Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
A formidable presence in contemporary Hindi literature, Bhagwandass Morwal has been hailed as the chronicler of Mewat, the land of his birth and nurture. Straddling Rajasthan, UP and Haryana, the region of Mewat, despite its unique cultural compositeness, lies on the socio-economic margins of India.
The critique of globalization and the neo-liberal economy has, interestingly enough, become a major platform in an increasingly interdependent world, where writers and thinkers from different disciplines come together to discuss their commonalities and state their divergences.
Prabhu Ghate provides a fascinating account of the Indian micro-finance scenario. For the non-initiated, the word micro-finance brings several very contradictory images to mind. One is that of Mohammad Yunus sharing the 2006 Noble Peace Prize with his creation, the Grameen Bank, the micro-finance organization in Bangladesh.
Sunanda Sen, through her long career, has been writing extensively on questions related broadly to globalization, and in particular, on the intricacies of trade and financial flows and how these might impact the well-being of the working people, especially in the developing world.
Half of this book tells the story of the heady years between 1987 and 2006 when Alan Greenspan was the Chairman of America’s Federal Reserve Board, known to the whole world as simply the Fed. The other half consists of musings about the future and is actually quite disappointing.
Perhaps no period or region in Indian history is as well documented as the Mughal period. The practice of Mughal rulers of maintaining personal records and autobiographies, the encouragement given to contemporary historians to write official biographies and histories,
One of the few authentic terrors of walking unguardedly into a bookshop in these dark times is that one is almost immediately trapped by an enormous phalanx of thoroughly amiable Spiritual Books on the Inner Self which profess to alleviate all one’s worldly ills, in twelve steps or less, through a sort of spiritual enema:
‘Sir, sir,’ said an excited M. Phil student to me recently, ‘did you see that Naipaul has said he killed his first wife?!’ That was, of course, how the newspapers had headlined the report that an authorized biography of Naipaul had come out, while omitting to say, naturally,