995 play by the redoubtable Tom Stoppard, hasn’t quite garnered the expected positive reviews, thus far.
The disastrous lack of critical acclaim has meant that the play has been repackaged and brought back with an all-new cast, and one wonders if this will rescue it.
However, whilst I did not manage to see Indian Ink, I did see Disgraced, a play by Ayad Akhtar who was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. Disgraced is about a Pakistani high-flying corporate lawyer, Amir, who pretends to be of Indian origin as that would presumably help him up the greasy pole. Unfortunately, he is married to a white American woman who requests him to help a Muslim, who has been accused of terrorism, and that reveals his real identity. After which it is downhill all the way for him, as he loses his job, his marriage collapses, and worse, he becomes the Muslim stereotype he was trying to avoid.
Disgraced is a disturbing play because it pulls out and confirms every stereotype about Muslims that one would try to avoid. The playwright, also a Muslim, allows Amir to admit to exultation when the Twin Towers were attacked in New York. Amir does not hesitate to resort to domestic violence... even though he mouths platitudes about being different, and is critical about his own community. While I did not quite like this aspect of the play, one has to appreciate the fact that some very uncomfortable issues about the relationship between white Americans and the Pakistani community are being openly discussed. And there is a lot of anguish in the discussion.
Apart from these messy dialogues, it was heartening to go to the Guggenheim museum and admire more than 40 works of one of India’s greatest artists, V.S. Gaitonde, being exhibited there. In fact, this is probably the largest collection of his works ever displayed anywhere in the world. It was even more wonderful to see the Zen-like paintings hung on the walls, especially since in the next room were paintings by Picasso, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Mattisse, Loutrec.
Kishwar Desai is an award-winning author
