Krishna's Practical Amorality (Mahabharata notes #19)

In an article by Hriput Namu Tara that analyzes the morally ambiguous role of Krishna in Mahabharata, the end struck me as particularly poignant: 

Ultimately, the poetic language of the Mahabharata takes us to the threshold, but not the heart of experience. Words, no matter how eloquent, cannot replace experience ... Krishna's ineffable nature, paradoxical and mysterious, cannot but be understood through perhaps a journey that goes beyond any acquired erudite knowledge.

The subject of the article is the age-old debate of Krishna's tricks and deceptions and apparent lack of impartiality in the central conflicts in Mahabharata. He openly proclaims that he sides with the Pandavas and would do anything to help them defeat the Kauravas. Although he does not directly involve himself in the actions, his advice is crucial to the outcome of the war. At each turning point in favor of Arjuna, Yudhishthira, or Bhima, when each of them commits an act against the kshatriya code to beat their equally mighty rival, the story puts the responsibility squarely on Krishna's shoulder. When Arjuna kills Karna when the latter was pulling his chariot wheels from the mud, when Yudhishthira tells the first lie in his life to cause the death of Drona, when Bhima slams his mace into Duryodhana's thigh, the poems says, it is because Lord Krishna tells them to. 

These plot points are sufficient for many readers and scholars to question the divinity or the moral validity of both the Pandavas and Krishna for as long as Mahabharata is in circulation. Nevertheless, plenty and more people continue to exalt the Bhagavad Gita as the ultimate guidance for behavior and dharma and Krishna as the ultimate figure of worship. People continue to feel both disturbed by all the rule-breaking and dishonorable choices attributed to Krishna in the story and compelled by the feeling that he is right --- that his example and advice are truer and more human than any moral education we have be infused with since childhood. 

In some ways, Krishna's cunning, practicality, and attitude remind me of the Old Testament God. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Except Krishna is in no way straightforward. As much as the Pandavas win the war and crown, they are left with fates hardly better than the defeated and dead enemies (in some sense, one could argue that victory is worse than defeat). Krishna himself is cursed, and he does eventually pay the price of a painful and lonely death. The moral ambiguity is sophisticated beyond any religion or mythology that I am aware of, perhaps even beyond Greek philosophy. I have seen a lot of Indian scholars use the word "subtle" to describe the theology of Krishna in Mahabharata. I don't know exactly what they mean, but I would compare it to a warm and glowing ball of hot air hanging in space, emitting powerful electromagnetic rays, defying description and interpretation by words. 

In our well socialized brain, all those tricks, deceptions, and "by any means necessary" practicality (to quote Malcolm X) do not bring us certainty or comfort, but we cannot deny the truth, built upon lived experience. The shock of reading Mahabharata comes, perhaps, from its fundamental difference from all other religions --- we are so used to the routine that we do not question their prescriptive nature, regardless of whether we believe in them or not. In fact, the prescriptive nature of conventional religions is illustrated in Yudhishthira's representation of dharma (never lying is included in his paradigm). Thus, the point-counterpoint debate between Krishna and the Dharma King is but one example of the internal contradictions and co-existence in Mahabharata, where everything is included.

Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay

 

A few weeks ago, a debate raged on the twitter-verse over a question of hospitality: Is it strange/cold/unthinkable that a visiting kid/playmate would not be fed by the host family? Some cultures (for example, Middle Eastern countries) are perhaps excessively fond of sharing food with everyone including strangers, while in other cultures (for example, Sweden) people keep enough distance from others so as to spare them of the sense of obligation and indebtedness. There is no right or wrong, and I was only amused by the various expressions of outrage and shock making the rounds online. Because I understand both sides of the argument, growing up in a culture where relationships and kindness are used as a currency and a lubricant in daily life. More often than not, the rule of the transactions puzzled me and made me feel like a failure. Such a culture is certainly not easy on introverts. 

As I am re-reading the third book in the Neapolitan series, the idea of people using people keeps returning to my mind. Never have I read an English language novel in which the subtle transactions in relationships are described so densely and pervasively. Putting aside the undefinable and entangled transactions in families, we are introduced to a huge variety of interpersonal uses. A rich example is how Lenu used her newfound connections to the prominent and well-connected in-laws, the Airota family, to help her exhausted and defeated friend in her lowest point. The Airota family referred Lenu to the editor of l'Unita to publish an expose, to a famous cardiologist to conduct a free examination on Lila, and to a lawyer who forced Lila's boss to cough up the salary he had owed her. At each stop, Lenu was reminded not so subtly that she was using her in-laws' intangible credits in society. A person with highly sensitive social antennae and adaptability, Lenu navigated the referrals with confidence and competence at a young age. In other words, she used her in-laws and their friends in the best way one can and reaped the rewards without depleting the intangible account of social favors. 

Indirectly, Lila was using Lenu in the process, but Lenu instinctively remembered the emotional debt she had owed Lila and how she had used Lila just a few years ago, when Lila bought her textbooks using Stefano's money and let her study in her house, bought by Stefano, not to mention the inspiration she drew from Lila's childish book, The Blue Fairy, for her own successful debut novel. One may recall how Lila casually took money from the store cashier and gave it liberally to her friends, when she was working there as Stefano's wife. It can be interpreted as Lila using Stefano, or perhaps she perceived it as a debt owed to her because Stefano abused and controlled her in their marriage. Ah, the intricate web of the invisible currency passed between one person and the other. It defines a fundamental part of human relationships, but only the Italians can be so acutely aware of it.

Lila's stint at the sausage factory also illustrates the ways people used her. Pasquale and his comrade used her to advance their union-organizing activities against the boss Soccavo. At one point, they even used Lila's first-hand report of working conditions without her consent. When she quit her job, Pasquale was quite unsatisfied with the abrupt end of her contribution to his cause. In parallel, Lila and Enzo used each other and became emotionally dependent on each other, despite the lack of sexual gratification (yet), and enriched each other's life. 

When there is love and reciprocity between two people, the flow of favors and use is free and easy and voluntary, like the relationships between Lila and Lenu, and Lila and Enzo. When it is primarily driven by greed and narcissism, such transactions become dark very quickly. When Lenu visited Gigliola at her super luxurious apartment in Posillipo with an astounding view, it quickly came out that Gigliola paid dearly for her long relationship with Michele Solara, even though she had probably thought that she had made a great bargain in the beginning. She used Michele to gain an upper class status and lifestyle, along with constant neglect and insults.

Michele may be the ultimate user of people among them all. Gigliola described his usual way of using over a hundred women, "to feel them under him, to turn them over, to turn them again, open them up, break them, step on them, and crush them." As Lila held a special place in the heart of this psychopath, she was the only woman he did not want to treat the same way as he did the others. Instead, he "wanted the subtlety of her mind with all its ideas. He wanted her imagination. And he wanted her without ruining her, to make her last." Reading this passage, it suddenly became clear to me that Michele's obsession with Lila's creativity, intellect, and imagination was rooted in his own hollowness and his awareness of this hollowness. So he wanted to possess her and use her and fill up the hole inside himself with her special talent.

In the two cultures with which I am most intimately familiar, sexual desire and the desire for power are so inextricably entangled that there is often no distinction. There are countless women's fantasies in which a man like Michele is the ultimate object of women's desire, in the hopes of rubbing off some of his raw dominance. Yet the author had no such illusions. Even Gigliola was unable to fool herself into enjoying her status as Michele's wife, not to mention Lila's unwavering contempt and hatred toward the Solaras. This is one of the criticisms I've heard about the novels: There is so little self-deception and self-repression in all of these characters. Their instincts are so strong and direct that we the readers are also forced to lay bare our own crudest and truest emotions and motives. There is nowhere to hide from ourselves.

The Prodigal Son (1981)

 

I only recently came upon the anecdote that, according to Sammo Hung's own recollection, when he, Jackie Chan, and their "little brother" Yuen Biao came out of a Bruce Lee movie in theater, he was the only one who was thoroughly won over by Lee's style. "It's brutal," he said, "This will take over the world." The other two guys were not as impressed. Sammo and Jackie went on to build their own stunt teams and glorious careers that revolutionized kung fu movie choreography. True to their youthful inclinations, Jackie's style remained joyful and humorous and very rarely bloody (except when he starred in a Sammo Hung movie), while Sammo became the most vicious choreographer of on-screen fighting since Bruce Lee. 

Years before I heard about Lee's influence on Sammo, it was evidence that Sammo's approach to choreography is more brutal and terrifying than anyone else's in Hong Kong cinema, even though he originated from the same Peking opera tradition of stage fighting and acrobatics as Jackie and Yuen Woo-Ping. He got into a lot of street fights since boyhood, which might be another reason he identified with Lee. He might not be as vocal about the real-world applications of kung fu as Lee was, but in "The Prodigal Son," one of his early masterpieces, he inserted some very practical advice of his own: When your opponent is down, follow through and kick him on the ground. If he is injured, keep hitting his injury so that it hurts more. Use any weapon at your disposal, like headbutts and aiming for his groin. 

Ostensibly the movie is an introduction to the Wing Chun style of martial arts, yet it is full of Sammo's signature hilarity and tragedy and absurdity. The Cantonese opera scenes recall the original profession of Sammo and his good friend and costar Lam Ching-Ying (not sure why he shaved his brows for the role, but it was certainly a distinctive look). One has to suspect that the bantering and jabbing on screen between these two guys was a carbon copy of their real-life relationship. The familiar yet discordant flashes of tragedy in the movie lack Chang Cheh's fatalism and instead suggest an undertone of unexpected melancholy. The trend of irreverent sifu-student stories of the late 1970s and early 80s is reflected here, except Sammo brought out a charming authenticity in the relationships between Yuen Biao and Lam, Lam and Sammo himself, and even Biao and his servant boy.

Also rather unusual for the time is the murky morality in the movie. The main bad guy, played by the Renaissance man Frankie Chan, is not that bad after all. He is a mirror image of Biao's character, both precious prodigal sons being over protected by their wealthy or powerful parents. They have grown up in a false sense of their own excellence, only to be taught a lesson by the brutal world. Thus, despite the practical lesson of fight to kill, Biao chooses not to kill Frankie in the end, unlike most movies in the genre at that time.

While full of highlights, the final showdown is not my favorite fight in the movie. The first exchange between Lam and Frankie gives me a cold sweat. It's not just the speed and intricacy of both actors' movement but also the sense of impact when their hands and bodies connect that suggests the possibility of an instant kill. 

Sammo went on to direct more vicious fight scenes in movies that are entirely different from Bruce Lee's but nevertheless evoke a similar sense of lethality. 

The Story of a New Name (2)

From around Chapter 40 to Chapter 75, the author constructed a self-contained story that took place on the beach of Ischia, where Lila, Lenu, Nino, and, initially, Pinuccia and Bruno Saccovo spent a massive amount of time together. This takes up approximately one third of the book and is constructed like a novella within a novel. The location is limited almost entirely to the beach, away from the neighborhood with a large cast of characters who are always minding each other's business, and only 3 to 5 young people with raging hormones are hanging out at any given time. The confined setting intensifies the relationships and conflicts among them. More important, this story has its own arc of beginning, development, climax, and resolution. But don't worry, the larger novel also has its own arc, and an even more explosive climax comes after the story in the middle. 

It puzzled me for days why this segment has to take up so much space. Lila and Nino fell in love slowly. The girls spent the early days listening to Nino's endless political babbling. There were many ups and downs, hesitant touches, and half-hearted denials. The month on the beach seemed so monotonous, so interminable, as if time had stopped and the summer would never end. Only by Chapter 85 (after the end of the vacation) did I realize how massive Lila's choice to leave her husband for Nino was and why it had to take so long: In an insulated working class neighborhood in 1960s Naples, no one, absolutely no one, had even thought of divorce. A more likely scenario would have been murder (ie, divorce, the Italian style).

Even so, every reader knows, from the last chapter of the previous book, that Lila's marriage to Stefano could not last. It ended before it even started. Lila confessed to Lenu that she had felt numb and on the verge of (spiritual) death in her marriage. But she was only 17 and the most vigorously alive person in the neighborhood. If Lila were to submit to the social norms of the neighborhood, she would have to become another Gigliola or Pinuccia and kill her indomitable spirit. Well, that's not going to happen. So the marriage is doomed. Nevertheless, how to get there without making her look anachronistic or unrealistic could have been a real problem. A young woman of her time and background needed an enormous amount of drive to overcome not only her environment but her own conscience. Thus comes a catalyst to give her a reason to do what she had to do, sooner or later. The love affair with Nino became the impetus for Lila to finally leave Stefano, but the process has to be meticulously and convincingly laid out, at least for Italian readers.

It seems a little reductive to call Nino "a catalyst," but that is more or less the function of this character throughout the quartet --- not that the passions and suffering felt by all three characters were any less palpable or sincere.

For many years, the idea of people using people was taboo to me. It seems so despicable that I was afraid of even thinking about it. However, psychotherapy changed that and helped me see how people never stop using each other, often unconsciously and sometimes constructively. Relationship is not a zero-sum game. A person may not lose anything by being used, and both the user and the used may come out with more than they have had. People who love each other especially use each other all the time and both sides can derive pleasure from it.

A closer look reveals more patterns of characters using each other. When Lila first hired Lenu to accompany her on the beach vacation with a health-related purpose, Lenu agreed on the condition that they go to Ischia instead of another beach town, so that she could be close to Nino, because she knew he would be in the nearby city Forio. Here Lenu used Lila. Then Lila used Lenu's friendship with Nino to become close to Nino, which triggered everything that followed. While Lenu felt used and angry, she was spurred by her disappointment in Nino and Lila to pursue higher education at the free university in Pisa. Before this turn of events, Lenu had always been ambivalent about her future: to stay or to go away, to become just like her mother or to forever escape the same fate. After that, she no longer had any doubt. Unconsciously, Lila's escape brought about Lenu's escape. At the moment it seemed like a loss, but pain pushed both girls beyond what they had thought they were capable of.

The Story of a New Name (1)

The first 30 chapters or so of the second book in the Naples quartet describe Lila's early stage of being the wife of Stefano Carracci, the neighborhood grocer and the son of Don Achille, the fabled neighborhood ogre of the girls' childhood.

After Lila's wedding, her clashes Stefano went to a mini-climax, when she "erased" herself in the enlarged wedding picture that was to be hung on the wall of the new shoe store that sold the Cerullo shoes but carried the Solara name. Although she failed to prevent the Solara brothers using her image or Stefano selling it to them, she covered her own face in the picture with strips of black paper, leaving only an eye and a hand and, of course, the shoes she wore. At the end of this self-erasure disguised as store decoration, the author spells out its meaning in the girls' discussion about her married name, Raffaella Cerullo Carracci:

"A custom. Everything according to the rules then. But Lila, as usual, hadn't stopped there ... She told me that she had begun to see in that formula an indirect object of place to which, as if Cerullo Carracci somehow indicated Cerullo goes toward Carracci, falls into it, is sucked up by it, is dissolved in it."

"She had been increasingly oppressed by an unbearable sensation, a force pushing down harder and harder, crushing her. That impression had been getting stronger, had prevailed. Raffaella Cerullo, overpowered, had lost her shape and dissolved inside the outlines of Stefano, becoming a subsidiary emanation of him: Signora Carracci." 

This summation comes at the end of a series of incidents in Lila's marriage to illustrate her point.  Before the wedding, she wanted to invite no one from the Solara family, but Stefano invited Silvio Solara, the patriarch, to speak at the wedding. She had to acquiesce and begged him not to invite the Solara brothers. Not only did Marcello and Michele brothers show up at the wedding, but Marcello had on his feet Lila's creation -- the pair of men's shoes that she designed, she and Rino made together, and then gave to Stefano. The betrayal of the men who loved her occurred on her wedding. When she refused to have sex with Stefano on their wedding night, he beat her and raped her. After they returned from the honeymoon, more compromises were made by Stefano, so that the Solara brothers opened a store in the fashionable district in Naples to sell the Cerullo shoes. The Solaras wanted Lila's wedding photo in the store as a model for the shoes. Lila refused, Stefano held out for a while, and then Stefano gave the photo to them anyway. She fought with her own body for months trying not to become pregnant and dreamed of going back to school, but she did become pregnant before the store opened. 

This is what the author means by Lila's sense of erasure, including the meaning of a woman taking up a new name upon marriage. When the wife cannot make any decision for herself --- her body, her work (shoe design), even her image no longer belong to her, and her husband can sell her off despite her objections, she does not exist any more as a human being, a free person, a person with her own identity. 

The "re-created" wedding photo in the shoe store was Lila's way of asserting her final bit of self presence, to announce her existence, to insist that she had not been fully devoured by the men in her life. Subsequently, she had a miscarriage, and the photo spontaneously burst into flames.

This was to be come a theme in Lila's life. She would tirelessly work and create something wonderful, and the men around her would try to buy it and own it and profit from it. Most of them wanted to own her body, except Michele Solara, who wanted to own her intelligence and creativity. Michele is the perfect capitalist that any worker today should appreciate; he's practically the Steve Jobs of Napoli. Isn't he a great boss? Lila did not think so through the end.

Being as yet unmarried, Lenu did not explicitly understand Lila in her role of Signora Carracci, but she was inspired to see the crumpled and twisted bodies of married women in the neighborhood for the first time --- worn down by not only the crushing poverty and uncompensated domestic labor but also the loss of their autonomy and agency, their choices, and their will to live.