Bshin - GOST Project Reflection

Brennan Shin

English II

Ms. Hume

4-12-17

God of Small Things Film: Reflection

The film is purely focused upon the caste system. In God of Small Things, the caste system plays a role in the story/novel. A huge part in which the caste system is recognized is the relationship between Velutha and Ammu. How their relationship should never see the light of day purely due to Velutha’s status in India. Yale and I have decided to show the certain “caste system” in Los Angeles, our hometown. The caste system in America is mostly different from the one in India. In India, once born into a certain category, you stay there for the rest of your life and can not earn your way out of that status.

We mainly seeked to focus our attention upon the socio-economic class differences within one city. The main focus was to show the contrast between the “rich” and the co-called, “poor.” In one end of the spectrum we were greeted by enormous houses, luxury cars driving by, and primarily white people greeting us as we walk by them. On the other side of Los Angeles near Koreatown, it gets very different as it is not an area littered with multi million dollar homes, but rather littered with actual trash. The streets were lined up full of Spanish speaking street vendors infuriatingly bargaining with primarily hispanic consumers. Tents scattered around the area with men and women covered in tattoos and grime emerge out of them. Yale and I started to feel uncomfortable and decided to start filming in the car.

There was a very peaceful and tranquil quality when on Lombardy Road. The birds chirped as though it was the break of dawn, there were barely any cars, and it seemed as though we walked through the neighborhood’s personal botanical garden. When in the car and filming the external world of the “poor” neighborhoods, we were actually afraid. We were afraid of what these people’s reactions would be. I surprised myself when I had these thoughts of, “what if that man is high on drugs?” or “What if that guy throws a beer bottle at our car for filming them?” What I gained from making this film and immersing ourselves into a foreign neighborhood with a background from well off families, is that we understand the caste system. We understand the caste system in God of Small Things due to us experiencing what it’s like looking down upon people of lower “status”. We experience what the characters are feeling and thinking, when they constantly do have to think about their status and how their relationships with people affect their image. There was also a contrast between the rushed and zen vibes between the two parts. We can understand what the characters and what Roy was trying to convey. When in the opening it starts off as a very tranquil type of scenery, to when she starts to speed events up when trying to tie in new elements that make the story even more compelling, yet sad. I am tying the idea of feeling rushed with the poor, and elements in the novel that make the story sad. For example, in my own experience reading the scene of Velutha’s death, it was a small paragraph. The description lasted around 8 sentences, instead of providing an in-depth descriptive and grueling image of his bashed head, Roy decided to immediately get it over with. Thus, making the reader feel rushed.

Coming from a family that has been fortunate enough to have vacations at multiple luxurious resorts, attend a school that is highly prestigious, and live in a neighborhood where movie stars live. I can safely say that I have never outright experienced the real world. The world that hurts, kills, schemes against you, and seeks to put you down. This project truly opened my eyes to the world as a whole. It opened my eyes to the hardships of the people in Roy’s story. I can safely say that I understand what is going on in Roy’s mind as well as the character’s minds for I have dipped my toe in the waters of their world. Immersed myself into the Los Angeles equivalent of the low caste status.

Below are the narrations written by Yale and me for the video:

The Rich

- Goal was almost to make it satirical yet realistic

The room is calm, lifelessly still as though it were frozen in time. The setting sunlight flows through the clean glass windows in the study, illuminating the floating dust like drifting fireflies. The book on the dark oak shelf closest to me, Aesop’s Fables, fills my head with tales of crows and frogs, learning lessons one is supposed to learn that many don’t. Its gilded lettering spills from top to bottom, an El Dorado waterfall. I rise, and walk into the hallway, greeted by silence, struck by silence. The rug under my feet is knotted, rough, tired. I run my hands along the recently cleaned walls, feeling the cool, refreshing bite of marble. Down the stairs I glide, blinded by the glaring crystals suspended in the dizzying swirl of steps. Failing to catch the last step on my descent, I trip, slipping on the recently mopped floor. Sliding on my hands, I feel the sting of a burn, the first pain felt in days. I slowly walk to the kitchen, through the sun room, through the dining hall, through the reading room. Each blessed by the scent of freshly cut flowers, delivered from the florist, delicate and bought to be replaced by the next batch, next week. Grabbing the bactine under the chrome sink the road rash is cleaned and covered with a tan Band-Aid, just the right size. To the leather couch, to the remote, to bliss. Plunged into the tanned, skinned cow, slaughtered for pleasure. To fall asleep on the couch, bathed in moonlight and the BBC’s coverage of the suffering of others. What a gift. We slept softly that night, serene brick, marble, and maple houses dotted the street, all with enough room to be comfortable on their grass beds. No cars, no people, no worries. Nothing but the sounds of silence.

Poor

Mom says don't go out of the house without company. Dangerous people, harmful opportunities, bad influences. But outside is never as bad as inside. One bathroom, one bedroom, one living dining room, one kitchen, four people. Mother and father sleep in the bedroom, grandma and I get the living room couch and floor. In the bedroom, stained, dirty white sheets fall, slumped over on Mom’s side. On Dad’s side, the springs are shot, creating a prolonged use pit. I hear a shrill shout beckoning me to the kitchen, so I rush, careful not to stub my socked toe on the corner of the stucco wall. I duck under the doorway and the sticky heat of boiling soup fills my lungs, choking me until I can regain my bearings. Grandma stands at the small linoleum counter cutting celery with a dull knife and scarred hands. Lit by white-blue fluorescent tube lights, she asks me to take the trash out back. Tying it up, the smell of wilting vegetables and neglected tendons hits me like a truck, the shockwave smacking me with rancid vigor. The second I leave the kitchen, the cold becomes apparent. Beads of moisture condense on my radiating skin. I miss the sweaty steam of the kitchen. The back door opens, squeaks, and shuts, shouting it's second to last breath for the day. Dogs bark and street lights buzz. The city shines in the distance blocking out the stars with a light blue glow. The city never truly going to rest, the stars never truly waking. Stuck in a dirty limbo, stuck in a dirty life. Struggling to be better, thrusted down by the better. Clawing to never be worse, mauled by the worst.

Bshin - GOST Close Reading Slides

GOST: Project Brennan/Yale

The Californian Caste

The Rich

The room is calm, lifelessly still as though it were frozen in time. The setting sunlight flows through the clean glass windows in the study, illuminating the floating dust like drifting fireflies. The book on the dark oak shelf closest to me, Aesop’s Fables, fills my head with tales of crows and frogs, learning lessons one is supposed to learn that many don’t. Its gilded lettering spills from top to bottom, an El Dorado waterfall. I rise, and walk into the hallway, greeted by silence, struck by silence. The rug under my feet is knotted, rough, tired. I run my hands along the recently cleaned walls, feeling the cool, refreshing bite of marble. Down the stairs I glide, blinded by the glaring crystals suspended in the dizzying swirl of steps. Failing to catch the last step on my descent, I trip, slipping on the recently mopped floor. Sliding on my hands, I feel the sting of a burn, the first pain felt in days. I slowly walk to the kitchen, through the sun room, through the dining hall, through the reading room. Each blessed by the scent of freshly cut flowers, delivered from the florist, delicate and bought to be replaced by the next batch, next week. Grabbing the bactine under the chrome sink the road rash is cleaned and covered with a tan Band-Aid, just the right size. To the leather couch, to the remote, to bliss. Plunged into the tanned, skinned cow, slaughtered for pleasure. To fall asleep on the couch, bathed in moonlight and the BBC’s coverage of the suffering of others. What a gift. We slept softly that night, serene brick, marble, and maple houses dotted the street, all with enough room to be comfortable on their grass beds. No cars, no people, no worries. Nothing but the sounds of silence.

Poor

Mom says don't go out of the house without company. Dangerous people, harmful opportunities, bad influences. But outside is never as bad as inside. One bathroom, one bedroom, one living dining room, one kitchen, four people. Mother and father sleep in the bedroom, grandma and I get the living room couch and floor. In the bedroom, stained, dirty white sheets fall, slumped over on Mom’s side. On Dad’s side, the springs are shot, creating a prolonged use pit. I hear a shrill shout beckoning me to the kitchen, so I rush, careful not to stub my socked toe on the corner of the stucco wall. I duck under the doorway and the sticky heat of boiling soup fills my lungs, choking me until I can regain my bearings. Grandma stands at the small linoleum counter cutting celery with a dull knife and scarred hands. Lit by white-blue fluorescent tube lights, she asks me to take the trash out back. Tying it up, the smell of wilting vegetables and neglected tendons hits me like a truck, the shockwave smacking me with rancid vigor. The second I leave the kitchen, the cold becomes apparent. Beads of moisture condense on my radiating skin. I miss the sweaty steam of the kitchen. The back door opens, squeaks, and shuts, shouting it's second to last breath for the day. Dogs bark and street lights buzz. The city shines in the distance blocking out the stars with a light blue glow. The city never truly going to rest, the stars never truly waking. Stuck in a dirty limbo, stuck in a dirty life. Struggling to be better, thrusted down by the better. Clawing to never be worse, mauled by the worst.

GOST Close Reading Slides

Estha's Monologue: Fear and Guilt

Fear and Guilt: Estha’s Monologue

By Dash Liddi Brown

I lie awake while Ayemenem rests

Under the dark blue sky, only the quiet hum of insects  

Their echoes innocent yet ominous

My body pleads for rest, but my mind remains restlessly active

Tears corrode my soot covered cheeks and drip onto my yellow pillowcase

I open my mouth to scream but my jaw is left ajar with only a small whimper being heard

I remember his face, his unshaven beard and portable piano smile,

How his steady gaze follows me wherever I go

The sweet strawberry taint to his breath fails to conceal

The smell of cigarette ash emanates from his overheating body

I can feel his presence even when he isn’t around

Or is he

A hurt man disguised with a mask so thin only a child could fall for his tricks

A man with the power to change one's life in an instant

A sweet refreshment as the backbone of his evil plot

In the end, he is nothing more than a coward

Tears begin to swell up again and all of the sudden I am drenched

This night is nothing spectacular,

The haunting image of that man replays itself in my mind

As if a tape recorder endlessly playing an unsettling series of events

Each play more vivid, more controlling, more real

It’s as if he has become a part of me, a part of my identity

His image ingrained in my mind, it prevents me from thinking, eating, sometimes breathing

All I want to do is get out, to leave, to go to the history house where he will never find me

Everytime I want to leave, it’s as if he knows my plan, knows my every move

I am not a bad man, only a boy

But sometimes I have to ask myself, what would a bad man do?

In a world full of danger why must I encounter it firsthand?

I fear not only for myself but the safety of my beloved mother and sister Rahel

I could take Rahel with me, but not mom

She can never know what happened,

It would break her down farther than I have been broken

If I were to escape, to leave forever, what would happen?

Would he find me?

Would I find him?

Staring blankly and wide-eyed at the ceiling

The walls of my room seem as if they are closing in on me

Was it me?

Was I to blame?

What if I had never left the theater?

Why did everything happen the way it did?

Mother Superior told Maria

“...These walls were not meant to shut out problems. You have to face them. You have to live the life you were born to live.”

It’s just not that simple

The walls that prevent me from living my life seem to be within

A subtle warmth creeps through the windowsill and rests gently on my skin

The morning sun is rising above the mountains

White light engulfing my body

The lemondrink man is there

Creative Lab: God of Small Things Reflection

While reading The God of Small Things, Arundhati seamlessly threads the theme of family, class, fear, innocence, and many more into her outstanding interpretation of Indian life and culture in Ayemenem. From the start of the book, two major characters are evident, Estha and Rahel, and throughout, their lives and the people that surround them are examined and developed. A few chapters into the book, Estha is lured and harmed by a street vender, this experience carves a pathway for the book as his life has been permanently changed from that point onward. For the creative lab project, I wanted to closely examine how the incident with the Lemondrink man has affected him while focusing on a more internal view, an angle in which the reader has not seen before in Arundhati’s writing. I intended to write from the point of view of Estha, and focus on the themes of fear, guilt, blame, and innocence all in one setting. Rather than taking a simple approach to the monologue, I instead dug deeper and focused on how the Lemondrink man had become a part of Estha’s identity, how the incident has caused him to feel isolated and think how a ‘bad man’ thinks. Aside from the writing, my format and flow of words took a more poetic form, where each sentence contains its own line as to better emphasize the singularity and power of the message it is trying to convey. I would switch between narrating the setting, which took place is Esthas bedroom, and the voice inside Esthas head, speaking to him about the Lemondrink man. This method provided a balance between reality and his psychological experience. Later on in the monologue, I fused together a quote from The Sound of Music and how his view of that quote has changed after his experience with the Lemondrink man. This was especially powerful as The Sound of Music was the movie Estha had seen moments before he was harmed. In its entirety, the monologue was merely a flash in time, but, encompassed many new emotions and details one would not receive from reading solely the book. The creative project was something that the English II class was unfamiliar with as we had, in the past, been focusing on analytical writing, where now we could open-endedly write to our heart's desire about any sequence in The God of Small Things. Being free of restrictions, the project allowed me to focus on an idea or concept I was interested in, and further that understanding through my own interpretation based on events in the book. The two dominant themes, (aside from family) fear and guilt, were those I was particularly interested in and was luckily able to pursue in my monologue. What gave my monologue the most effect was the phrase “less is more.” Rather than explaining to the reader what they want to hear, I instead left much of it to interpretation, for each sentence to internalize within the reader. Using as few words to describe a powerful moment created a powerful effect on the reader. Overall, the creative project allowed me to almost be present in Ayemenem, surrounded by all the characters, and interpret the book from a more in depth or different angle, a good conclusion to a wonderful book.

Pencil and Paper; Drawing Essentials

One word after the other, I see the trees scraping the skyline while the breeze brushes onto my face. A perfectly painted picture, transporting my mind into the rural Indian environment. As a child, I never enjoyed reading.

The dull black words written line after line separated by commas, periods, and semicolons never sparked my interest. Yet my mind lingered on every word in God of Small of Things, every dull, black word. Roy’s powerful imagery made this book hard to put down. I saw the flies crashing into the windows, the blazing furnace engulfing Rahel’s mother, and Velutha’s tragic death.

In class, we were assigned presentations for each chapters and had to provide visual aid. I found the perfect passage for my part of the project and now had to find the picture accompanied with quote. I scoured the internet for the right picture, the one I see clearly in my mind, yet I come up empty. 

Therefore, when I was assigned this project, my mind filled with tons of ideas. I thought about the scene with the orangedrink lemondrink man and Estha. I thought about Estha and Rahel’s strong bond. I thought of all the possibilities and variations of images that can be portrayed with my pencil and paper. Right as Mrs. Hume said the words, I wanted to leave the classroom, get supplies, and draw. The limitations wasn’t my creativity, but my artistic abilities.

(The pictures are intertwined with quotes from the book)

Broken Clock:"One of her ambitions was to own a watch on which she could change the time whenever she wanted too."

Hands Holding: "Only that once they broke the love laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much."

Spilled Can: "'Take mine!' Estha said quickly, not wanting Rahel to go near the man."

 

Carnatic Violin Project

For my creative project, I learned to play a traditional Carnatic/Indian violin tune on my violin and attached it to a video capturing nature scenes of Ayemenem.

I found that my approach to this assignment opened my senses and increased my sensitivity to the surroundings and environments described throughout the book and, in turn, allowed me to more clearly and intensely feel the deeper, emotional impact that Arundhati Roy’s descriptive language and story can have on a reader. The elaborate descriptions of the story’s setting and backdrops that Roy incorporates throughout The God of Small Things formed in my mind, before all else, detailed images of the characters’ surroundings. These images were rarely, if ever, created together with an audio element. Though I was easily able to translate the pictures Roy draws with her words into realistic images in my mind, I rarely heard the sounds to accompany these images. Besides the majority of her imagery being devoted to the description of what is to be seen around the characters, the passages in which she discussed what is to be heard by the characters still seemed to bring forth visual images before or rather than sounds. When Roy writes, “Dissolute bluebottles hum vacuously in the fruity air. Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled in the sun” (p. 1), I imagined first and foremost birds rapidly and dramatically flying about until they bounce off the glass and fall to the ground. Only later came along a far less vivid imagination of the hum of the birds and the thud-thud as their stunned bodies ricochet off the windows and onto the ground. My exploration into the sounds of the story through my experimentation with traditional, carnatic music, as well as its relation to the nature and atmosphere of Ayemenem, made me more attentive to and appreciative of the opportunities to not only see, but hear the imagery Roy provides. By layering sounds that I had created and had put much time and thought into on images of Ayemenem that shared several similarities with those Roy describes, I was able to form strong ties between sound and sight. These ties brought to my attention the contribution sound can make to the significance and impact of a scene, as I found both the video itself and the images I had created in my mind over the course of reading this book to be far more colorful, brilliant, and moving when attached to the music I made.