Eternal Sunshine of the Thoughtless Mind

Flights (of fancy) in chroma key

2011-12-23T10:02:00.000-08:00

Malegaon Ka Superman with his heroine, dancing.

A novice in the world of filmmaking wonders how an essentially collaborative art succeeds in projecting a single vision - the director's. Not a cine-hippie with some reading of the auteur theory. A cloth-store owner, living in a remote town of Maharashtra, whose dreams are the stuff of cinema. Nasir Shaikh. Director of Malegaon Ka Sholay - the comedy remake of India's biggest blockbuster which became a runaway hit in its own targeted market. Having conquered the peak of India's commercial film industry in his own way the next step in his evolution is, of course, making a Hollywood-derived film. Malegaon Ka Superman.

Boasting the biggest budget ever Shaikh has worked with (about a hundred thousand rupees), he has decided to upgrade the "technique" in this film. Superman will fly - a feat which will be achieved by chroma keying. Played by an undernourished hand in a power loom (weaving is Malegaon's primary industry) called Shafique, Malegaonwale Superman seems earnestly determined to move onto bigger roles. His daredevil feats involve painfully balancing his body on bits of wood and bullock carts, jumping into cold water inspite of not knowing swimming (the kids he's meant to save somehow haul him up on land) and performing stunts that usually end up hurting him a lot more than the villains he's beating up (all of them have better physique). Production problems dog the filmmakers at every step - actresses are rare because Malegaon's conservative society does not permit girls to step out of their houses, the camera falls into water and nearly goes dead and Superman-ji is married off in between the shooting. Falling behind schedule means cost overruns - now here's something that connects the most frugal of film industries with the bulkiest and most moneyed. And yet Nasir is egged on by his love of cinema and the sheer joy of filmmaking to overcome these and stay cool.

Superman and I'm-in-trouble-man fly together. And yes, Superman wears uber-cool Hawaii chappals.

The insights are many. One of the screenwriters, Akram Khan, confesses how he started out thinking he'd write with his heart and yet how the final product is mathematical (to use his own word): coldly calculated bits of comedy, anti-climax, climax, action, songs, the works. In other words, the story of almost every commercial filmmaker who had set out with personal visions and slowly gave them up for success (there are echoes of this sentiment in a Dibakar Banerjee interview where he says how he too has been corrupted by the money-making machinery). And then the equally candid confession that only 20% of the original script and vision remains in the final product - in this Akrambhai only differs with Nicholas Ray, a far more rebellious and adamant fellow, in the numbers (Ray said 50%).

There are revelations which quietly seep through the cracks - the heroine of Shaikh's film talks about the strict restrictions on the womenfolk of Malegaon, how girls from outside town (like her) have to be hired at high rates ( she takes 1000 a day whereas the hero takes about a 100) to do the dances, love scenes and climaxes. In the midst of her interview, her phone rings - we deduce it's her boyfriend from the hushed tone, a confirmation comes when we hear several covert mwahs. A village elder comes to the shooting location, sees hero and heroine hoisted on wooden planks (they're shooting the couple-flying-together scene) and turns his eyes away from the blasphemous sight.

Then there's the near-ubiquitous talk of moving on to the bigger game - Bollywood. Everyone in Mollywood (for that is the name of Malegaon's direct-to-video film industry) has upwardly mobile dreams. Except Nasir Shaikh, whose dedication to family matters is absolute - the reason why he dissuades his younger (and equally cinema-crazy) brother from venturing into filmmaking. Someone needs to earn for the family. If one brother is indulging in his passions and losing money, the other must make up. The business is exhausting and unrewarding. An echo of Billy Wilder telling his audience that he'd prefer his son not to be a filmmaker - "it's too goddamn painful."

The film is completed and Shaikh re-opens his long-dead video parlour (where he learnt by watching the greats, as he says - Chaplin, whose Modern Times and City Light [sic] are in his collection; Arnold Schwarznegger, Jackie Chan, et al.) for a screening. Initial reactions are encouraging. Luck favouring the brave, Nasirbhai will probably move on to bigger projects. In Malegaon. Even if his crew moves to Mumbai.

Supermen of Malegaon (documentary), dir. Faiza Ahmad Khan, 2008.

P.S.: The film will have a second screening at Rabindra Sadan, 6 PM, 27th December '11 as part of the Kolkata International Children's Film Festival. Catch it if you can. More than a few guffaws guaranteed!

In praise of a loser

2011-11-15T04:05:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to write a big, fat Indian Democracy post after recently finishing Ramachandra Guha's India After Gandhi, four years too late. Thankfully, that initial enthusiasm has subsided - thereby saving every one of my readers (?) from that familiar know-it-all (or at least, know-it-enough) feeling.

The present post relates in, some sense at least, to democracy. It concerns a subversive musical-comedy that grabbed attention some months back with a couple of provocative trailers (NSFW).

The director of Gandu - Q - made an interesting documentary called Love in India (trailer) a couple of years back, which dealt with India's attitude towards love and sexuality. Love in India showed how Hinduism's mythical past is rife with innuendo, at ease accepting sexuality, even worshipping it - a practise which seems to have been shunned or sanitised by mainstream religion (though it survives in several folk, pagan and tribal customs). In the course of making his film, Q interviews an interesting cross-section of people - Nabanita Dev Sen (who tells us that our simultaneous acceptance of Radha-Krishna's illicit affair and the sanctity of marriage reveals a dichotomy - most hilariously manifest in what many of my college friends do: watch porn while maintaining a conservative stand on women having multiple relationships), several of Q's friends and relatives, married couples, folk singers, artistes and a distributor of B-grade films. The last gives one of the film's joyous, most cheerful testimonials. He describes how he sees many middle-aged women in seedy theatres, finding the cheap sleaze revolting, doing "chhee-chhee" and facepalms; but still stealing glances. That, he says, is definite proof of the elemental appeal of sex - even as we are ashamed of it, we just love it.

This provides us with a starting point in understanding Q's follow-up to Love in India. Kanti Shah - India's Ed Wood, our greatest peddler of lo-fi sleaze - makes films whose thematic concerns are trivial, but absolutely essential if we want to understand India's attitude towards sexuality. The Kanti Shah Woman is a prototype - who dresses vulgarly, usually beds all of the male characters in the film and ultimately pays for her sins with death (usually at the hands of some virtuous male character who was swayed and seduced by the vamp's charms). Film after film, this prototype is repeated, as is the plot. However, there is no explicit sex - the most daring bed scenes involve obese males unnaturally fondling young women accompanied by lots of panting. Most notably these films are never denied a CBFC (Censor Board) certificate.

But Gandu has been denied one. Q has been adamant about not bypassing the censor board and releasing the film directly onto the net because he wants to take the system head-on (there are repeated requests for downloads on Gandu's Facebook fanpage which have been denied by Q). I think he's still hoping and fighting for a mainstream release. When the Naya Cinema festival of Mumbai wanted to screen Gandu, they expected trouble from conservative political factions and applied for police protection. They were denied.

This selective pattern of denial recalls the sanitisation of our myths pointed out in Love in India. Sex is okay for public consumption when it is couched in vulgarity (lesson: "promiscuous girls are vulgar as well") and chastised by a twisted morality (the vamp dies, the moral universe remains untouched); but not when it is direct, naked, celebratory.

Meanwhile Gandu has been released on torrent in a Preview Copy stage (basically, without the sharpness and colour density of the original). My guess is that the makers released it themselves, just to keep the over-eager audience placated. The reaction from my peers, generally speaking, has not been good. Those whose interests were piqued by the trailers were disappointed by the film's lack of a clear narrative arc (usually expressed as "where is the story?") and its irredeemable protagonist.

It is worth recapitulating our mainstream A-grade cinema's attitude towards sexuality and transgression for a change. Bengali cinema has had its fair share of "grittiness" recently, but in 9 out 10 cases where degenerate behaviour has been shown - the character has been given some sort of a victim motive. Sexuality has been touched, but mostly safely - the recent Baishey Srabon showed a couple living in, but their love was all about rolling around aesthetically wrapped in bedsheets and (then a direct cut to) a post-coital smoke.

The real departure Gandu makes from its precedents is not so much in what taboos it has broken, but in the way it has. Contrary to allegations, the film does have a story - young boy doesn't like his fucked-up existence, finds a friend in a rickshaw-wallah, and escapes in drug-trips - but its protagonists are far removed from any of the cushioning comforts usually offered by mainstream cinema. True, Gandu - the protagonist - suffers from a victim complex, but his actions far exceed any justified reaction to his environment. The extended full frontal sex scene is not a wimp trying to forget his sorrows in lovemaking, just a sexually liberated guy trying to top his trip. The film's numerous rap numbers are wickedly humourous - personally speaking, they were more than enough compensation for the occasional indie film hipness - and work excellently as subversive critiques of our socio-cultural values. The very lack of dramatic narrative works as subversion of our demand of a "story".

The Indian Constitution gives us the right to freedom of speech, but qualifies it with the clause that one cannot cause offence to anybody. This, in effect, nullifies the right. (I am offended that people take their right to be offended as the right to ban the offensive.) Gandu is just the sort of litmus test India must pass if it is to remain a democracy.

P.S.: An interview with Q which throws good light on the sort of films he believes in. Also, I hope some people will go ahead and check out Love In India. Punk art is awesome, alright, but it's better to see things in a calmer state of mind.

A shout out for internet pirates!

2011-10-28T22:36:00.000-07:00

A new bill called the E-PARASITE act is being debated in the US House which will give governments, courts and corporate biggies the power to shut down any website which is infringing on their copyrights (of course, according to their own decisions). This is even worse than the existing legislation that allowed websites to take down content deemed copyright-infringing and save itself from legal action. In effect, anything the overlords want us to pay for, we have to - if we really want to use it.

I'm going to argue against this mainly from my vantage point: i.e. as someone in a modest Indian town with a deep interest in matters of the world, and especially, cinema. It is no big secret that Indians don't have even middling-decent DVD rentals or arthouses where one can pay agreeable money to watch a decent variety of cinema. The local DVD rentals in my place keep only safe bets: blockbusters from Tolly, Bolly and Hollywood, a huge stock of b-grade Hindi and Bengali cinema (which, surprisingly, has a steady market), a nominal amount of "art cinema" (the big names in Bengali would be something like: S Ray, Aparna Sen, Goutam Ghose etc.) and large stocks of porn. Kolkata is somewhat better off than Durgapur, of course, but one only gets the theatre experience when the odd film festival comes to Nandan (not counting private screenings). The stores in Kolkata are also somewhat better off - I frequent the Music World on Park Street just to check out what titles they have on the shelves - though they usually keep the Certified Classics only. Thankfully, they're getting somewhat brave and bringing some rarer stuff - besides the usual Kurosawa, Bergman, Truffaut, Fellini et al - I've spotted the odd Olmis and the Dardennes. The gist is this: for a young, impressionable student in Durgapur/Kolkata interested in cinema, the options of getting a steady and healthy supply are still underdeveloped.

Now, let's do some preliminary mathematics to show why the internet saves me from film-ic ignorance. Due to the recent boom in telecommunications, even a mofussil like Durgapur has excellent broadband connectivity. And for around 800 to 1000 rupees, one can get a connection with no limits on data transfer. Basically, a 'free' ticket to share whatever files you want to. Thanks to a very well-developed file sharing web on the internet, I have access to whatever cinema I want. Everything from 1920s German horror to the latest film playing on the festival circuit is within reach if you have found your way around the net. So whereas I can only get three or four DVDs at most with a 1000 per month, I can (and do) download somewhere around 20 to 25 films with the same outlay.

Does this mean I won't buy DVDs at all? I will, but only a few I have already seen and loved - and when I have the money to spare. The way I see it, I'm not cutting down on the business of the corporations at all: it's a choice between not being able to buy and not buying it. My question is - why should an artiste mind if he's reaching out to a wider audience? As far as I know, corporations take the major chunk of sales profits anyway. For the artiste it's a choice between a little more money from royalties and sales profits (and that too is debatable: most filesharing proponents won't buy stuff as heavily as they share) and a huge, well-distributed audience. It's not without reason many bands are releasing their albums for free on their websites - they have already realised that their earning from sales amount to only about 10% (the rest coming from shows).

The internet is also more egalitarian, free from censorship. In one notable example, Iranian director Bahman Ghobadi released his 2009 film on censorship within his country - No One Knows About Persian Cats - on the internet as it could not shown in theatres. (Many similar underground artistes thrive because of the internet.) Now if a site like Pirate Bay - which hosted a copy of Ghobadi's film - were to be shut down because some bigwig corp in USA decided that it had also hosted one of its copyrighted films, then Ghobadi would be shut out of circulation. This is one reason why this new act, if it were to be passed, would be disastrous for democracy. To put it succinctly: for the First World with its various alternatives to showcase art, the internet may be a nefarious parasite eating up business (a claim which is debatable as I've pointed out). For us Third World citizens with no decent DVD rentals and arthouses, it means the death of culture altogether.

YouTube has already been taking down videos that attracted notices from corporations for copyright violation. As someone pointed out, their filtering mechanism is very random. Mashups, parodies or video essays featuring snippets of copyrighted material are often taken down, whereas whole scenes from those very films/music videos survive the treatment sometimes. This has already resulted in people shifting from YouTube to Vimeo (which has a somewhat more sensible stand towards copyright violation), but the implications are bad. As it stands now, you have to pay corporations big money even if you want a snippet (which should ideally be allowable for free as per Fair Use policy) in your work. This is just strangling of creativity; financial arm-twisting. I hope sense prevails and the internet - the only place where we can speak of global culture and cross-breeding with some amount of truth - remains truly free.

Blowup: how close can you get to a subject?

2011-07-01T13:54:00.000-07:00

Antonioni's Blowup takes a murder mystery premise and cleverly subverts it. It concerns us with a fashion photographer in the London of the Swinging Sixties, Thomas (David Hemmings), who happens to think he has witnessed - accidentally captured on camera - a murder. And then it abandons the narrative necessity to "solve" the case: instead telling us that we can't be too sure that we saw something (recalling Heisenberg's principle more than anything else).

The film is permeated by a sense of sly humour. An early scene captures Thomas doing a photo shoot with real-life fashion model Veruschka, and Antonioni plays out the scene with a strong subtext of sexuality. It is as if the photographer and model are engaging in virtual intercourse; complete with lines like "now give it to me, really give it to me, my love" and a mock-up of post-coital exhaustion. Adding to the understated fun is the fact that much of Veruschka's sensuality is coldly calculated. Antonioni is showing us glossy surfaces which house empty beings. This has, of course, been Antonioni's major theme - the one that connects his whole body of work.

Thomas wanders into a park, sees an unlikely couple - a middle-aged woman with an elderly man - and out of both boredom and voyeuristic curiosity starts shooting them. The woman (Vanessa Redgrave) notices, comes to Thomas and demands that he hand over the roll of film to her.

He refuses, promises to send her the photos later. He is followed back to his studio by the woman. She repeats her request, even makes a sexual advance as 'payment', but is interrupted. Antonioni's film is built out of such interruptions. His characters don't really have deep-seated motives, a philosophy to live life by. They're empty pages coloured with fancies as they come.

In one scene, Thomas goes to nightclub where The Yardbirds are playing. Jeff Beck's guitar processor starts malfunctioning; in a fit of rage he breaks his guitar (mimicking the antics of Pete Townshend) and throws the broken fretboard to a rapturous, drugged crowd. There is much pushing and shoving as fans try to get this souvenir. Thomas grabs it, runs outside and throws the fretboard on the pavement. A fellow standing nearby picks it up, examines it (of course, not knowing that it is Jeff Beck's) and throws it down again. Antonioni is making two statements here: 1) that Thomas really had no reason to grab and run away and just did it to disappoint the others, and 2) that a thing, once stripped from its context, does not convey any meaning. The first gives us a guide to understand the psyche of Antonioni's characters (the Jack Nicholson character in The Passenger decides to exchange his identity with a dead, similar looking man without any apparent motivation). The second gives us the thumb-rule to understand his films. There is hardly any sequence in an Antonioni film that would stand on its own merit - you cannot talk of scenes unless you connect it with the others.

Back to the woman (Vanessa Redgrave) who wanted the roll of film back. Thomas hands her a fake and develops the photographs he took in the morning. As he pins the photos side by side and examines them, he thinks he has unwittingly caught a man being shot down. To get a clearer look, he blows up a part of the image. There's a lot of noise - graininess - so we can't be exactly sure. He is quite certain though.

Antonioni arranges this sequence in a way that deserves special mention. A photo of the woman looking away while she embraces her lover becomes a sort of reaction shot.

But whereas the reaction shot is traditionally used to reinforce the illusion of reality*, Antonioni subverts by not clearly showing the object that draws her attention. The camera pans from the still (shown above) to the wall where a blowup of the fence she seems to be looking at is pinned. (Illustrated in the following screenshots)

The resulting visual joke is that the woman is looking from the confines of her photo to the bush and fence shown in the adjacent photo. But we still can't see what she's been looking at**. The other - larger - subversion here is of a close-up. Originally, the close-up was invented because objects could not be fitted completely into the aspect ratio of the frame. Hence a part of the object or person was shown, and the camera was sometimes moved to capture the whole part by part. This largely worked as a synecdoche (i.e. the part representing the whole). But whereas the classical close-up clarified intent, Antonioni's close-up says that the deeper we try to go, the more the object of our concern disintegrates ("blowing up" in a deliciously ironic sense). Taken in a more general sense, it also serves as a self-criticism: Antonioni's films are basically probing character studies done in a stripped-down, minimalist manner.

For some inexplicable reason, Antonioni actually shows a gun sticking out of one of the bushes, and later, a corpse lying beside a hedge when Thomas revisists the park in the night. Which seems strange given that Antonioni has been trying to bury the deterministic trait in classical literature and cinema uptil this point.

Perhaps this is overcome, and explained, by the celebrated finale. A group of anarchic teenagers, dressed as harlequins, show up the film at several points. This group now arrives at a tennis court just outside the park in question. They mimic a game of tennis, but between themselves the excitement and enthusiasm in this make-believe game is real, as is their match. Thomas looks on, amused. Then the invisible ball gets out of court and the players insist that Thomas throw them the ball.

Now that he has participated in their make-believe, he can hear the sounds of the tennis ball hitting the ground and the rackets (before this, the match is played out in silence). This is unusual given that the film never uses non-diegetic*** sound except this scene. All of Herbie Hancock's wonderful jazz score can be heard only when the radio or the record player is on. Antonioni's daring use of sound makes us conscious of the illusory nature of cinema: which resembles and comes to life (the non-diegetic becoming diegetic) only when there is communal participation and suspension of disbelief (in the cinema theatre).

The final shot of the film shows, in a long shot, Thomas standing in the field. His image slowly fades away. Thomas is unreal - a character in a make-believe medium. The camera lies. Did Thomas' camera lie too? And does Antonioni's camera lie when it shows us the corpse?

Footnotes:

*A typical Hollywood trope is to cut next to a POV - if one shot shows A (in the frame) looking at B (out of the frame), the next shot shows B (now in frame) from A's perspective.

**The viewer who wants to see for himself if there was a murder or not must understand that the photographs are taken from a single point in the park - where Thomas was hiding behind a tree - and that is our reference to determine directions.

***In simple words, diegetic music/sound is one which is being played in the space being exhibited, i.e. the music/sound belongs to the "world" of the film/play. Non-diegetic is when the sound does not belong to the space in focus.

The Discreet Charm of The Narrative

2011-06-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

Luis Bunuel's The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie holds the promise of a "proper" (classical) narrative throughout its length but doggedly fails in keeping it. Here is a film that pretends to head for the centre, all the while running off into tangents. It is almost as if Bunuel is trying his best to control his surreal urges and make a conventional, conformist narrative feature; but yields repeatedly to his playful, naughty side.

Gone is the sort of openly rebellious, distinctly surreal imagery that populated his early work (Un Chien Andalou or L'Age D'Or). There is an air of naturalism and realism in the proceedings: hints that this film may follow the cause-and-effect logic of classical narrative. We see one of the characters - a high-ranking diplomat - smuggle cocaine in his luggage. A lady promises a priest that she'll narrate the story of her faith to him. Bunuel throws around these nuggets with exquisite care. He has the diplomat explain in detail how he managed to smuggle the stuff in. But there's no follow-up. It appears the director has lost interest in the sort of conventional film his handiwork is headed towards, so he turns his attention to another little incident, follows the narrative thread for a while, and diverts his attention yet again.

The running gag of the film is that a group of high-class socialites sit down to dinner several times but never actually finish it. Bunuel's own little joke is luring his viewers into believing that Discreet Charm is a conventional narrative. Like his protagonists, we never get finished with the "story" - our dinner. It eludes us before a normative conclusion can be reached.

Discreet Charm is as much a critique of complacent, disengaged entertainment (the sort that Hollywood has always readily served up) as it is a hilarious parody of bourgeois manners (with some typical Bunuel targets thrown in for good measure - bureaucratic, military and religious). At a restaurant, the three ladies of this film ask for all sorts of beverages - tea, coffee, water - but the waiter informs them that none is available. Nothing in Bunuel's film is readymade for easy consumption.

One sequence in the film is shown thrice, being the last as well. It has the motley group of socialites walking endlessly through an empty field. Bunuel's parting statement is cheerfully nihilistic - coming from nowhere, going nowhere. It is a wonder a film so mischievous and rebellious in its opposition to Hollywood's values of filmmaking won an Academy Award for Best Foreign Film.

Reflections of life in cinema #2

2011-06-04T13:31:00.000-07:00

Blasphemy and the holy cows of religion:
While browsing through a wikipedia entry on well-known cases of blasphemy, I came across this particularly interesting scenario where Gillian Gibbons, a British lady teaching in Sudan, was tried on charges of naming a teddy bear "Muhammad" in class. Yes, you read that right.

It turned out there was a boy named Muhammad in class; and she had named the teddy after him, not the Messiah. Which should have effectively buried the case. It didn't. The charges brought against her were "insulting religion, inciting hatred, sexual harassment, racism, prostitution and showing contempt for religious beliefs". Pretty much logical thinking, isn't it?

It's of course further debatable what exactly is wrong with naming things after the Prophet. Where exactly is that a slur? People name their children after personal idols or icons, and that is always a mark of showing respect. Mind you, this is still argued from the POV of a rational believer. For an atheist, the whole idea of arguing and bickering over, and creating rules about an artificial human construct - God - seems like absurdity squared. One, the whole thing is obviously a hoax - meant to give you a false sense of security and order when there is none. Two, you have self-appointed guardians who set rigid rules and guidelines to ascertain the existence and propagation of this deceptive idea.

Contemptuous sermons at several mosques drove around 10,000 people in Khartoum, armed with swords and machetes, to form processions and ask for immediate execution of Gibbons. All for naming a silly teddy bear "Muhammad". Makes me wonder what a truly harsh critic of organised religion must be facing in these overbearingly conservative societies.

Monty Python and their attitude towards religion:

One feels, as Kubrick did while adapting the straight thriller Fail Safe to Dr. Strangelove, that certain aspects of human existence are so bleak and despairing that the only possible way of staying calm and opining in a rational manner is to make fun of it. Kubrick's vision of a nuclear apocalypse thrives on a complementary relationship between the degrees of humour and bleakness. The teddy bear incident infuriates me so much that I find citing the frivolous Monty Python sketches the best way to deflect the irrational strains of anger (since blind religion itself feeds on the gaps in rationale).

The Pythons were, of course, no strangers to making fun of religion. Life of Brian satirised the irrational religious fervour, containing among other things a scene where a mob kills a man because he believes the common man Brian not be a messiah. Brian himself doesn't!

What however seems most relevant is the witch-burning sequence in Holy Grail. A group of villagers take a suspected "witch" to a village headman seeking his approval to burn her. In a characteristically Python-esque way, Bedevere (the village headman) establishes "logically" how the woman really is a witch. In a world where a woman can be tried for naming teddy bears (charged with "inciting... sexual harassment, racism and prostitution" among other things), one can easily be proved to be a witch because she weighs equal to a duck on a faulty balance. Reality, as ever, trumps fiction in its capacity to bewilder.

Brake ke baad: Pharmacists furious with doctors for bad handwriting

2011-04-15T11:14:00.000-07:00

New Delhi, April 15: The Indian Medical Association received a notice from the Indian Pharmaceutical Association a couple of days ago. IPA has issued a demand that a compulsory course on handwriting be introduced in all medical courses throughout the country.

When contacted, an IPA spokesperson said, "We have received thousands of complaint letters from chemists around India regarding the illegibility of doctors' handwriting. Just recently a chemist from Kolkata wrote to us saying that he has been sued by a customer for deliberately giving the patient a pill he was allergic to. The doctor refused to accept responsibility for the mistake, saying he had recommended the medicine with the possible reactions of the patient in mind. The cause of confusion was his barely legible writing. The Kolkata chemist is frustrated and furious that he has to bear the brunt."

The publication of the notice is expected to delight all Indian pharmacies who have had to put up with bad handwriting for decades. The complaint letter from IPA demands that the handwriting course be introduced in at least two semesters of the medical degree and that failure in the subject be treated with a seriousness at par with that reserved for the 'important' subjects in medicine.

The news however failed to delight Mr. Banerjee, a resident of Kolkata. Mr. Banerjee was positively delighted to receive a missive from his son's school - the teachers had complained that they could not read little Rahul's handwriting at all, and therefore had to mark his papers on conjecture. The senior Banerjee was absolutely sure that this could only mean one thing - his son was destined to become a doctor. Little Rahul was also a little crestfallen. He could no longer scribble a "medical prescription" in his own handwriting and claim that he missed class for a nasty stomach ache.

15 "Chhobi" in 15 Minutes

2011-01-01T10:55:00.000-08:00

Abhigyan-da, now a good friend of mine, requested me a couple of days back that I make a list of 10 Bengali films, both old and new, which are worth seeing. Well, obviously it has been a hard time making such a list. A lot of good works and some of my favourites have been left out (with much heart-ache, I must say! :P). I’ll violate two conditions though: I’ll list 15 films, instead of 10 and I’ll, for now, talk only about old films, i.e., the black-and-white-era. Also, these are among those which I’ve seen and so, this is absolutely my opinion. But, I have tried to be as unbiased as possible. I’ve also tried to bring as much diversity to my choices as is possible. No two films are thematically the same, as far as I can see. I’ll leave the often-seen-obvious-great-works-that-have-received-enough-recognition (like the ‘Apu Trilogy’, the Goopy-Bagha series, ‘Charulata’, ‘Nayak’, ‘Meghe Dhaka Taara’, ‘Galpo Holeo Shotti’, ‘Kabuliwala’, ‘Saptapadi’ and probably a few others):

1) Teen Kanya (director: Satyajit Ray, year: 1961) – A classic collection of three short films. All the basic elements of drama (humour, poetry, horror, romance, psychology, coming-of-age, relationships, time…) are so innately combined to give perhaps one of the world’s most memorable art forms.

2) Jana Aranya (director: Satyajit Ray, year: 1975) – A clever take. There have been many stories portraying the struggle of youths to find a job in Naxal or post/ pre-Naxal period, the earnest desire to make a proper living, ultimately finding a not-so-good offer with a happy-sad “atleast I’ve got something” feeling, the psychological pressure on a middle class family owing to the fear of losing security, and so on. But rarely has a film been made central characterising a man so utterly common! He is unromantic, uncharismatic, uncomplicated, un-plottable, un-philosophical. But, he is uniquely conscientious. A great find, Pradeep Mukherjee, is one of the most under-under-rated actors in the world film industry.

3) Jalsaghar (director: Satyajit Ray, year:1958) – A must-see to grow a universal view of the world. Even the autocrat or the aristocrat might have a softer, weaker mould hidden beneath several layers. The power, the aura, the luxurious ways of amusement (from smoking the pricey tobacco to arranging the royal festivity) – all are linked with an odd sense of childish possessiveness and of course, pride, a super sensitive pride. A hint of fall brings devastative remorse (shade comparable with that depicted in Billy Wilder’s ‘The Sunset Boulevard’). Mind-boggling work with psychology!

4) Kshaniker Atithi (director: Tapan Sinha, year: 1959) – A tale so sensitive can’t be said in a simpler way. Only someone like Tapan Sinha could produce such magic perhaps. Great cast selection! Nirmal Kumar says most with his wordful eyes. It leaves a ‘songful lull’ long after it is over, if there can be any such thing.

It makes the viewer re-discover the many bits of precious shattered glass that cover his path, some of which can’t be retrieved again, some of which can still be collected...

5) Ajantrik (director: Ritwik Ghatak, year: 1958) – A very important subject, but has been rarely worked upon: man’s relationship with machines. I think, I don’t need to say more to the people here reading this on Facebook or on the blog! :P But, yes, this film is about how much a machine can become the part of our very selves. I think most people of the 20th – 21st century will connect to this film a lot. Enjoy!

6) Ahwan (director: Ardhendu Mukherjee , year: 1961) – A tale of simplicity, of the wish of “giving” amidst and despite utter poverty, of the mindlessness of the thousand divisions in the society and of the inexplicability of those rare relationships that know no beginning nor any end. Watch this film for the very old lady, wrinkled, toothless and bent with age, who has abundant affection stored in her being, but very precious few to shower it on.

7) Jhinder Bondi (director: Tapan Sinha, year: 1961) – A royal film, both in terms of subject and treatment. Can be a million-budget film if made today, but still the effect of the original, which had a budget that will embarrass modern producers, can’t be reproduced. The cast is superbly selected, once again! And, all the actors, away from their comfort zones (except Uttam Kumar perhaps, who doesn’t have to work much hard to be in the skin of the characters he plays here and as usual he is easily cool), have done their bit perfectly. The backdrop of the film, i.e., the Rajasthani royals, is very rare in Bangla cinema but is done with all the required élan and elegance. A sumptuous bit of art. Just lap it up!

8) Thaana Theke Aashchhi (director: Hiren Nag, year: 1965) – Rarely there has been such a neat work done on a highly complex mystery plot. Behind a man’s irreversible misery, that’s so huge to bring him to the brink of taking his own life, never is any one man or any one factor responsible. The entire society is. In fact, we might unexpectedly discover each of us responsible for the utter distress of that person (yes, quite in the Hitchcock-ian style). The unveiling of each such encounter with our victim might strike us – those with a wee bit of conscience, of course – with a wave of shame and guilt. And, we actually never know when we might come face-to-face with those cruelly honest and insightful eyes behind the black rimmed spectacles someday, which will reveal our “sins” to us! Watch this film to know why the fans of Uttam Kumar have turned the same.

9) Marutirtho Hinglaj (director: Bikash Roy, year: 1959) – One of the bravest and most difficult projects in Indian cinema. The story of a group of poor pilgrims who undertake a very difficult terrain in the wish to reach the “blessed spot” some place far away that they believe will get them salvation. Some very ordinary people like us are put to a series of indomitable tests. We see how some overcome them, while some fail. The huge amount of heart and dedication that is involved in this semi-epic is perceptible and is almost contagious. Watch this one just for the experience!

10) Bikele Bhorer Phool (director: Pijush Bose, year: 1974) – A remarkable film that brings out the eternal contrast between the young and the free on one side, while the mature and the limited/ bounded on the other side. While the former is fearless, the latter can’t afford to ‘dare to bare’. Due to years of struggle (and often by regular practice) against the odds, many layers of skin have covered their (the ones in the latter group) natural selves. They have learnt what the world can put up with and what it cannot. This “learning” is called maturity. Watch this again to understand The Uttam Kumar factor.

11) Neel Akasher Niche (director: Mrinal Sen, year: 1959) – A very affectionate story, drafted with a sadness strange to Bangla culture. A promising debut of course, for it made the permanent space for The Mrinal Sen, who later went on to develop a style, very different from his start, distinct to him. A very sensitive take on the refugees, on the ‘pain of compromising’ with the arrangement of living away from the homeland you love so much and how we suddenly find the shadow of our lost loved ones in someone practically “alien”, how we find a cross-road on a “foreign” land very familiar or how an unknown river reminds us of one back at home. After all, poverty, discrimination and war bring the same kind of distress everywhere. A very poignant tale!

12) Kaancher Swargo (director: Yatrik (Tarun Majumdar, Sachin Mukherji and Dilip Mukherji ), year: 1963) – A Bangla film noir. The story of a promising surgeon lost in the despairing pool of failure to gain a degree. But, can anything really stop him from applying the knowledge and the skill he possesses to save many hundreds of lives? How important law is when a man is dying? How important a stamp is when real work needs to be done immediately? Dilip Mukherji, an actor seldom appreciated, does most through his silent yet dignified grimness. A theme that surely demands a lot of importance even in contemporary times.

13) Dweep Jweley Jaai (director: Asit Sen, year: 1959) – One of the most touching and empathic tales in Bangla cinema. The best performance of Suchitra Sen undoubtedly. The director has revealed a very measured sense of drama in this film. Even melodrama is there, but very briefly and strongly. This is not only the story of an exceptionally kind nurse, or a dutiful human being for that matter, but of the general Indian lady.

14) Chupi Chupi Ashe (director: Premendra Mitra, year: 1960) – There have been many better works on crime and detection than this one. But, no other film like this one sent a chill down my spine. Very few films in Bangla have been made on serial killing. (In fact, right now I can’t remember another one except ‘Jighansha’.) Very few Bengali films have made the audience fear the murderer. In some way or the other, it has been the general tradition to justify the killer and draw a generous amount of sympathy from the viewer. There is a reason shown, of course, but very much like that in Hitchcock’s ‘The Shadow of a Doubt’: too skewed.

Crime lovers can try this!

15) Palatak (director: Tarun Majumdar, year: 1963) – It is an anecdote on the joy of losing oneself among all that is natural and true. And, I think, that one line will do. :)

Afterthought:

Most of these films are from the genre ‘drama’, are content-based works and were primarily made with “commerce” in mind. Music is one of the basic elements (both as songs and as background music) of these films, the medium that links the various nuances of the story in one unbroken garland. Again, many of the directors of the above films are scarcely named, scarcely known, scarcely remembered. But, the above list may roughly be an eye-opener to the question “why the golden age was golden age” that probes many bright young minds of today. Most of these films were hits in their times, signaling an average good taste residing in the then Bangali mass. Almost nil-resourced (‘resource’ includes money, access to capital, innovative mind in technique and style, eyes for detailed perfection, probably a sharper sense of art et al) and nil-equipped, in as many ways as possible, these film-makers made magic just because they had the mind-heart-and-eyes worth living! So, anyone earnestly wishing to know the “Bangali sentiment” may refer to the above list.

Happy seeing! :)

Reflections of life in cinema #1

2010-12-25T04:36:00.000-08:00

This is the first part of a series I have conceived. The objective is to write of events and anecdotes from real life that recall bits and scenes from the world of cinema. The reasons for writing these pieces are many. In increasing order of importance: one, it provides an insight into the myriad workings in the mind of a cinephile. Two, it comments on the symbiotic relation between Cinema and Life. And three, it is an easy excuse for me to write about films. Easy because these pieces are meant to be short. I can therefore write about (and possibly invite some interest in) my favourite films without going through the grind of writing a completely detailed review.

***

How the camera makes us dance

My friend, Rhine, and I were walking around St. Paul's Cathedral on Christmas eve. Lots of shutterbugs stood around us. A group of youngsters were posing for a snap as we passed by them. Suddenly realising that we could be coming in the way of the photographer and his subject, Rhine took a detour and went round the group so as to avoid ruining their shot. This silent game amused me and I wondered with a laugh if he will forever be following his noble principle of not blocking shots. With the proliferation of cameras in modern life plus the inexhaustible urge to be clicked, Rhine's resolution might turn his trajectories of motion completely unplottable.

This suddenly reminded me of that master who understood the underlying humour in modern existence: Jacques Tati. All his films explored the comic possibilities of man trying to live in a world more interested in spectacle rather than comfort. In Playtime, an American tourist in Paris tries to photograph an old lady selling flowers at a street corner. With a lot of care to detail, Barbara (the tourist) arranges her subject - asking the lady to strike up a pose - but she just can't click a photo. Every time she is on the verge of pressing the button someone enters the frame, thus disturbing her composition. This gives rise to a series of amusing gags. Finally another American photographer interrupts them and now wants to photograph the old lady, the flowers and Barbara together!

Sun of the Winter

2010-12-19T10:05:00.000-08:00

She stood close to him,

Him – her Sun.

He touched her on the right cheek.

She looked up at him.

And let him touch the left cheek too.

Her face grew warm.

She closed her eyes and surrendered herself.

The Sun kissed her eyes, her brows, her forehead…

She untied her hair,

And looked up at him again.

He kissed her face, her mouth, her ears…

Her mouth fell open.

The Sun kissed her throat, her neck, her hands.

Behind her closed eyes,

The Sun was slowly becoming a havoc of orange.

She could breathe the warmth of his breath,

Feel him growing warm along with her.

Her lips trembled with happiness.

Her Being glowed with fulfillment.

She stood there taking his love.

The Sun of the winter went on pouring life into her,

Setting her ablaze.

13/12/2009

How much can spoilers spoil?

2010-12-14T03:42:00.000-08:00

Rohit's comment in the previous post prompted this, though I have long debated with myself and others on the topic.

I have written some reviews to have slightly experimented with the art of writing. My initial style was to completely describe the plot, including the smaller details I have noticed, and then intermittently add comments where I had any. This, of course, made reading easier. One could read without seeing the film at all and yet understand more or less everything I said. I abandoned that for chiefly two reasons: first, it took a lot of time to write, and second, it took away some of the reader's joy in discovering the details by himself/herself.

Next, I focussed more on technique (for example, my review of Kurosawa's High and Low commented at length on cinematography and blocking, and included screenshots on which I made comments now and then) while retaining a basic outline of the plot. I was more or less happy with this, except some of my oldest readers told me that they had trouble understanding where I was getting at. To put it more clearly: analysing the script (or story, as some would say) primarily, with little notes of cinematography, editing, music and mise-en-scene maybe, makes a review less cryptic to the general reader.

Now, some of my favourite writers on film take completely different approaches to provoking interest in the reader. For example, Baradwaj Rangan, in his section on foreign films (which is what I've read most on his blog), usually discusses the opening few minutes of the film in detail and leaves the reader to discover the rest for himself (Part of the Picture). This is, I think, a good enough approach though it cannot be applied when one wants to comment on the whole film.

The approach that I have now decided to use for reviewing a film (as opposed to, say, comment on the thematic connections within different films of a director) is one that combines elements of both approaches I spoke of in the second and third para. I write the plot in some detail, at least enough for me to make a few comments on the way characters develop in the course of the film. I leave out the tiny bits than delight me so that the reader can discover them on their own. I really don't want to deny anyone that joy!

I still assume that some people object to spoilers. So I'll briefly question the significance of plot in film. My own take is that, thrillers and mysteries excluded, the knowledge of the events on screen rarely diminishes the experience of watching. (How and why is more important than what.) If anything, it takes our attention off the framework and allows us to notice the details. You could of course complain if I spoil a Hitchcock film, but an S Ray? I don't think so.

P.S. - Specifically on Ray and my review of Kanchenjungha, I have gained confidence that two of the best writers on the director - Andrew Robinson and John H Wood - have followed an approach similar to mine in their books.

Beyond the Apu Trilogy: Kanchenjungha

2010-12-13T02:42:00.000-08:00

Satyajit Ray crowds the discussion on serious Indian cinema to such an extent that it is almost useless to write again on his films. But then, few filmmakers have had such an impact on me as him. So this post is mainly an exercise in articulating my own reasons for admiring him. Bear me as such. In my defence, I may have a few good bits on what you already know.

From the point-of-view of the Westerner, the Apu trilogy is supposedly Ray’s most significant contribution. While the merits of those three films are undeniable, I see little point in writing about them. I’ll write about some of the others that I consider great and have a personal affinity for.

The urchin in Kanchenjungha (1962).

An upper-class Calcutta family has come to the hill-station of Darjeeling to spend a vacation. The narrative encompasses the day before their planned departure. The patriarch is a relic of the Raj: educated, rich businessman with a title (presumably for co-operating with the British rulers, or making a sizeable donation to the coffers) and a vain, insensitive ego. He wants to have his younger daughter – Manisha, who is sensitive, soft-spoken and just 19 – married to a well-to-do engineer with some social status and security. This underlines the significance and urgency of the day. All events in the films ultimately center upon what decision Manisha makes. The suitor is an amiable man possibly in his 30s – Banerjee – a little too formal, somewhat pragmatic though overall likeable.

The patriarch, Indranath Roy, has a sensitive wife in Labanya. She has long turned spontaneity and self-esteem inwards, submissively putting on a façade of agreement with everything her husband says and does. She doesn’t seem to be too happy with the present situation Manisha has been forced into, yet she cannot bring herself to oppose her husband on his stand. Labanya’s brother, Jagadish, is a cheerful, philosophical man who likes to stay alone with his passion – bird-watching. The contrast between Jagadish and his brother-in-law is etched in a wonderful comic scene where he tries to arouse some ornithological interest in Indranath. “Can the bird be roasted?” Indranath asks. For a moment, Jagadish cannot fathom the question. When he says no, Indranath smugly says that the bird does not interest him in that case.

Manisha’s elder sister, Anima, has an unhappy marriage with Shankar. We come to know more things about them as the film progresses, but it is established in the first few minutes that Shankar is cynical about the family’s subservience to Indranath as well as his failed marriage. He also reveals shades of concern that Mani might be emotionally manipulated to accept Banerjee as her husband inspite of her true wishes. Anima and Shankar have a daughter of about eight, which is what anchors their relationship inspite of personal differences. Manisha’s other sibling is Anil, a somewhat stupid and happy-go-lucky fellow who chases pretty girls in Darjeeling’s famed Mall. Anil is incidentally the only character in the film whom Ray does not put under the scanner. He is a prototype for the spoilt rich-brat and has little function other than drawing a few easy laughs.

A key to understanding the film from the POV of a westerner is to recognize the typical Indian social mindset that craves security and social standing above all else. It might be slightly confounding to wonder why no one in the family has ever spoken against Indranath’s tyranny. Disagreement stains the façade of family integrity, which no one wants to jeopardize. The fear of breaking an accepted social structure – where the patriarch decides everything – also permeates their mind. No one enjoys this patriarchal supremacy, except Indranath of course, but everyone buries the frustration deep within. Kanchenjungha is, in a way, a search for someone who will have the courage to break the existing social structure.

As a counterpoint to the society-conscious Choudhury family, Ray introduces Ashok, a young graduate from the lower-middle class who earns a pittance by tutoring students. This profession he seems to have in common with a pushy uncle who forms the distant link between him and the Choudhury family. In Darjeeling accompanying his uncle, who is comically unimaginative in the manner of most middle-class babus, he comes across Indranath. The uncle is an old acquaintance of the Choudhurys and wants Indranath, chairman of five companies, to help his young nephew get a job. That Ashok is something of a rebel is already evident within moments of his arrival on screen. When introduced to the big man, he stands straight hesitantly, not doing the “done thing”: i.e. bowing down and paying obeisance (which is the standard Indian custom). It takes his over-eager uncle’s urging to do that.

The events of the day unfold as all these characters walk about the lonely streets of Darjeeling in pairs or alone, coming across one another by chance, then relapsing back into solitude. Ray employs a cyclical structure: he captures a bit of the conversation between Banerjee and Manisha, then switches over to Indranath and Labanya. Then he suddenly brings in a roaming Ashok face-to-face with Banerjee and Manisha, and so forth. The dialogue is written keeping this cycle in mind, so that when Labanya voices her concern that Manisha may have wishes of her own and may not be ideal for Banerjee, we have already seen hints of the clash between Manisha’s natural whimsical nature and Banerjee’s formal politeness.

The true genius of Kanchenjungha is, I think, how Ray pairs almost every principal character with some other at one point or the other, thereby contrasting and comparing their nature and the relationship they share. Also, nearly every character is given a distinct life of his or her own (they could be people we have met ourselves), which is somewhat unusual considering that the narrative is tightly controlled and organized (though that is not apparent on the surface).

Kanchenjungha was Ray’s first film in colour. That Mani chooses a saffron sari to wear on this ‘important’ day already hints that she doesn’t wholly approve of her father’s choice – saffron being the colour of renunciation in Hinduism. We do not yet know if she will accept Banerjee’s proposal, but she wants to make her resignation clear. Darjeeling’s natural beauty is shrouded in mist, which adds a sense of gloom and confusion, thereby reflecting the mood of the characters. I’m not entirely sure the same effects could be achieved on black-and-white stock.

If the film is a document of an old social structure disintegrating, it also marks the birth of several relationships. It is revealed that Anima has an extra-marital affair that she has sustained from before her marriage (she could not marry her lover against her father’s wishes). Shankar has learnt of this, but typically stomachs the failure with his cynical resignation to fate. He has several vices – gambling and drinking among others – which he inherited from his zamindari heritage, but he shows signs of silent remorse. Husband and wife confront each other, break down and while the final reconciliation is far from cheerful, it shows signs of hope that each will try to become better partners. Their daughter – who in her innocence does not realize the tension between her parents and continually punctuates their tragic confrontation with cheerful cries – convinces them to start anew. Manisha and Ashok have only been introduced, but they find some common ground. This engenders not so much a romantic relationship, not quite a friendship, but curiosity enough to explore each other in future. Mani invites Ashok to her house in Calcutta.

The breaking of patriarchal supremacy happens in three separate blows to Indranath’s ego. The most poignant of these is his own wife’s. Left alone for some time, Labanya gives full voice to her pain and frustration in a melancholic song by Tagore. As her saddened voice echoes off the valley, her brother Jagadish silently walks up to her. When she finishes, he says with a smile that she has not sung like that for years. Labanya, like many Bengali girls, has a sweet voice (which is somewhat true even to this day) but her devotion to family has throttled any caprice she had. Somewhat ironically, this is the only defiance that Indranath does not learn of. Even in rebellion, Labanya has preserved family integrity.

Ashok delivers the most surprising of these blows. Though romantic and idealistic by nature, he also craves some of the security that his middle-class peers so desperately want. Forced by his uncle, he reluctantly tails Indranath in some hope of getting the promise of a job. He swallows the businessman’s condescension and patronizing attitude for some time, but ultimately summons enough courage to laugh at his face when he is handed a concrete offer. Of course he’ll have to slog off for some years more, but he much prefers to be self-made than be someone’s fool forever. Indranath cannot understand how someone with low social status can so easily defy him: the look of confusion on his face rivals Jagadish’s astonishment during the early bird-roasting episode.

Manisha’s refusal to cave in to familial pressure probably pains Indranath the most, because he never imagined his daughter having will of her own. It is commendable of Ray that the development of Mani’s character does not seem abrupt. She does not so much reject Banerjee as just keep him waiting. On his part, Banerjee reveals depths as the narrative progresses. While seemingly shallow at first, we gradually see that he is basically a honest and decent fellow. In one of my favourite exchanges, he gives Mani a rare flower she had been looking for. When she asks if he sought it out, he pretends for a moment to have made a painstaking search. Then he feels compelled to admit being helped by a botanist in his hotel. His final words are equally touching. “Maybe these romantic surroundings make you think that love is the most important thing in the world. But once you're back in Calcutta if you ever feel that security is better than love, or that love can grow out of security then let me know.” Banerjee is part of the traditional social structure, but he shows the best traits of it.

Ray ties the film together with a little native urchin who pesters passers-by for alms. The song accompanying the opening title credits is a folk tune sung by this boy. When Banerjee and Mani begin their walk, the boy tails them for a while before giving up. Banerjee had placed a bet with Mani that he would give her a chocolate bar if they did not get to see Kanchenjungha before leaving for the city. After Mani refuses his proposal, he makes his way back alone. The urchin tails him again. Banerjee had forgotten about the chocolate bar in all the confusion. He smilingly gives it to the boy. Magically, not long after, the mists clear and Kanchenjungha is seen. Ironically Indranath, who was most keen about the range, does not have the mood to enjoy the vista anymore. The film ends with the urchin singing the same song that played at the start, this time smiling as he relishes the bar of chocolate.

In its own way, Kanchenjungha also comments on the relationship between nature and man. Ashok says he had the courage to refuse the job only because he is in Darjeeling. In Calcutta, he most probably would have accepted the offer. Nature gives him the inspiration to be true to his conscience, just as it probably guided Mani in her defiance. Jagadish, of course, is the classic example of a man happy in his co-existence with nature. Indranath, with his superficial touristy enthusiasm about the Kanchenjungha peak, is the only disappointed person at the end.

Cast:
Chhabi Biswas: Indranath Choudhury

Karuna Banerjee: Labanya, wife
Anil Chatterjee: Anil, son
Alaknanda Roy: Monisha, unmarried daughter
Anubha Gupta: Anima, elder daughter
Arun Mukherjee: Ashoke, young man from Calcutta
Subrata Sen: Shankar, Anima's husband
Sibani Singh: Tuklu, Shankar and Anima's daughter
Vidya Sinha: Anil's girlfriend
Pahari Sanyal: Jagadish, Labanya's brother
N. Viswanathan: Mr. Banerjee, Manisha's suitor
Guinye: street urchin

Vatican condemns Facebook

2010-11-24T02:56:00.000-08:00

The Vatican released a statement on Halloween this year to protest against the rising influence of Facebook on today's generation. The Church condemned the popular social networking site citing that the growing obsession with Facebook has derailed the attention devout Christians should be giving to God and Good.

In his editorial piece on the Vatican newspaper the Pope also insinuated that Facebook creates walls around people, drawing them away from each other. He condemned the absurdity sometimes evident in Facebook conversations - where people sitting in adjacent rooms often exchange messages to ask if they'd like to have coffee together.

The Pope further decried what he saw as covert promotion of bad habits - like writing on the wall and poking each other endlessly. He said, "Facebook poses a new problem to Christian parents. Now that every newborn is exposed to the harmful effects of Facebook from an early age, it may become difficult to control the vile habits of little children. That day is not far away when children will want a separate wall in their rooms in which they'll write and scribble - often inanities like 'lukin ht babes, muaaahzzz!' - and, to add insult to injury, which will also be liked by his/her friends. Also, the poke functionality irks me a lot. What will these children learn? For all I know, they may poke whoever is sitting in the front seat of the bus just to draw attention!"

The Vatican's chief exorcist, Father Gabriele Amorth (who indignantly clarified that he hated the band Amon Amarth), alleged in his supportive letter to the editor that he sensed an uncanny presence of one Robert Langdon in the viral surge in popularity of Facebook. He was quoted as saying, "Think about it! Both Mr. Langdon and Mr. Zuckerberg went to the same college, Harvard. I sense something wrong. Besides, if you connect the dots, you realise that both of them have a deep grudge against religion. Mr. Zuckerberg professes atheism, and I haven't yet forgiven Mr. Langdon for his painstaking adventure that revealed one Sophie Neveu to be a blood relative of Our Saviour. I hate them both!" Off the record, he professed that he thought Audrey Tatou was hot.

Acknowledgement: Avishek Basu Mallick for the idea.

Post-script: For more on Langdon and Facebook, head here.

Senility

2010-10-07T09:22:00.000-07:00

I had a dream today, I'll tell you about that.

I want to go up the hills again, I'm tired of lands flat.

The hills are high and clean and cold, and they are very nice.

In case you want a cooler drink, you have lots of ice.

The roads wind up and down the mountains in ways totally devious,

And flatland drivers sulk so much on wasted experience previous.

The hairpin bends are a real pain, especially in the morn.

When the air is foggy, the windscreen soggy, so please honk your horn.

In hills untraced, with roads braced, a hotel built at great height

Might prove lucrative in times unseen, but only with foresight.

The flow of travellers in the first few seasons might seem like a trickle,

But one might also turn successful, with help from chance fickle.

A good chef in the kitchen is one sure formula

To attract to the hotel guests, and to the cashbox moolah.

Keep a spacious terrace or two, and a nicely trimmed lawn,

Guests'll gather together there to watch sunrise at dawn.

Among other things, efficiency in service is a keeper.

(A small tip: People prefer hotels that are cheaper!)

Anyway, this dream of mine isn't castle-in-the-air.

After a prime well-spent, I'd like to sit idly in a chair -

Maybe read my favourites, or listen to a tune,

(I hope you'll pardon me for dreaming big so soon.)

Might even invite friends that I've gathered across years,

Sit together around a fire and share laughs and tears.

Y'see, life in the cities involves so many tricks,

I'd want to be left alone when I've had my fix.

On pleasant wintry evenings, I'll sometimes take a walk.

When there's languor in the hilly air, and also in the clock.

So if I ever meet you on one of those lonely routes,

You're welcome as ever to my place to warm your frozen boots.

Face/off: Prose and verse

2010-10-04T03:33:00.000-07:00

If you consider them in their own places,

I think both of these have good cases.

In fact, a neutral observer should

See that both of them are good!

Poetry has its own norm,

Rhyme and rhythm are its form.

Prose, on the other hand,

Is easier to understand.

Consider for a while,

(No doubt with a wry smile)

A defendant standing before court,

And presenting in defence quote

After quote of lucid rhyme.

The judge loses sense of time,

And, next in line, logic.

(You see, the judge in question is a failed poet.

And the defendant seems to know it.)

Which only makes the verdict tragic -

The defendant did commit a crime,

He killed a poet past his prime.

Consider a surgeon removing a tumour.

He asks the nurse

In perfect verse

To pass the roll of bandage.

With the unfortunate disadvantage

That he laughs out in great humour,

Which makes his hands shake and swerve.

And the patient has a bruised nerve.

Also think of such a case.

A general in an army base

Briefing his men of their mission.

With great pride, he narrates his vision

Of defending his territory and doing his country proud.

Then he takes the fatal step, he lets emotions shroud

The driving energy of his speech, and the crowd

Follows suit. They cry out loud

As the general slips into lucid rhyme.

All the while, through mud and grime

Enemy soldiers reach the base.

Which now stands a desolate place.

As you see, even as I admire

Verse, consequences dire

Might result from the victory

Of rhymed and rhythmic poetry.

Written as a riposte to K-da's note.

Rhymes: For a few dimes more...

2010-10-03T02:09:00.000-07:00

On the Uncommon Wealth Games:
What happened: I posted a BBC link containing embarrassing photos of the games village. Sudhang posted that conditions have improved since then, that inspite of mismanagement and corruption Delhi has drastically improved after many years. What might have been a debate got heated, and Sudhang said that he didn't want to continue the argument anymore. What follows is the poetic conclusion.

Sudhang:
I bade thee adieu.
And though you're mistaken
I remain unshaken;
I shan't start the conversation anew.

Me:
Since you insist so much,
I'll admit it as such.
Whatever I say
Doesn't change shit.
Why not call it a day,
And from this argument quit?

Why annoy a friend,
As I chase till the end
What has already been said?!
(Besides) For this, I'm not even paid.

You might be true.
And then I might rue
That I lost a good pal.
Can we meet up when you next come to Cal?

(The last line is, of course, my signature way of ending a rhyme on an irrelevant note.)

Double class: viewed through a looking glass
What happened: I was sitting in a double-period, a continuous drawl that went on for two hours. The experience of it.

Juggling words in weariness,
Trying to escape the dreariness
Of listening to a boorish teacher.
Grown tired of this babbling creature.
Time moves in a slow, languid manner,
Which, needless to say, throws a spanner
To my plans of having a good day,
And, while the sun shines, make hay.
All of that, I think, now goes haywire
As this man tries his best to tire
Each and everyone of us out.
Well, that's what this poem is about!

Among the various replies accumulated in the Facebook note, K-da was the only one pitching in with rhyme.

K-da:
The world of verse,
Whether pompous or terse,
Would be my forte.
'Twas a settlement reached out of court!

A small patch of grass,
Where I’ll lamely graze like the lethargic ass,
No shepherd to lord over me.
A quiet day after a full tummy!

Ambling across the lakes and leas,
A smug smile to wear,
Churning the rhymes in perfect bliss,
Ouch! the smile droops to a fear!

Who’s he? ah! no one, a small boy,
Want to learn something, ahoy!
Pithy verses, laced with wit.
Come-on, I’ll stand that little bit!

But oh! The boy or an angel coming to age,
With words and rhythm, rivaling the sage,
The good old days of the ruminant, gone!
Now it specializes in “chorbito chorbon”!

The last two words in Bengali roughly translate to "chewing what has been chewed" (I'm ignoring the implication that I might be a cow). Now I had to reply in verse, of course. Otherwise the whole fun would've gone. Came up with two.

Me:
In matters of wordplay and wit,
There are few who can quite hit
The levels of mastery you show.
That's something all of us know!

With words, you have a flair
(That) I'd be too happy to share.
But, of course, that's a wild dream!
Poetry comes slow, as ream upon ream
Of virtual paper is wasted.
And then some sort of success tasted.

So cheer up, and have a beer.
You're still the pioneer!
(Oh, assuming you like to drink!
If not, take it with a wink.)

Your verses still shine,
They're better than mine.
And if one is just short of divine,
Add a little polish and refine.
I'm sure that'll make it fine.
Oh damn, I can't write one more rhyming line!

Me, again:
An angel? Oh dear!
With every praise you gear
Towards hyperbole.
My insignificant role
Of a humourous prole
You send down the greatness-hole!

I much prefer to be the boy,
Who with his humour-sarcasm alloy,
Tears things down to bits:
From boring teachers to pop-hermits!
(I mean the celeb Guru of Yoga,
The one with stone-eye and saffron toga.)

Amusement is the only aim
And if, by chance, a little fame
Does stride up to me,
Who'm I to set it free?
And if someone does learn a slice
Wouldn't it be very nice?

But don't mourn the ruminant gone.
From its ashes, a cynic born
Shares his lop-sided worldview.
He sees the world with eyes anew.

To be honest, the ruminant was boring.
As he talked you could hear the snoring
Of those around him.
So he'd turn grim
And morose.
But then, he chose
To abandon prose.
(A chapter-close.)

Bogie:

What happened: This was spurred by the verbal portrait of me that Basu-da drew, while in conversation. I started with the intention of exaggerating his words. But in place of the archetypal hardboiled cynic, I ended up with the man I was modelling the poem on.

On his forehead, a deep frown.
A compulsive loner in tinseltown.
His utterances bitter, sardonic,
While he gulps down a gin and tonic.
Cool, steely, suave and smart,
Who's he but Humphrey Bogart?

First Crush:
Somebody wrote, "Experiencing my first crush".
Dude, I just hope you're not having your first brush
With compressive load!

#Joking civil-engg. mode

Random wisecrack on seeing someone's facebook status. Contains mild geek-humour, and complete irreverence for emotions. Be warned! Also, hashtags are wonderful, aren't they?

P.S.: Second roundup of facebook verses. Part 1 here.

A quick roundup

2010-09-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

If you are on my Facebook friend-list and log in periodically, you might have seen some of my attempts at lighthearted, humorous poetry. Most of these are hastily typed down in a minute or two, and therefore exhibit awkward structure and meter.

Still, I'm fond of them. Lightheartedness is a good excuse for laziness - I can get away with the excuse of parodying wannabe poets.

Penny-a-word poets:

Sudipto Basu wants to create rhythm but rhyme,
but can't find a word more fitting than slime.
Boy, these rhymes for a dime
are just not worth his time.

On falling down from a bicycle:

Sudipto Basu is having much fun.
As much as can be done
with a painful hurt arm;
A silly book's done the harm!

Footnote - a book in a big bag hanging from the handle got stuck in the wheel. Hence, a bad fall.

To this, K-da added:

And with raging fever
It’s more than a shiver
that keeps you off
from FB and all the cine blokes you dare to scoff!

But which is the buck
You’d like to pass;
That created this fuss,
the book, tyre, muck
or a little less than luck ?

So get better soon.
You can’t set for a greater boon.
A half-way spoonerism this, it’s then a spoon!
For want of an apt ender,
I’ll rather take this bender
And settle for my LB’s lampoon!

Footnote - LB is for little brother, which is how K-da often calls me. The fall was soon accompanied by high fever.

On writing infrequently:

Sudipto Basu needs to write more often,
His writing skills mustn't soften.

Sayantani added:

Love your couplets,
Nice mind-outlets.

To which I rejoined:

Writing a couplet ain't hard.
For an easy going two-line bard.

Self-referential fun:

The other day I wrote
something of eminent note:
"Writing couplets ain't hard
for an easy-going two-line bard."
A couple more I want to fix,
In place of four, now I have six.
Two lines more I want to frame.
But can't, oh what a shame!

The Basics of a Trivial Art:

A writer of lighthearted verse
Must make his lines terse.
Succumb to the prolix curse
and your rhymes become worse.
Hold your tongue tight, and your words tighter.
That adds to the humour, makes the verse lighter.

(Lines three and four contributed by Sudhang Shankar. The in-joke is that I've often been susceptible to the prolix curse. Sudhang's couplet might also be a word of warning to me.)

Bad mess food:

"How does it feel?, how does it feel?"
Well how should I feel without a meal!
The mess serves gooey broth.
Good reason for fume and froth.

The first line is of course lifted from a famous Dylan song. This is one of my laziest rhymes, which prompted Karn Kaul to announce that I'm going mad.

The Humourless:

A man who's serious and sombre
is almost as deadly as a mad bomber.
The self-serious man refuses to understand humour,
His earnest unfunny-ness keeps growing like a tumour.
In case you're wondering, this is exaggerated verse.
Don't sulk so much, it could have been worse.

Inspired by a post on Jabberwock's blog which goes by the same name. Funny thing he responded to this facebook status! Reason for writing: professors earnestly asking students to make movies with social relevance at a screening of short-films. This, when some of the films being chided were excellent parody/mockumentary stuff. And a "socially-relevant" film scripted by one of the professors in question prone to turgid seriousness. As you can see, I also did a good job of plagiarising two rhyming words from 'The Basics of a Trivial Art'.

The last one in this post is a playoff started due to a friend who called K-da "a great cine buff". Anyway, here goes Film Conversations.

Beginning with K-da:

"A great cine buff?!"
If that isn't a bluff,
I'd have to leave the place in a huff!
Lest Mr Sudipto Basu chortles
With a violent sneeze and a non-phlegmatic cough!

To which I said:

It isn't very tough
to be recognised as a cine buff.
Some acquaintance
with films of great importance
should be enough
to make you a cine buff.

And K-da replied:

Now, it's a piquant call,
when K-da's having a pit-less fall,
to try and give him a prop,
and in the process go for a crop,
of all those virtues that a buff so deserves,
Insight, vision and the mental reserves,
And, Mr Basu at this age,
Matches a feat that envies the sage,
And this is the fact without any toss
needs to be driven sure across,
to all those friends, don't be cross!

My sagacious rejoinder:

A film buff requires vision and insight
to be able to look into the plight
of fellow men and women.
All that is accepted, but then
(here to your assumption i'll say no
a true cineaste mustn't be so)
mental reserves are a dent
to a film buff's temperament.

To those confounded with this playful reverence, K-da has unusually high opinions of people he likes. Don't be fooled!

Some explanation owed for the "mental reserves" bit. A friend of K-da opined that once someone starts appreciating the masters of world cinema, locally acclaimed film-makers start looking pale in comparison. So much so that one doesn't even want to watch Indian films anymore. (Personal opinion: untrue.)

P.S. and N.B:
1.) A few of the verses begin awkwardly with Sudipto Basu because facebook statuses, as you may know, begin with the poster's name.
2.) Some lines have been modified here and there. Still there is minimum editorial interference.
3.) Prosaic explanations ironically required.
4.) Due acknowledgement to all the greats: Ogden Nash, Edward Lear, Piet Hein, Carroll and Sukumar Ray.

Dulaali's Tale

2010-09-23T12:09:00.000-07:00

(Translated from a poem by Joy Goswami.)

Which land were we headed to

What land were we leaving behind

Crossing hills and hollows

Dew-wet trees and barbed wire

Down we went through the plains

On we went through the rice fields

My little sister, Ma, Baba

And all the village folk.

Walking beside them was I

Dulaali?

Or Priyobala?

Parents called Dulaali at home,

Priyobala was the name at school.

I had only recently begun to go to school.

Someone from the village said,

“Flee this place, ho, flee!”

So we fled.

With the entire village.

Ma, Baba, two sisters,

We fled.

Making our way through bushes and wild weeds,

Making our way through brooks and creeks,

Made our way sleepy hauling

Our sleepy thatched-roof,

Our sleepy bamboo fencing,

The sleepy bottle gourd,

Laid on the yard the sleepy cart-wheel,

The sleepy plougher.

The shiuli plant on the portico,

The moon hidden half by the limp neem tree.

We moved on without making a sound.

A twig touched down the forehead and the head,

Cold in dew, wet and calloused,

The folio of a tree is so like the folio of a hand.

After crossing so many many fields,

We rested under the shade of the trees.

Each of us unpacked our sacks,

For jaggery and puffed rice.

Eyes drooping down from slog.

There was a sudden scuttle,

Fire had broken out in villages.

“O Aaduri!”, “O Dulaali!”, “Where are you two?”

Ma, Baba called for us.

I was found.

But Aaduri was lost.

Nobody knows where she has ended up.

We all crossed the barbed wire boundary,

We all.

Heads down, necks down.

We also passed through the book.

The book of Immigration.

We travelled on the steamer,

On the train.

The path was torn into bits.

Where was the land we’re headed to,

In past?

In future?

What an age we left behind!

“Dulaali, Dulaali!” “Priyobala, Priyobala!”

The name is lost on the road.

Some part of the name is lost in the rice meadows.

Some part is lost in the waters of the streams.

Some part the school has taken away.

Some part is lost in the riots along the way.

The trees under which we rested,

Some part of the name is lost to those trees.

Some part of the name the dew-drops of the fields took away.

Some part has gone to the neighbours of the night.

Some part got caught in the bamboo fencing.

Some part is hidden away beneath the thatch-leaves.

Some part is stuck in the barbed wires.

Some part is gone to the Immigration book.

One age I left in that country,

One age was taken by my man,

One age passed by to raise my son,

It is by my son’s name that I’m known today.

I was a part-time maid,

Now full-time.

Meals and clothes I get here as part of pay,

Son has separated after marriage.

I stay here only.

Summer-rains-winter.

Sitting here, I, Nanda’s Ma,

Don’t think of my son.

Neither of my man.

I just remember,

We were going

To some land.

We all were fleeing.

Down the memory hole...

2010-09-21T07:40:00.000-07:00

I look on a little aghast
As I erase a bit of my past.
The tyranny of small minds,
In its devious way grinds
The sweetness of yesteryears.
Blood ties confirm fears
Of being misunderstood.
On this, let's not brood
Anymore. Laugh a little
At the pettiness of moronic piffle.

A cut-out case

2010-09-18T02:06:00.000-07:00

This report thrilled me. Not only did the eight Congress workers get themselves photographed with a cardboard cut-out of Rahul Gandhi, they also “apprised him of the problems of Agra, particularly of those dealing in leather business”. I think this is a giant step for mankind, even though it must've been a small one for the concerned eight. As the ad-line goes, let me show you how!

How often do we hear complaints from film reviewers that characters seem like cardboard cut-outs with the sole intention of mouthing a few lines, shaking a few legs and populating the frame? Often, very often. I propose future directors to take the criticism literally. Think about this: won't a well-designed cutout of Aishwarya Rai be enough for her part? One, the beauty is there. Two, so is the wooden acting. Three, the deadpan dialogue delivery is "naturalistic" (I mean, get the voice dubbed or something - learn something from Rituparno!). And it's cheap. This could well be the next big step in low-budget film-making after the invention of digital photography. What more, the director can take a cue from the Egregious Eight, and release the following statement in his press conference:

It was a very challenging role for Ash. Her role required restraint. A lack of emotion was the very key of her character. During the shoots, she'd often consult with me if she should underplay her expressions even more. For example, in the climactic showdown, we required seven takes to get her passive expression right.

At the preview screening, there may a few doubts regarding why there were no profile shots of Aishwarya, but the director can dispel them with his explanation.

The role demanded that we see only one 'side' of her character. With my extra-ordinary ability to be literal-minded, I formulated a plan to do this. I would take shots only from the front.

Once some behind-the-scenes footage is accidentally released, the media will go into a tizzy reporting this latest development in the world of entertainment. There will possibly be several critics of this extreme step, but noted film-academician Roger Abhert will defend it. In his words:

At one point in Godard's History of Cinema, he anticipates the death of cinema (He apparently asked Henri Langlois to burn the archives). Death, so that it can rise again from the ashes. “Art is like fire. Born from what it burns.” says Godard and that is precisely what he desires – Cinema to go down with all its exploitations and restrictions and rise in its purest form. Back to infancy, so that it can learn everything out of free will, without rules and without vanity.”

In a world of boring 3D cinema like Avatar, it is worth considering going back to basics. From 2D to 1D. I congratulate whoever thought of using cutouts as actors.

And why only films? Soap serials can also consider taking the step. In fact, they can have several cutouts having different stock expressions - angry, sad, shocked, evil-smiling, sweet-baby-like-smiling, thoughtfully romantic, etc. And all the budget saved from actor salaries can go to more grandiose sets and designer apparel (for the cutouts, of course).

Consider also the tremendous impact this may have on politics. Mamata Banerjee calls a hunger strike - you do or I die - opposing an industrial project and sends a cutout to her dharna. A careful angle of exposure to mediapersons along with an army of aam-janata guarding the cutout can keep her tummy filled; and the project stalled forever.

I think this may also prevent a lot of warfare. Countries can keep their borders lined with cutouts of soldiers. On both sides of the divide. No one fires a shell (since it is difficult to figure out if it's a real soldier or a fake from great distances). Both countries stay "on the alert for enemy-action". Forever.

A last proposition: the Egregious Eight must be given the Idea Cellular "What an idea, sirjee!" award for excellence in brainstorming. Also, I wait for the day when a Dalit feeds a humble Rahul Gandhi cutout in his house.

(NB: Part of the Roger Abhert quote taken from this excellent review of Inglourious Basterds.)

Notes from a public pulpit

2010-08-04T08:18:00.000-07:00

Pre-script: The translations in English are mine. Those offered by the Telegraph were too literal and bland.

Lokey pachchhe naa aaloo
CPM-er durnitio chalu

People can't buy potatoes
That's how CPM's anarchy goes.

Thus spake Mamata. Her latest Shahid Minar rally drew an audience of 2 million, for which a police force of 3 lakh had to be deployed. Now my post is not to criticise the vast wastage of law-keeping resources. Neither the blockage of one of the busiest transport and commercial centres in the heart of Kolkata. It is to ponder upon Mamata Banerjee's nonpareil poetic acumen. Too much of which we just can't have. And it's not just the never-done-before rhyming of "aaloo" with "chalu". There's a bit of nearly every major Bengali poet in her.

Fiery espousal of the common man's aspirations, a cause once championed by Sukanta Bhattacharya:

Aamader shopno, aamade pon
dhongsho noi unnayan.

Our dream, our promise to redress
No destruction, a path towards progress.

Not to forget Madhusudan Dutt's brand of unrhymed verse:

Shobaar pete bhaat,
shobaar jonyo kaaj chai.

Food in every stomach,
jobs for all.

Also a bit of Nazrul (who spoke for a society inclusive of people across the socio-economic spectrum):

Chhatra, jubak, krishak, shramik
tomra aamader unnayan-er sharik.

Worker, youth, farmer, student
All of you are reapers of development.

For those not on her side after the recent train mishaps, she has a stern word of warning:

Aamar podotyag chaichho,
bondhu tomai dehotyag korte hobe!

You ask me to resign from my post
Before that happens, you'll have to turn into a ghost!

If you think she is too Bong-centric, with only local influences, think twice. She throws in a bit of Dali-esque surrealism:

Aajke chan kortey gechhilam, paye ki jeno shur-shuri dichchhilo... dekhlam ekta kankra bichhe.

I had gone to take a shower today when something tickled me... It was a scorpion.

Scorpions usually sting. But this one didn't. It tickled her. Some CPM stooge must have planted it in her bathroom. Even scorpions can't resist Didi's animal magnetism.

And the best of all:

Shudhu Mamata Banerjee-te allergy?

(This one is immune to good translation. One cannot retain her otherworldly alliteration.)

Such valiant attempts at poetry should inspire some amount of optimism in me. What it does, however, is instigate the naughty cells in my brain. So let me make up a few slogans, in the best Mamata tradition, for her next rally.

Kalchar Kolkata-r hrid-spondon
Buddha babu aar jachchhen naa Nondon.

Culture is Calcutta's lifeline
(But) For that Buddha babu has no more time.

Lal durgo bhengechhi aamra
tai toh uriye dichchhe train-er kamra.

We've breached the Red Battlement
That's why they blew up a train compartment.

Jyoti babu chhilen maanusher trata
kobe dhuye diyechhilam aamar-onar hisheber khata.

Jyoti babu was the common man's life-support.
Between us, we shared an amicable rapport.

Mamata-di should draft me to her culture brigade or advising body. I'll keep supplying her such wonderful lines. And she can keep me perpetually fed and cared for. Plus, lots of celebs from film, theatre and art there. August company, and better chances for me to make my first film! Whatsayall?

Disclaimer: This is just to parody what I consider unintentionally hilarious public-speaking. No other intentions exist.

The tale of a weighing machine

2010-08-04T08:15:00.000-07:00

If you have been to Indian railway stations, you may have seen those tall contraptions that show your weight. A couple of weeks back, I stood before one of these in the Jatin Das Park metro station. The colourful LEDs blinked in perfect rhythm, the cardboard disc with black-and-white stripes (which invariably remind me of Newton's colour disc) rotated without any hesitation. All symptoms of an alive and kicking thing.

The previous time I had weighed myself, I got a measly 56. This was a goodish 4 below the 60 I weighed back in class 12. With some expectation of improvement, I stood before this shiny yellow giant in JD Park and took out the necessary two rupees from my wallet. Stripped down to whatever bare essentials my surroundings allowed, to get as accurate a reading as possible (removed the watch, put the mobile phone and wallet in my bag and set it aside, removed my sneakers; a la James Blunt).

Normally what happens is that you put the money in the slot after standing on the platform, the machine purrs for an instant, and gives out a small receipt which has your weight on it (some of these receipts often add a Bollywood line as a bonus - I remember one from my childhood that had a rip-roaring Sunny Deol fataka written below my 24 kilos).

This machine - this contraption - kept silent for a long while. I thought, "maybe it's doing some complex calculations, or maybe it just operates on some outdated calculating system" and stood there for ten seconds in anticipation. I put my fingers in the receipt-spitting slot to check if the paper was stuck somewhere inside. Uncheck. I banged lightly on its body, hoping that would set in motion some old rusted gear. It didn't. The monster just kept silent. Like a Jyoti Basu of yesteryears whose CPI(M) goons had committed some dastardly act. Ate up my two bucks without a single regret.

My dignity lost, my two rupees lost, I boarded the train to Sovabazar. And then I thought, "damn, isn't this how a government acts?"

P.S.: It hadn't occurred to me when I first wrote this piece on Facebook, but these weighing machines are several times larger than needed. When those round light things that doctors have can tell your weight efficiently, pray why do you need something the size of an ATM? Which leads me to this.

The Circus

2010-07-18T06:41:00.000-07:00

(...and this is not about the 1928 Chaplin film!)

We - Sayantani and me - decided to change the url of the blog (as notified here), but a lot of things went wrong. First, some chap named 'bang bang' decided it's a good thing to play a prank on us. He therefore selected thoughtlessminds.blogspot.com (the url we had settled for) as his blog-address. This he did in the two weeks between the date of notification and 18th July, today, when we were supposed to switch. Anyway, I went forward and settled for a slight alteration - thoughtless-minds.blogspot.com (with the added hyphen) - and made a redirect page. What I didn't foresee was that this would delete all previous comments on this blog by default.

Since a reader's thoughts are more valuable to us than a mildly stupid and self-indulgent name, Sayantani has agreed to bear with the old url.

Long story short, you will still be reading sudiptopondering!

Growing up, part 2

2010-07-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

Maa and I went to visit one of our former neighbours this weekend. They shifted to a house nearby just a couple of years ago. Yet the little girl who had lived next door to me for ten years suddenly seemed to have become mature beyond recognition.

Dida, this girl's grandma, was quite fit when I last saw her. She'd step out of the apartment daily to pick flowers for her puja, stop and chat for a while with people she knew. This time she could barely recognise me (of course, that I had grown a thick beard and moustache played some role). There was gloom on her face as she slowly dipped a marie biscuit in a glass of tea. Gloom as she gently shook her head in reply to maa's enquiry upon her health. And all the while I stood stiffly; not knowing what to do, what to say or how to react. There is something soul-sapping about physical degradation in old age. A youngster like me who is in the stage of life where he hopes and has the will to fight cannot really understand or appreciate what it means to be on the downspiral of hopelessness.

I was saved from the embarrassing situation of being expected to act like an adult and not being able to stand up to it. Kaku, the girl's father, called me away from dida's room for a chat. I was relieved and ashamed. Sometimes I wish I were a child. I could stand there without understanding the gravity of the situation and nobody would expect anything.

Hill-billy boy, part one

2010-06-30T04:55:00.000-07:00

There is something impersonal about flights. While it is no doubt a cut above the sterile steel atmosphere of Kolkata's metro trains, air travel is a poor substitute for a train journey. For one, I find the trained excessive courtesy of on-flight staff painful for both parties involved. Even if I'm the only one complaining about this, rouge-laden cheeks don't look nice.

Still, we took a flight from Kolkata to Lucknow on the 7th of June (to save on time, what else?). It was a one-and-a-half hour shuttle from 38 degrees to 38 degrees with the on-board temperature dipping to around 8. You can imagine the kind of torture inflicted on our skin when we stepped outside into the Amausi International Airport on the flanges of Lucknow. It was a relief when we checked into an AC room at our hotel just outside Lucknow Junction.

UP's capital is dirty and crumbling. Some people live in houses built during Lucknow's moment of glory (the architecture speaks) and the city banks on historical heritage for the tourism industry. Yet the maintenance of some of these historical monuments are so poor you fear they're going to come apart any moment. The main streets, at least in the areas I have been, are clogged with swarming masses of people, blaring loudspeakers, sales calls and all the rubbish which such a populace should produce. I am no admirer of some of Kolkata's shopping districts, what with all thirty years of stagnation and turmoil, but we still fare better in matters of cleanliness. If you have been through the market just outside Sealdah station, large portions of Lucknow look just like that. Things being so, we stayed indoors throughout the day though I briefly toyed with the idea of revisiting the famed maze in Bada Imambara (this wasn't our first trip to the city).

Next morning around 8, we boarded the Garib Rath to Kathgodam. All in all it was a comfortable and enjoyable ride, though I must complaint about the inappropriate name. The train is fully air-conditioned - definitely not a luxury one offers to the garib passenger. I'll let the rath pass as poetic licence (was Lalu a closet poet too, like Mamata?). However, if the chariot used during Puri's Rath Yatra is any standard to judge by, I prefer travelling by a "poor man's chariot"; thank you! My co-passengers were fun. There was the civil-servant who was on his way to Rampur, and the pretty young girl going home to Rudrapur. Both of them had some moments of confusion, I presume, seeing a boy sitting alone with a book (Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel, for the curious) laughing every now and then. I, in turn, was amused by the perfunctory nods Mr. Civil-Servant gave to my father who bombarded him with the most obvious opinions on the most obvious of things. Sometime late in the day, the pretty girl brought out her laptop and played mainstream pop for the benefit of her co-travellers. I don't know how many enjoyed her idea of public service. I'd much rather listen to the train going "ghatak-ghatak".

As the train rolled into the foothills - around Haldwani, if my memory serves me right - we saw the mountains in the distance through tinted glass and smoke from urban industries. To someone living in the plains, that triggers a sense of delight best left undescribed. Kathgodam is a quiet little station: crowded in this time of the year mainly due to the influx of tourists. The station's main-entrance is in some sort of European architecture (my little knowledge prevents me from being more accurate), clean and well-maintained. A sight to look, I promise!

Our car, which was to be our transport for the next eight days, was waiting for us there. I know some people feel dizzy on mountainous roads - those that go round and round, up and up. Boy, do I love them! It's a delight to see that ten minutes of steep climb has succeeded in bringing you just 30 metres above the point you started from! Does that say something about human endeavour? The temperature fell as we rose, the sky was cloud-capped, and we saw the huge shadows of mountains and clouds shift on other mountains. Inspite of maa's feeble complaints, I kept the windows open. The wind played in my hair. We were on our way to Almora.

It took a goodish three-and-a-half hours to reach, and as we passed through those little hill towns I kept struggling with my memory trying to recall where I'd seen these names. Bhowali? Was it Ruskin Bond or Jim Corbett? Anyway, Bhowali has a nice fruit market (quite famous in those parts, wiki tells me). I, unfortunately, could not partake of its pleasures for the simple reason that I don't like fruits (except maybe those small, red Himachali apples). I prefer their visual appeal.

We stopped just outside Almora at the Ramakrishna Mission. Bunda (pronounce boonda), our driver, stretched his legs and let his concentration slip for a while (I've tried keeping my eyes on both the road and the scenery and it has given me a sort of natural admiration for this man). We made our way down the stairs. Some bengali women sat by the entrance chatting. I don't know if this is a trait peculiar to us, but we bengalis love to let other bengalis know our shared linguistic identity when in some foreign land. Baba, who was talking in a low voice until then, suddenly beamed up at the sight and sound of those women and raised his voice as if to announce our arrival. A hitchhiker lost in the forest for days on end would probably not be as enthusiastic at the sight of fellow humans. It was sunset time, and the Mission has an unobstructed view of the sky. The result was that we had a stunning series of sunset snaps.

Almora, being a district town, was understandably crowded. Our hotel, Bhagwati Palace, was a little way down the Link road. Yet we could not get into our rooms. Some local politico had booked the whole place for a night - it was his daughter's wedding. A politico being more important than us, we were carted off some way up the steep Mall road to Hotel Shyam, Bhagwati's sibling (they're owned by the same man). Our room in Shyam was on the 4th floor. The stairs was steep, the stairwell cramped. It's obvious that whoever planned the building compressed as much utility as possible into as little a place. Which was fine for me and didi, not as much for maa and baba. Anyway, a fourth floor room with a big balcony facing the valley offers a good vantage point. So we hoped, only to be slightly disappointed by the sight. The panorama doesn't hold a light to Mussoorie's excellent view of the Doon valley - quite literally too! Still a higher altitude offers cleaner air, so we made our peace for the day.

Our room service was done by a pahari man in his mid 20's, who tried to make up for the inconveniences caused by his superiors with cheerfulness. Bhaiya, as I called him, was met with as much warmth. Yet I'm a little ashamed now. The tip I paid him the next morning for his services proved to be inadequate, as the expression on his face informed me (and his services were substantial - running up and down those staircases four or five times is something). I don't know why I didn't offer him more - was it misery? Or was it something that has become deeply ingrained in my nature, growing up as I did in a middle-class family - that one mustn't be paid more than the unsaid "limit" preset for him!

We deposited our luggage in Bhagwati Palace, which had been vacated and stripped off its "VIP - Reserved" status in the morning. Then we made off for Binsar. The Wildlife Sanctuary charges a considerable entry fee, but you'll not grudge it if you love nature. The 10 kilometre uphill track till the KMVN resort is narrow, shaded on both sides with giant oak and chir trees and is one of the quietest roads I've been on. I heard distant cries of birds over the silent hum of the engine and let the wind and shade play with me again. The car can't go up beyond the KMVN resort though there's a 2 kilometre long foot-trail which ends at the Zero Point (which commands a view of Kedarnath, Trishul and Nanda Devi). We didn't see much of that, it being a day of white cotton-clouds, though the sun shone fiercely enough where there was no leafy shade. The trail is short if you can climb fast, but I'd recommend you to take it slow and easy. The wind was cool and lazy, and I had the benefit of being alone because of walking ahead of my family. It was quiet there; so quiet that if you ignored the distant call of birds and the murmuring grating of crickets, you could here the buzz in your own head.

Walking down the foot-track, we met some bengali tourists who promptly enquired what there was to see. No tigers? No 'points'? ('Point' is the term used to designate popular tourist attractions.) What a waste of money! And all the while their children roamed around freely. It amused me to think what they'd do in case a tiger really walked into the trail.

On the way down, we stopped and picked pine cones. We filled a bagful, witnessing two oxen charging each other in the distance. They stood snarling, stared a good deal (like they do in those duels in the Westerns) and wham!

There is a modest leopard sanctuary just outside Almora. Its five inhabitants are all man-eaters, though you can't deduce that from their demeanour. Four of them stayed inside their rooms and one was basking in the sun out in the courtyard. For all the tourists and their invading cameras, it maintained an ascetic indifference. Maybe it had grown too tired of us to even react. That's the next possible stage to hatred. Sometimes I come close to their disposition too!

We were back in the room by sundown and I spent the rest of the day reading and watching TV. I'd explored enough of Almora during my early morning walk to satisfy my curiosity. Next day we were to leave for Munsiyari. The place I loved the most!

But that's for the next post.

Affidavit filed, awaiting judgement...

2010-06-28T11:12:00.000-07:00

Sayantani and me have long mulled over the idea of changing the url (for non-geeky people: that means the 'address') of this blog. As our oldest readers will know, it started with me writing alone on my passions of those days - which was Gandhi, hatred of chatspeak, and sundry other "serious issues" (my stances on which have softened and changed with time). Sometimes I feel embarrassed to even look at those old posts! Still, a lenient case must be made for a boy who was quite excited at the beginning of his 'intellectual' pursuits.

Anyway, once I admitted Sayantani to the blog and gave her co-owner status, I made the necessary amend of adding her name to the title. Which has since changed to exclude both of our names. What I didn't do was change the url, which remains the agonisingly bad "sudiptopondering" to this day! Why? Because I feared most of our readers, however modest the number, might not switch over to the new one.

Thankfully now we have a solution. The new url will be thoughtlessminds.blogspot.com (it's less agonisingly bad, after all!), and it will be the acting address from 18th July, 2010. So please remember to use it 18th onwards, if you still wish to read us. I'm not sure about this, but maybe followers have to implement that change too! In any case, if you still type sudiptopondering in the address bar of your browser, we'll make sure that you redirect to the real thing.

Fine and all, everyone?

Post-script: Since changing the url deletes all previous comments, we have decided to stick with the previous one - sudiptopondering.blogspot.com

It was a real Horrorshow, O my brothers...

2010-06-28T04:26:00.000-07:00

My generation possibly thinks that The Blair Witch Project and Cloverfield are a new breed of horror entertainment. I'd like to counter their illusion - it's been done before (though on a different medium). Put your hands together for Orson Welles.

Blair Witch starts with a declaration that what follows is the edit of a documentary and its "making" video. It features three student film-makers - Heather, Mike and Joshua - venturing into the forests of Maryland to film an urban legend. They start off by interviewing several locals in the town of Burkittsville. The word-of-mouth accounts are half-incredulous. The townsfolk don't seem to attach much credence to these, though they are afraid and alert enough not to venture into the forests where the Blair Witch is supposed to live. The film crew shares some of this ambiguity. Even with the possibility of it being all hooey, they think it's an interesting subject to film. Because it starts of with banter and laughter, and later descends into irrational nightmare; it scares us. Nothing frightens more than the preset pattern of our daily lives being suddenly thrown asunder.

Daniel and Eduardo, the directors of Blair Witch, achieve this effect with their calculated low-production values. The forest, photographed in winter, is cold and distant. The lighting is mostly natural; sometimes too harsh, sometimes too low. There are several minutes given to documenting just the three friends shouting at each other in fear, despair and hysteria. The handheld shots wildly wobble and go out of focus; making the film resemble a home video. In the final frame, the screen blanks out to signal that all three are dead. What reduces the efficacy of a studio-produced horror film like Psycho is that it doesn't hit our instinctual fears first. (Some cinephiles claim that the early creaky, clapboard worlds of horror B-movies worked precisely because they exploited our primal fear.) Anyone who has seen Cloverfield would also agree that it employs the same strategy as Blair Witch.

Their early predecessor is Welles' radio adaptation of The War of the Worlds, aired by Columbia Broadcasting System on October 30, 1938 as part of their ongoing Mercury Theatre series. What makes the play effective - even disregarding the bloated reports of those years of yellow journalism in America, there was a little panic about a real Martian attack - is that it falls back upon itself, structured in the manner of a real news broadcast from CBS. The usual mundane rituals of dance music and enthusiastic radio-host banter is interspersed with terse reports, received from astronomical observatories, of unusual activities observed on the planet Mars. The Manhattan studio of CBS cuts to its reporter in Princeton, Carl Phillips. He interviews Professor Richard Pearson (voiced by Welles), a famed astronomer, about the strange occurrences. Initial denials of extraterrestial involvement, no doubt propelled by Pearson's scientific rationale and skepticism, are quickly disproved. There's a large thing that fell from the sky to a farm in Grover's Mill, New Jersey. And it's not a meteor.

What begins in a leisurely way slowly disintegrates into chaos. Carl Phillips starts his reporting in his usual calm, professional tone; maintaining proper protocol and impeccable manner (he asks his interviewee, Pearson, for permission to do even the most little things). With passing time his voice becomes strained, nervous and irritable (he brushes off an over-eager eyewitness of the "meteor fall" who wants to ramble). Welles employs overlapping dialogue and background sounds. Voices trail off as radio static becomes loud. Carl Phillips is killed by the Martians midway into the play (mirroring Joshua's mysterious death in Blair Witch). Notice that while there are reports of several onlookers being killed by the Martians, it doesn't quite affect us until Phillips' voice dies out suddenly. It's a clever ruse to familiarise us with a character's growing desperation and have him wiped out.

And then, civilian broadcasting is altogether discarded to give way to military bulletin. The listeners ride along with fighter plane pilots who bomb the aliens and rue the lack of any effect. This pattern of alteration of tone and pace connects two works separated by six full decades.

All matters of form aside, Welles places his best bet when he subversively plays on the American people's fear of imminent warfare. The historical perspective is underlined further when Prof. Pearson, who evades the marauding Martians, meets an officer of the Home Guard in a forlorn, tattered city. In what must be a very political statement rivalling Kubrick's in Dr. Strangelove, the officer reveals his sinister idea to use science to wipe out both the Martians and the remaining people who, for him, are disposable nothings. The officer's plan reveals the same alarming hatred and disregard for human life evident in Nazi propaganda across the Atlantic (no wonder Hitler was outraged at Welles' little joke!).

Prof. Pearson's personal account, which fills much of the second half, is also part of the reason why the play works. He trudges through charred cities and countryside, noting the apocalyptic scale of battle debris.

Next day I came to a city, a city vaguely familiar in its contours, yet its buildings strangely dwarfed and leveled off, as if as if a giant had sliced off its highest towers with a capricious sweep of his hand.

His chilling description of New York reads thus:

Walked up Broadway in the direction of that that strange powder, past silent shop windows, displaying their mute wares to empty sidewalks past the Capitol Theatre, silent, dark past a shooting gallery, where a row of empty guns faced an arrested line of wooden ducks. Near Columbus Circle I noticed models of 1939 motorcars in the showrooms facing empty streets. Over the top of the General Motors Building, I watched a flock of black birds circling in the sky. Hurried on. Suddenly I caught sight of the hood of a Martian machine, standing somewhere in Central Park, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. An insane idea: I rushed recklessly across Columbus Circle and into the Park. I climbed a small hill above the pond at Sixtieth Street and from there I could see, standing in a silent row along the mall, nineteen of those great metal Titans, their cowls empty, their great steel arms hanging listlessly by their sides. I looked in vain for the monsters that inhabit those machines.

The play begins with an introduction that says:

We know now that in the early years of the 20th century this world was being watched closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own. We know now that as human beings busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.

[...]

Yet across an immense ethereal gulf, minds that to our minds as ours are to the beasts in the jungle, intellects vast, cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.

It is ironic that the Martians are conquered not by man with his superior intellect, but bacteria. The proto-ubermensch officer must be eating his hat, or whatever is left of it.

P.S.: Those who want the radio play and can meet me, ask for it. I'll be happy to share. Those who can't, may download it. And those who can't download it, may read it (there's a pdf version in the link too).

Growing up

2010-06-24T11:05:00.000-07:00

The other day my little niece wanted to go out walking in the streets alone. Now naturally she was forbidden, though she later had me for company. She looked up at me and said, "when will I grow up? I want to do things by myself." I smiled. I used to ask that question often.

Yesterday I'd been to a wedding reception. People talked and laughed, there was forced conversation and hollow guffawing. And I had to sit through all of that with a cheerful facade - often answering needless questions thrown to me. Children were running about, some gorging on the free cold-drinks and ice-creams on offer. A boy of about five walked up to a circle of old acquaintances, who were all chatting, singled out a woman and pulled at her sari. "Maa, I'm getting bored. When will you take me home?" I smiled. I used to ask that question often.

The Expressionist

2010-06-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

The surroundings were misty. (Or misty may have gone my memory!) The incense vapours from the nearby Vishwakarma puja pandals hung low over the township. I must have been then 3 to 4 years old. It was beside the fly-over connecting the temporary and permanent townships, in a tin-roofed shack that I first saw him. We entered through a wooden door, whose ends had rotten away with the recent monsoons of Bihar. He dodged under a low wooden bar that held the roof and appeared through the smog before us. His name was Prakash, meaning ‘expression’. But, none of us called him by that name. He was ‘gunga maali’/ ‘boba maali’ (meaning 'the dumb gardener') to all and ‘Maali uncle’ to me.

Maali uncle was hearing and speech impaired. People said he wasn’t so by birth. It was a fatal accident that had left him thus. He was a short-heighted, lean, curly-haired man, with thick lips. Our association with him was through Roy Chowdhury Jethu and Jethima, who were (and still are) our very intimate family friends. Since I’ve grown up far away from my relations, owing to my father’s transferable job, I regarded them as my very own and hence called them as Jethu-Jethima, without caring to mention their surnames. We had just shifted to our C-type quarters in Kahalgaon, and were urgently in need of a gardener to look after the bare plots of land in the front and the back courtyards. And, so, Jethu-Jethima mentioned ‘boba maali’ to us. It was, I remember, with great difficulty that my parents had communicated with him on the first day to ask him to come to our house. He was near illiterate and ‘read’ by matching the designs of the calligraphy, i.e., whenever he needed to read something, say a quarter number, he’d have it written on a slip of paper and then he’d find his destination by matching the letters on the slip with those on the wall. That is how probably he managed to find our house too: C-27.

The eight and half years that we lived in C-27, Maali uncle worked to make the NTPC quarter a sweet home. Those were the years that I started graduating from a blob of living matter towards a human being with senses. Maali uncle therefore had been an important part of my first senses, my growing mind and my childhood. He had a distinct smell on him: the soil that he played with the entire day rendered him an earthy scent. His quiet arrival was marked by that distinct odour and the swish-swash of his movements through the grass and the click-clacks of his shrub-cutting tools. Years after years, he cultured all kinds of plants from cactuses to creepers to rose bushes and big marigolds, dahlias and petunias. He brought colours and fragrance to our dull township life.

Sometimes, Maa would explain him things that she wanted him to do with frantic movements of her hands, which he would quickly pick up and respond with half-sounds straining his weakened vocal chords. It was not only a tricky task to ‘talk’ to him, but a trickier task at times to get what he was trying to ‘tell’ us. The mode of communication would often make us fall into peals of laughter. It’d be a most heartening time to see when he’d try to tell us ‘who’, ‘whose’ or ‘whom’. For example, while referring to me he used to point towards his left brow, to mention the famous black mole beside my left brow and would gesticulate with his palm faced ground-wards, to mention a little girl. While talking about my mother, he would first refer to me through the same gestures and then would signal with his palm faced ground-wards a level higher than himself and then point a dot on his forehead to convey a woman. While referring to Jethima, he’d make the same signs of showing his palm a level higher than himself, to mention someone tall and then would shift his elbows awide, to talk of someone stout; for Jethima was a person of large proportions.

After a year or two, when Jethu-Jethima moved to their D-type quarter, Maali uncle also left his shack beside the fly-over and moved to their outhouse. A disciplined man by nature, Maali uncle led a happy married life. As far as I recall, he had three children: Manoj, Anuj and Khushboo. The eldest son, Manoj bhaiya, often helped him in his errands. Maali uncle saw to it that his children learnt to read and write and sent all of his children to school. We later heard that the eldest son passed from an ITI college. His wife was a very practical-minded person. To generate more earnings, she stitched blouses and made a judicious use of whatever income came in, managing even to make some savings. He had a great regard for his wife. When he had to take leave showing extreme urgency, he would usually flare up his eyes and with an expression of extreme exigency would run his forefinger through the parting of his hair, indicating his wife.

Well-known for his intelligence and sharp senses, Maali uncle served us in several ways other than gardening. From small jobs of mechanic, electrician and driving, he even rescued many from precarious situations. Once, one of our switchboards short-circuited and a foul smell started coming. We couldn’t detect the source of the stench. My mother, the one who spends much time in the house, had been nauseated like heck, until Maali uncle came by chance to attend the garden. He volunteered to probe the situation at once. Through his strong smelling senses, he sniffed along the walls and reached the switchboard. He unscrewed the board out and discovered a dead lizard.

Another time, a couple of monkeys had entered our quarter. They climbed on the top of our Godrej Almirah and found it a most suitable place to empty their bladders. They refused to leave until minutes later, Maali uncle came and chased them out with a long stick. It was him who later helped us clean up the mess. A motion with his fingers pointing at himself with a nod of his head expressing “Everything will be fine. I am with you.” would put my parents at complete ease. He was the embodiment of the proverb “A friend in need is a friend in deed”.

He was also the unofficial decorator in all the birthday parties. With all the care and innovation with the rolls of crape papers, balloons and glitters, he’d put up a great show. He’d climb up a stool and from the motor of the ceiling fan, coloured ribbons would flow down to the far end of the walls. He’d even wrap the return gifts in beautiful packing papers. With the papery ribbons, he’d ‘write’ on the wall the purpose of the celebration, very much in the way as he ‘read’. I remember, on my birthday celebration every year, Baba used to write on a paper “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MIMI”, which would be copied neatly on the wall by Maali uncle.

Within a few years, he had bought a plot of land for himself and in fact began the construction a large house. He would often ‘talk’ to us about the number of floors, number of rooms and toilets he’d built in his house. It was a piece of quite amazing news for a while in the township households, as for many of us a house was still a distant dream.

It was Maali uncle, who helped us decorate our new D-type quarters. There was a hidden artist in him with a high aesthetic sense. We have never had many showpieces. All we had were a few sets of bone-china dinner-sets and tea-sets and abundant books. He adorned the showcase with the china and cutlery, while we took care of the books. We all worked together. He did the job so well that visitors would give us compliments for our otherwise simple abode for the whole of the three months that we stayed in those quarters. He was like a family member and seldom asked for extra money.

In April 2002, we left the place. The packers and movers were yet to become popular. So, we had our personalized packer. Yes, Maali uncle did all the packing with cardboards, newspapers, cartons and straws. He packed each piece of cup, saucer and glass with the utmost care and each bit of furniture with the touch of a loving home-maker. He sweated at it for one whole month and did it all with so much efficiency, that just seeing him at it put my father out of all worries.

Coming in Orissa, we unpacked the things all by ourselves. In unwrapping each piece of china and each bit of furniture out of the wooden cases first, then the cardboards, the straws and lastly the newspapers, in every step we realized what we had left behind. His dainty touch was in all of it. We dragged the boxes; arranged the beds, the tables, the chairs, the sofa sets and decorated our new quarter all on our own. We were short by one family member now.

Badlands

2010-05-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

Charles Starkweather and Caril-Ann Fugate were a couple of teenagers who committed a series of dispassionate meaningless murders in 1957. Eleven people died, most of the victims didn’t even know why. Malick changed their names respectively to Kit Carruthers and Holly Sargis, altered their ages; presumably changed a few surface details too – and made it into Badlands. The film however retains the inexplicability of the crimes and the opaqueness of the characters to analysis.

It begins with 15 year-old Holly telling us of the death of her mother ten years back and the distance that has grown in those ten years between father and daughter. The narration is drawling and disengaged. We are introduced to Kit, who works on the garbage route. Kit: who is tired of others, who’s silently fighting something invisible (I recall the scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey where Dave shadowboxes in the circular space-shuttle). Kit oozes James Dean (who else but the hero of Rebel Without A Cause!) in everything he does – the reckless charm, masculine temper and boyish innocence of someone who hasn’t really grown up inspite of his years.

And of course, they fall in love.

But why are Kit and Holly drawn to each other? Is it their shared loneliness, the hope that they’ll find some reason? That isn’t explained. Badlands doesn’t care for explicatory details. Neither does it judge its protagonists. Malick observes and portrays, but with the same detachment that characterizes Holly’s narration.

Ritwik Ghatak mentions in his book Cholochchitro Manush Ebong Aaro Kichhu that he’d often plan every shot in his mind before outdoor shoots, go to the locale and discover a stray cloud in the sky that he could not leave out anyhow. That cloud would give a sudden inspiration around which he’d then rearrange everything. In case of Malick, it seems as if every shot of his was planned at the very outset with the spectacular play of light on the sky in his mind. Given the time he takes to make a film (he has made only three after Badlands, which was released in 1973), it leads me to wonder if he really did wait for just the perfect backdrop to start shooting his scenes.

Consider the first meeting of Kit and Holly. The town they live in – Fort Dupree, South Dakota – is idyllic. It has large trees overlooking the avenues, and neighbours apparently live contented and immersed in their own work. Holly is shown playing around on the lawn with a walking-stick. Kit walks up to her.

    Kit: Well listen, Holly....
    You, I don't know....
    You want to take a walk with me?

    Holly: What for?

    Kit: I got some stuff to say.
    Guess I'm kind of lucky that way.
    Most people don't have anything on their minds, do they?

The conversation that follows however is of no worth. Their alienation is fed by their inability to articulate. Throughout this exchange there is no music. The silence, the idleness in the air, the wandering narrative and the quiet elegance of the locale makes us feel sad. For our stifled means of expression, our empty conversations.

Holly's father comes in the way of their relationship, Kit kills him. Before they run away from the town Kit puts a confession of his crime on a record-disk (at one point of which he sighs and says "I'm sorry. I ran out of things to say."), sets the record playing by the portico of Holly's house and burns the place down. They wish to go somewhere North where "people don't ask lots of questions". Kit even persuades Holly to bring her schoolbooks along so she wouldn't "fall behind". Together they escape to a grove of cottonwood beside a river where they build a world for themselves, a place uninterrupted by others. Somewhere close to the beauties of nature. Kit and Holly become Adam and Eve, happy in their isolation. Together they have a good time: reading stories, making love, dancing. Even though they have occasional tiffs like all other couples. Kit even goes ahead and prepares for a possible invasion, giving Holly "lectures on how a gun works" - their world is their fortress. But like the house they burnt down, it falls apart sometime.

Along the way, Kit shoots some more people. He's trigger-happy, which Holly begins to realise ("It all goes to show how you can know a person and not really know him at the same time."). Yet she feels a little sorry for him and stays by his side ("I gotta stick by Kit. He feels trapped."). They pick some goods from a rich man's house including a prize trophy and a Cadillac*. Then they cross the Great Plains - the literal badlands of the title.

Why does Malick choose Holly as the narrator, and not Kit? Is it a whimsical decision? I think not. Kit isn't in doubt. He knows he wants to get away from his origins, tear apart his roots, escape from civilization. But Holly is a girl torn between her choices: her craving to get back to town life starts seeping in.

We lived in utter loneliness, neither here nor there. Kit said that "solitude" was a better word, 'cause it meant more exactly what I wanted to say. Whatever the expression, I told him we couldn't go on livin' this way.

She isn't sure of her dedication to Kit anymore. Choosing Holly is logical because her indecision goes with the directionless tone of the film, Kit is too one-minded to offer us two choices. Besides, Kit cares too much about his image: we see him rambling about himself many times during conversations, we see him smile when people liken him to Dean. He can't look from the "outside", which Holly can.

The truly sad part in the film is the fallout. The two don't share their loneliness anymore.

He needed me now, more than ever, but something had come between us. I stopped even payin' attention to him. Instead I sat in the car and read a map and spelled out entire sentences with my tongue on the roof of my mouth where nobody could read 'em.

Malick's sense of imagery is truly marvelous. Someone so lonely she talks to the roof of her mouth. This sadness is capped by that magical interlude when Kit and Holly dance to Nat King Cole's "A Blossom Fell". We've seen them before dancing merrily, when they were in love. Now we see them slowly sway in each other's arms when they aren't. There is an enveloping darkness all around except for the patch where they dance, lit by the Cadillac, and the starlit clear sky at night. Cole's mournful song about dead love and the ambience signal the end of the adventure that started back in Dakota. It is the final graceful showdown of sorts. And it recalls all of a sudden what Kit did when it all started:

Kit made a solemn vow that he would always stand beside me and let nothin' come between us. He wrote this out in writing, put the paper in a box with some of our little tokens and things, then sent it off in a balloon he'd found while on the garbage route.

His heart was filled with longin' as he watched it drift off. Something must've told him that we'd never live these days of happiness again, that they were gone forever.

There is a strong streak of fatality running through the film, much like in noirs. Only Kit doesn't want to give in so easy. That is why he fights the lawmen long enough to convince them he can get away, and then surrenders of his own will^‡.

The great thing about Badlands is that in some of its moments, it brings us close to Kit and Holly. As in when they have their lovely stay in the woods, or when their loneliness and desperation stands out. At other times, it throws us off guard: unsettling us with scenes of violence against the serene, beautiful backdrop. Some reviewers have commented how Malick has composed a peaceful, heavenly world using cinematography and montage and then suddenly let loose the untamed beast of violence^†. Nowhere is it more clearly pronounced than in the burning-of-the-house sequence, where close-up shots of fire (biblical associations with hell) are accompanied by a Christian hymn speaking of the suffering of Christ. In the previous scenes, the same house has been portrayed standing amidst the dreamy, idyllic scenery of Fort Dupree. Standing in the Great Plains and seeing city lights at a distance, Holly exclaims:

The world was like a faraway planet to which I could never return. I thought what a fine place it was full of things that people can look into and enjoy.

Badlands is a product of its time, a document of social unrest viewed through the lens of two people. America was scarred after the Vietnam war and Watergate. It is interesting to note that Taxi Driver was made in the same period.

Going through Edward Hopper's work yesterday and reading his page on wikipedia, I learnt of his influence on filmmakers (Malick being one whose name is explicitly cited in the note). Here is a painting named Railroad Sunset:

And here is a screenshot from Badlands:

Both Hopper and Malick spoke of the loneliness of Americans. Hopper expressed it through distances between subjects, downturned blank faces, often set in modern urban cityscapes. See this painting, Room In New York:

The man and woman aren't talking to each other. The woman is seated at the piano, but she is playing with only one hand - probably ringing out solitary notes. She doesn't have the ability to express holistically (through music).

Compare the previous example with the scene where Kit and Holly have to decide which way to head:

Holly: (narrating) Kit took the bottle and spun it around leaving to fate which direction we should take.

Kit: Forget it, it doesn't matter. If I'm worth a damn, I'll pick the right direction. If I'm not, well, I don't care. See what I mean?

Hearing Nat King Cole express the sadness of lost love, Kit says:

If I could sing a song like that... If I could sing a song about the way I feel now it'd be a hit.

Cole does what Holly can't: speak his mind.

Malick does a wonderful job on inserting comical interludes. There is the madcap anecdote of a crank:

Holly: (narrating) Did you hear about the guy at the nuthouse that walked around naked except for hat and gloves? And this nurse come up to him and said, "Hey, you can't walk around that way." And the guy says, "Well, it's okay. Nobody comes around here anyway." And the nurse says: "Well what do you have on the hat and gloves for?" And the guy says, "Well, you never know."

And there's the gossip mag that Holly reads out.

"Rumor: Frank Sinatra and Rita Hayworth are in love."
"Fact: True. But not with each other."

The jokes don't really go anywhere, but for a few moments the world of Kit and Holly starts making some sort of sense.

True to the nature of the film, the end is ambiguous. The lawman escorting Kit exclaims "You're quite an individual, Kit" (and this we have been seeing all along). Kit replies dryly, "Think they'll take that into consideration."

Footnotes:
* The choice of Cadillac is not incidental. It's muscular look dirtied by the sojourn through badlands reminds us of the tarnished masculinity of the post-war years, as witnessed in the anti-hero archetype of film-noir (think Johnny Clay of The Killing, Walter Neff of Double Indemnity, Dix Handley of The Asphalt Jungle, Jef Costello of Le Samourai or numerous other similar characters).

^‡ Recall Jef Costello's maneuvre in Le Samourai. He knows he must surrender at some point but he fights against odds to assert his control of fate. Then he plots his own downfall meticulously.

^† When Hitchcock made Shadow of a Doubt, he said he wanted to bring violence right where it belonged: the household. Malick's film is an update of the same idea: the home here being the world. He captures wild animals, plants, and flowers with the care and loving detail of a wildlife photographer. He composes the shots on the Great Plains such that the brilliance of the sky contrasts the dirtstrewn wasteland in the bottom half of the frame. Cut to the scene where Cato, Kit's pal from the garbage route, is shot. It seems as if the bullet's hitting us (reminding us of the visceral visual technique of a later Cronenberg film, Videodrome).

Joubonoshoroshineere

2010-05-08T19:17:00.000-07:00

On the brink of the river of youth, I sit,

Awash by the currents of an unknown flood,

By the fire of restlessness, I'm lit.

The lamp floats by,

In rhythm with the crests and the troughs,

O the unblossomed lotus bud!

What's this secret desire that fills me up?

In a burning red of shame and love?

Surrounded by its fragrance,

A drop of tear testifying the stance.

In pain, O the fluttering white dove!

O wind! Slow down, Slow ---

So real is your caress, it bends me low.

Slow!

My conscience does fear,

The bonds of constraint might tear!

An unreasonable melancholy brings tears of apprehension,

On my eye-lids rest the waters of passion,

Shining as if the crests and the troughs

Of the youth river bringing my doom...

O the ardour in bloom!

On the occasion of Tagore's 150th birth anniversary, not a word to word translation, but the above effort draws its inspiration from the Rabindrasangeet:

"Joubonoshoroshineere milonoshotodolo
Kon choncholo bonyay tolomolo tolomol//
Shoromroktoraage taar gopon shwopno jaage,
Taari gondhokeshoro-majhe
Ek bindu noyonojolo//
Dheere bao Dheere bao, shomirono,
Shobedono poroshono/
Shonkito chitto mor paachhe bhange brintodor -
Taai okarono korunay mor aankhi kore chholochhol//"

The Japanese Wife

2010-04-16T11:18:00.000-07:00

Just saw Aparna Sen’s new release ‘The Japanese Wife’, first at Nandan, then at Priya. A very delicate treatment of the subject it was, the first of its kind by the director. An amalgamation of several emotions sewed into one, the film is much like the posters read “a love poem”. But, it’s not just a love-tale of a couple, like it was in Kunal Basu’s story. It is a tale of a village: of moving, breathing life of a village that’s mostly secluded from the rest of world. It is a tale of Sunderbans, the garden of West Bengal. It is a nuanced tale of small smiles and small tears of a “lower middle class”, “non-intellectual” life, that the world mostly consists of. It is the story of two countries far apart yet one.

The central character (please mark that it’s “central character” and not “hero”) of the film is Snehomoy Chatterjee, a Mathematics teacher in a village school (played by Rahul Bose). He makes a pen-pal in Japan, a girl called Miyage (played by Chigusa Takaku) while studying in Calcutta. They soon find themselves to be opening up to each other in a way they haven’t been able to do before. They write to each other in muddled English, a language foreign to both of them. Miyage often sends Japanese parcels to Snehomoy, including a Polaroid camera. They fall in love until three years later she offers herself as his bride. Snehomoy accepts and they get married; that is, Miyage sends their traditional ring with her name engraved in it while Snehomoy sends a pair of conch shell bangles and vermillion as is the Bengali tradition. They remain married (and devoted to each other) for decades without any physical union, their mode of communication being only letters. At this point, a young widow Sandhya (played by Raima Sen) comes to stay at Snehomoy’s place with her son. But, as the trailers say, “she shares his home but not his heart”. She quietly nurtures her love through small gestures, costing big. The last portion of the film has been painted with a dark shade as Miyage acquires cancer, and Snehomoy roams about in the streets in search of proper treatment. The whitish end though has something quite different for us in store.

The film, like a ballad, has the flow of a river. It bends this way and that, gurgling and murmuring, drags along in some parts, reaches a crescendo, falls abruptly, flows along in various depths and intonations, finally to meet the great ocean of eternity. There is marked influence of Ray’s Samapti in this film. The attire and gait of Snehomoy often reminds one of Soumitra Chatterjee in the ‘Teen Kanya’ classic. The checkered shirt-style kurta, the umbrella, the glasses, the drawn up shoulders, the chic-less look, the toddling in the mud, the harassed husband fighting the storm with an umbrella - all of it. Even Moushumi Chatterjee’s aunt-portrayal reminds one of the fussing, affectionate widowed mother in Samapti.

In fact, not only Ray, I also find elements of Kurosawa here. The picturisation of Miyage embracing herself in blissful ecstasy of a new bride with peach trees, full in blossom, in the background reminds one of a dream sequence in Kurosawa’s ‘Dreams’, as does the knitting scene of the last dream sequence. Also, the part where she, dressed as a bride, drinks from the bowl as part of the ritual is reminiscing of the great filmmaker. This film unites the two great masters in a way.

Amusement is an essential component of the poem-film. The scene of Snehomoy disclosing their marriage to his aunt is truly amusing, with her finding the name definitely odd, pronouncing it as “Magi”, an obscene colloquial term used to mention young women, and finding “the cast” absolutely infuriating: Japanese. The kite-flying sequence becomes an enjoyable event, collaged with some of the most memorable scenes of cinema and etched with glorifying colours. Created with an effortless poignancy, the film takes us to a seventh heaven ride, very known to us, very dear to us… The experience has been unique. We are no longer seated on our intellectual cushions, but become one with the villagers as the celluloid rolls on. The schoolmaster’s wife becomes our Japani Boudi too.

Rahul Bose has done the best job of his career. He is superbly credible in Snehomoy’s garb. Obviously, that meant tremendous research and homework on his part, as he has had to make his own intelligent, English speaking, shrugging lad self almost unrecognisable. Raima Sen has also done her best job. The no-make-up, shy look was lovely. The accent perfect, though she has had little to say, which makes her character all the more captivating. Chigusa Takaku has given the film a sweet note, really. Moushumi Chatterjee has been seldom seen so spontaneous. The small appearances of Paran Bandyopadhyay, Rudranil Ghosh and Kharaj Mukhopadhyay were commendable. As Parambrata says, “(they) remind one of their ability and worth within their brief presence”.

Sagar Desai’s background score is remarkable turning the land of Japan as if in a trance… The art direction is good bringing alive the village life of Sundarbans, though the make-up work is a bit at flaw in the end: a Japanese girl, isn’t supposed to carry a saree so well. Nor, can a person who has had several sessions of Chemotherapy look so fresh. Cinematographer Ajay Goswami does magic with outstanding camera work, especially the storm scenes of the river Matla, the steamer’s movements along the crests and bases of the waves, the heart-wrenching end scene as the dingi, with Snehomoy lying on his back, drifts along the Matla…

Who knows, someday may be I’ll come to you on that boat floating down this Matla…

Poems of eternity

2010-04-15T03:23:00.000-07:00

Following are given a few links of beautiful renditions of some of my favourite poems, most of them read in my school days... Please visit them and listen:

1) The Solitary Reaper, by William Wordsworth: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUHIaqvsEzE&feature=related

2)The Brook, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkYB3kMLaLA

3)Daffodils, by William Wordsworth: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWY2mEhkjUI&feature=related

4)Ode To The West Wind, by Percy Bysshe Shelley: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58UI2i-n5Qw

5)A Thing of Beauty, by John Keats: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvHZbBTONN4&feature=related

6)When We Two Parted, by Lord Byron: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SobqyXs_Ruk&feature=related

7)The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYU3Wew591M&feature=related

8)Macavity, The Mystery Cat, by T.S.Eliot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWUmqtDq6F0&feature=related

9)All The World's a Stage, by William Shakespeare: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MgK-dhR-YzQ

10)The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner (part 1), by Samuel Taylor Coleridge: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gCklOE_Bog&feature=related

Our own insignificance

2010-04-01T03:50:00.000-07:00

Amit Varma writes about how insignificant we are in the larger scheme of things (here and here), and there's one point that sticks out as remarkable, in my opinion. That is his thought on how global warming is projected as the end of the world, when in fact, it just means the end of our tenure on this planet. (One might add that global warming may wipe out nearly all of life on earth, but I don't think most of us are really concerned about all the other sundry poor beasts who share this habitable sphere when we paint gloomy post-apocalyptic scenarios to warn of the consequences of unchecked global warming.) The Douglas Adams quote about self-esteem Amit shares is just so apt, so I reproduce it:

Imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, ‘This is an interesting world I find myself in, an interesting hole I find myself in, fits me rather neatly, doesn’t it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!’ This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it’s still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything’s going to be alright, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise. I think this may be something we need to be on the watch out for.

I am reminded of Stanley Kubrick's quote about mankind and its utter helplessness here.

My godless self finds itself nodding silently in agreement. We'd cope with ourselves better if we gave up the comforting notion that everything is going on according to some pre-ordained fate.

It's not as bleak a prospect as it seems, though. Jacques Tati's extremely amusing and warm film Mr. Hulot's Holiday has an extraordinary sequence. The bumbling endearing protagonist, Monsieur Hulot, is painting a boat standing close to the water on the shore. The can of paint is by his side, and Hulot unconsciously dips the brush into the can after intervals. Unknown to him, waves come and go, carrying the can away with them and then returning it just in time for Hulot to dip his brush. Now, Hulot might not have been painting that boat by the seaside and still the tides would flow as they do. Yet chance, in all its magicality, places the can appropriately when the need arises. That is also true of our existence: we have been fortunate. (Talking of Tati's film, please read Roger Ebert's touching review. It's a must!)

The wisdom of Shashi Tharoor

2010-03-31T10:08:00.003-07:00

The following excerpt is from Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel. To make understanding easier for the reader, a very short preamble - the novel presents modern Indian political history through the characters of the Mahabharata (hence the title). The passage presented here is Tharoor's take on history and memory. Brief list of parallels:
Gangaji - M.K. Gandhi
Bibigarh Gardens - Jallianwala Bagh
Pandu - ~~Vallabhbhai Patel~~ Netaji Subhas Bose
Dhritharashtra - Jawaharlal Nehru

Independence was not won by a series of isolated incidents but by the constant, unremitting actions of thousands, indeed hundreds of thousands of men and women across the land. We tend, Ganapathi, to look back on history as if it were a stage play, with scene building upon scene, our hero moving from one action to the next in his remorseless stride to the climax. Yet life is never like that. If life were a play the noises offstage, and for that matter the sounds of the audience, would drown out the lines of the principal actors. That, of course, would make for a rather poor take; and so the recounting of history is only the order we artificially impose upon life to permit its lessons to be more clearly understood.

So it is, Ganapathi, that in this memoir we light up one corner of our collective past at a time, focus on one man's actions, one village's passion, one colonel's duty, but all the while life is going on elsewhere, Ganapathi: as the shots ring out in the Bibigarh Gardens babies are being born, nationalists are being thrown into prison, husbands are quarrelling with wives, petitions are being filed in courtrooms, stones being flung at policemen, and diligent young Indian students are sailing to London to sit for the examinations that will permit them to rule their own people in the name of an alien king. It is no different for the protagonists of our story, the little band of individuals and families selected from the swirling mists of an old man's memory to represent a past in which others too have played a significant but unrecalled part. Time did not stand still for them as Ganga plodded through Motihari or starved to such good purpose in Budge Budge. No, Ganapathi, our friends too lived and breathed and thought and worked and prayed and (except for Pandu) copulated the while, their endeavours unrecorded in these words you have so labouriously transcribed. History marched on, leaving only a few footprints on our pages. Of its deep imprints on other sands, you do not know because I do not choose to wash in the waters that have swept them away.

The compelling thing about Tharoor's book is that it packs wit, laugh-out-loud humour and wisdom often in the scope of the same line. And as far as I have read, there have been no faultlines. It's promising to be very enjoyable throughout - not in the least because Tharoor's recounting and evaluation of history, of which his current party has a major chunk of the action, is balanced and honest. I mean, did those self-righteous protectors of the honour of middle-class Indians travelling by air (read, the ilk of Tom Vadhakkan) read Tharoor's books before they allowed him a ticket? I doubt! Those tweets are far less forthright and biting than what's in TGIN.

*

The opening chapters of the Mahabharat are real saucy, I'm having a roll imagining chaste good-natured grandmas of bygone generations stumbling over those parts while reading out to their wide-eyed patient grandchildren.

"Like writing history with sand"

2010-02-07T22:46:00.000-08:00

The basic tool of the animator is imagination – drawing skills and a skewed sense of proportions comes second. The animator understands that no thing in nature is immutable – shape, size, and nature change over time and space. That is a constant and - for those who are open enough to appreciate it (the number who are wary and afraid of change isn’t small) a beautiful - process. And what more apt way to animate than use sand – an ever-potent symbol of time and transformation.

Sergey Nazarov enthralled us as the wiry mane of an old wise man suddenly became the everflowing waves of the sea, as the creepy vine by the lonely window overlooking two lovers on the beach turned into a girl’s long hair, as solar systems evolved – the table with its sand was a world of its own, Sergey the little child whose imagination transformed things as he wanted.

What an idea, Sergey!

(Thanks to Mukti 2010 organisers for the experience.)

Videos of Sergey performing: 1, 2, 3, 4. (The NITD performance has been recorded too, but the video is not up on youtube still.)

Talking of animation, cartoons have always been close to me. One of the best animated films I have seen is Walt Disney's 1929 production - The Skeleton Dance (download). In the words of Eisenstein, it is Disney's infantile imagination that makes Skeleton Dance so wonderful.

Ace In The Hole

2009-11-30T22:50:00.000-08:00

Uncharacteristically devoid of Wilder's charming wit, at least for the most part (starts out with some smart one-line punches from Kirk Douglas' hardboiled cynic Chuck). Which only makes it difficult to digest - even his 1960 film, The Apartment, is about the corruption of soul; yet the fluid humour keeps it floating smoothly. Probably this explains the film's critical failure at the time.

Ambitious reporter Chuck Tatum is always in a soup. He's worked with some of the biggest houses in journalism, but personal misdemeanours keep coming in the way of his career. So he comes riding with a flat-tyre to small town Albuquerque, looking for the one scoop that'll take him back top. Luck favours him when he runs across an amateur archaeologist, Leo Minosa, stuck in a cave-in. The man can be saved in a day, but seeing that his life is not in imminent danger, Chuck decides to milk this golden opportunity - to sustain "human interest" in the story, he arranges for a lengthy rescue operation. Chuck will be the only one to do an exclusive coverage of the accident and rescue efforts.

Things don't look too bright. And not only because of the journo's exploitation of a man's suffering. Leo's simple-minded father has his faith pinned on Chuck, who is something of a brave hero to him, and Leo's wife can't wait to desert her husband. The local sheriff wants to gain political leverage from the incident, the engineer gives in to corruption because his job is in jeopardy, there's a gathering of hundreds outside who have arrived to "show their sympathy" for the man inside, small businesses bloom all around - the whole picture resembles a giant carnival more than anything. The picture may look exaggerated at first sight, but anyone who has heard the outpours of cliche-ridden sympathy during the Prince incident (pointed out by Jabberwock) or witnessed political reactions following 26/11 should see how acute Wilder's observations were. The Mr. Federber character is not in the least fabricated - people are callous about accidents in exactly the same way, insignificant though it may seem on the surface.

The unexpected revelation of buried guilt and conscience is Tatum changes the blame equation all of a sudden - is he the most guilty man? Isn't his ambition fuelled only by public thirst for yellow journalism? In true noir tradition, Tatum is killed - but what about the faceless revellers outside having the time of their lives? They have paid nothing; except maybe for twenty square meals of tacos, hot dogs and soda-pops. There are more unsettling questions than those answered on screen by the mechanics of Wilder's plot.

My pick for the best scene - a huge circus tent (Chuck himself scorns at the carnival as a "circus") is pulled down after the din has died down. Looks like a mock-flag-lowering ceremony to honour the late Leo Minosa. Of course, nothing of the sort is said. The visual clue is enough. Maybe that is the power of cinema!

Close-Up

2009-11-28T11:15:00.000-08:00

My first Kiarostami film. A treatment of the classic question - how is reality and cinema related? Is cinema a reflection of reality - at once unadorned and inverted - or is it an embellished reenactment of truth? And how far can the convergence of reality and cinema be taken?

Here is a man, Sabzian, who impersonates a famous film-maker, Mohsen Makhmalbaf (an Iranian New-Wave contemporary of Kiarostami), and pretends to be interested in a film project involving the members of a family he meets by chance during a bus-ride. He visits the family, gains their confidence (save the father's, who maintains an amicable skepticism), starts rehearsing with the younger son - who has an interest in art and cinema - for a supposed film-role. All this is not staged - the incidents are real, the actors in the film are the characters. When the family begins to suspect Makhmalbaf's authenticity, they call in a journo friend who knows Makhmalbaf. Sabzian is arrested on charges of fraud, and his story is covered by the journo Farazmand. Kiarostami's involvement begins with him reading the article, and seeking consent from all parties involved to shoot the trial.

What is apparent about the film is that it can be clearly divided into two parts - the courtroom sequence, which does not seem re-enacted, and the background story which is quite clearly re-done (considering the point of arrival of Kiarostami). All this however transcends the questions of physical reality as represented on celluloid, even though it is not exactly clear on the point (why for example are some of the principals listed as themselves on the credits, while some of the peripheral roles, like the judge in the court, not done likewise?). The deeper and more engaging matter is Sabzian's assumed idenity of Makhmalbaf - a man whom he admires and aspires to be, whose cinema he identifies with and loves. His impersonation is thereby an extension of, and some would say the very peak of, method acting - "getting into somebody's skin", thinking and feeling like the character one portrays. While the moral gray-area is never beyond question, it is brought into light that the momentary impulse which prompted him to forge a new identity was a harmless one - he wanted a meal for the day with the family, and that was all!

The catharsis at the end is Makhmalbaf's meeting with his impersonator - artist and admirer embracing, kindred souls rejoicing in each other's company. The parting freeze-frame suddenly recalls another iconic freeze-frame from another New-Wave, Antoine Doinel's first view of the sea in 400 Blows. A film common in theme and tone, if not treatment, to Close-Up - both being infused with warmth for man, and tangential irreverence for social norms.

The lighthearted irony is that the 'crime' is what unites Sabzian and Makhmalbaf, and what gives shape to this excellent film!

Some Random Images out of a Weekender’s Workbook

2009-11-20T01:38:00.000-08:00

From the 'Dolphin Nose'

Setting the Clock-Tuner

On Tuesday, 22nd September, back at our Talcher quarter in Orissa, a bustle of activities began at about 3:00 AM in the morning. I could barely sleep from the excitement of the trip the previous night – it had been almost four years since our last tour. We took our baths, our morning tea, completed the last minute tid-bits, Baba did the ticket-money-key verification (that’s something Baba does every time we leave our station), put on our sneakers and shoes, locked the doors and the gates, got into the car and lo! The journey began!

It was about 5:00 AM in the morning. The township was still asleep, it was still nightly dark. A sea of kaash phul (pardon me: “kash flowers” simply do not sound that sweet somehow, to the Bengali ear that is!), a light cool breeze, the making of the dawn – the black turning into reddish blue, then red, then reddish yellow and slowly to white,,, marked our long drive from Talcher to Bhubaneshwar. Normally, it takes about three and a half hours to get to the capital city. The road was particularly traffic-free and our driver drove well, so that we got there within 8:00. I bought three books at a station-stall for the kids we were going to meet – Jhumpa Lahiri’s ‘Unaccustomed Earth’, Paulo Coelho’s ‘Like the Flowing River’ and a ‘Hardy Boys’. Our train, Visakha Express, was on time. We had a bit of a problem about the seats. Almost as soon as we had started pondering ‘bout it, the ticket-collector came and solved it. And, then, with a “cooooo” and a “hoosh”, our train left the station at about 8:30 AM.

How Green Was My valley......

We reached the Vishakhapatnam station at around 4:00 PM. It had just rained. The weather was lovely – cool, breezy and pleasant. Coming out in the open, outside the station, the place seemed to have been scrubbed clean and fresh. The Eastern Ghats, the narrow green strip we are so familiar in our geography maps, was suddenly there- bordering all around the city, seen in the distance, almost like a huge stage prop. It had just rained, and, wherever be it, I always love the colour of the green after the rains. Today, particularly, the greens looked so beckoning. The godly hills stood against the grey sky like an affectionate father. The greys of the clouds clung to the greens, the blues of the hills, lending them a far-off-the-mind misty hue and I was suddenly wondering if I were in a dream!

An ambassador arrived about half-an-hour later and took us to the NTPC project colony at Simhadri. A room had been booked for us at the NTPC field-hostel. Here, I must tell you that the main purpose of our tour was a ‘get-togethering’ of old family friends. Mr. Pinaki Ghosh is currently posted there. He stays with his wife, Mamata Aunty and two sons: Joy and Jitu (whom we lovingly call “Toy”). Joy is my childhood friend. We used to be neighbours in Kahalgaon, Bihar. We have gone to school together from nursery to Class 5 and so, we share quite a lot of sweet and sour memories from the past. Toy was born when we were in UKG, i.e., he is about six years younger than us. They have been staying in Simhadri for the past ten years. Mr. Tarun Mitra is currently posted in NTPC, Farakka. He also stays there with his wife, Rimi Jethima and his son: Ritam. Ritam and Toy are of the same age. They left Kahalgaon around the same time too, about ten years ago. Baba knew Tarun Jethu since he first joined NTPC in Shaktinagar back in 1984. Together they have organised many Bangali cultural programmes. While Baba led the choir, Tarun Jethu directed the plays. Well, they had reached Vizag on 22nd morning and had already checked in another room of the same guest-house by the time we arrived. It was with these people that we were looking forward to be reunited after so many years.

In the evening, we went to Pinaki Kaku’s house, and there was a short adda session. We took our dinner at the guest-house, discussed our plans for the next day, bade each other adieus for the day and went off to bed.

We slept like babies the first night and I still longed for some more when I was asked to wake up at 7:00 AM on 23rd morn. We got down to meet a huge 15-seater car (or more appropriately perhaps ‘a bus’) that Pinaki Kaku had arranged for a tour around the Borra caves and Araku Valley. On the way to Borra caves, we played Antakshari. It was an endless episode; neither of the teams would concede defeat. Baba, of course, was the master player, but even Tarun jethu was quite a sport in the game, and Mamata aunty too. We sang “Pathe ebaar naamo shaathi”, “Chalo na Digha” to “Zindagi ek safar hai suhana” to “Aamra nuton jouboner-i doot”. Finally, Baba, bored of supplying from his mammoth stock, called off the game declaring a “draw”! The circling and bends of the road on our way to the Borra caves gave a good stirring to my intestines, so that when we reached there, I was feeling dizzy. The others insisted that I should rest in the nearby canteen. But the sheer excitement of it saw me making a move towards the caves, sooner.

Into the bowels of the Demon and out of it to tell you all ‘bout it........

The entry to the caves is actually really not broad, but once inside, we let out a gasp for it felt like being gulped down by a huge mouth, that’s the roof of the mouth – we looked up at the ceiling, those are the teeth of the giant – the stones on the sides of the winding staircase, and that’s the big slithering tongue swallowing us down and down– we stared at the stairs leading down until it disappeared round a bend and we couldn’t see anymore! Yes, and then, we couldn’t keep ourselves from not being swooped by the demon, like we so wished; the tongue swiped us in, tossed us high up into the air and down we went. We half-slipped, half-staggered – our motion not anymore in our control – rolled and crawled down through the larynx (thank God, we weren’t chewed up!), through the food pipe to the stomach. We met with deeper cavities on our way, thank God, those didn’t make its food-path; deeper and trickier passages went here and there, perhaps to nowhere, I shuddered. And oh, yuck! What not does the demon live on! We wet ourselves with the calcium carbonate and humic acid – the juices secreted in its stomach. We slithered still down and down to its intestines. Here, we were awed by the gigantic intestinal muscles, rising up from the floor and down from the ceiling, stalagmites and stalactites, our fellow passengers called them,, made out of limestone, they said,,. At one point, they formed a curious formation that looked like a demon inside a demon! A smaller demon inside a bigger one, was that?? Yawning wide, showing off its bare teeth, flashing a venomous red eye at us – even the smaller one wanted to devour us! Gradually, slowly, finally,, we landed in a plane smooth part – the colon. The path was narrow but the roofs and the walls were all even. When we were so much looking forward to the way ahead at this stage of our voyage, the final act of the play – the climax, in fact, and be out in the open again, we hit the wall! The passage to the world outside was blocked! Oh! The monster had the bad bowels problem... We sighed deeply, together all of us. But isn’t excretion as inevitable as ingestion? We couldn’t be there forever! So, just when we had sighed despair and desperation, there was a loud “THUD!”, and a storm blew us upwards, up and up (once again we were unable to control our motion), along the same way that we came down. We met the small demon with the big yawn, the cavities, the tunnels, the secretions and the pipe, bounced upon the tongue, which swayed this way and that, until we were out! Gosh! Even monsters go sick...

Washed in the Greens, blues and other colours....

Well, we celebrated our adventure and release, dining out in the canteen. We left Borra caves at about 2:00 PM. And, next, we started towards Araku Valley. On the way, Tarun Jethu asked me to sing the Antaheen song “Ferrari mon”. I sang and almost lullabied others to a siesta. As our car wound its way through the hills, we saw clouds gathering up in the horizon. But, thankfully, they didn’t look so ominous. We stopped outside a park, much like the Sim’s Park in Ooty, the only difference being the temperature. It was hilly and cold there, while here it was hilly and hot. Inside the park, there were beautiful tree houses built at one end that really tempted us to stay on, but we (we, meaning, of course, the grown-up like grown-ups) decided otherwise. I made ‘kshaniker’ friends with a local woman. She came from Andhra-Orissa border and took care of the cottages. “Baari kounthi?” “Kolkata”, I hummed. She nodded her head and repeated, “Korkatta, Korkatta... Boro sohor ochhi.. Mu januchhi.” Later, I plucked a small white flower, I didn’t bother about its name, shey ek naam na jaana phul,,, and gave it to her. She accepted it and smiled coyly. I was suddenly feeling a bit mad, you know. I took off my sneakers and walked over the grass in bare feet (to the great disapproval of my mother), singing, “..ghaashe ghaashe paa felechhi, boner pathe jete, phuler gondhe chomok lege uthechhe mon mete, chhoriye aachhe aanonder-i daan, bishmoye taai jaage, jaage aamar praan...”

The park had a toy train that ran at a speed of 1 m/min and yes, we rode it! The ride gave us a tour round the park, so that we had a good view of the valley from all directions, without having to put in the effort of walking. It is basically a stretch of plane land girded by hills, very much in accordance with the definition of a ‘valley’. On our way back from Araku, it started raining hard, but by the time we reached the field-hostel, at about 9:00 PM, it had slowed down to a light drizzle. It was once again a long day for us, and we were dead tired. We all slept a hungry sleep that night.

On 24th morning, Mahashashti, I woke up (with a good mind to get back to bed again at the first opportunity) to find Ma-Baba all dressed up for the day, waiting for me. By the time, we left Simhadri, it was well past 9:00 AM. Joy had stayed back at home (and he always stayed back after that, except for the lunch and the dinner). The plans for the day included the first view of the Vizag sea from the hill top to begin with, followed by the local beaches and view-points later in the day.

We passed the city and once again climbed up the hill. But, this time, we were surprised to meet another city there on the hill-top! Okay, may be not a city, a township, to be more accurate: a colony of the naval employees. Beautiful three-storied red-roofed apartments, with luxurious gardens met our sight. Our car stopped in front of the naval base camp. The road sloped down rather steeply along that part of the hill. We jogged down to a spot, next to the steep edge of the hill, where a romantic square, unfinished, roofless, windowless, brick chamber stood, with herbs and creepers and wild clumps growing out from its walls, floor and being. How old it seemed – like a great grandfather affectionately eyeing the new generations... Mamata Aunty stood near it and waved at us. As we came near her, I stopped short and gaped at the scene below: a whole world of ocean was awaiting us down there. I realised I had forgotten the magnificence of the seas all this time...

It was 11:00 AM when we reached the Yarada beach. Watching the waves rush towards us, as if in a worldly embrace, was a great joy. The entrance to the Yarada beach has been made into a lovely park, with a vibrancy of greens and other colours. Children were playing around riding the seesaw. I breathed the ambience and could almost feel the place to be etched in my memory for good…. sounds of the cackle of merry children and the roaring of the waves in the distance melted in a mellifluous symphony. We spent quite some time here. As a rule, it is forbidden to bath in the sea on this beach, as it’s a bit too rocky. The waves hit the rocks with a great splash and each time they did so, they showered a spray of white salty foam all over. The ocean was so much in action here, breathing and heaving with a fury, that suddenly I was left wondering if it is a living body too... The sand, with its bits of shining granules and shells, twinkled and shimmered in the sun. We met quite a few crabs digging holes in the sand, coming out, taking a stroll out in the sun, and then again scampering into their cool, dark homes underneath. Toy and Ritam had their time sitting atop a tricky large rock and romanticising with the beach. Tarun jethu was a bit quiet and lost. He stood on a large flat-surfaced rock, wind-swayed and enjoying the spindrift. With my forefinger, I scribbled a name on the wet sand and quietly saw it being washed away with the flowing currents.. I was humming an old song, “Ei baalukabelay aami likhechhinu ekti shey naam..”...

Paying an Unscheduled Visit to God’s Abode....

After the Yarada beach, Pinaki kaku took us to a view-point called the ‘Dolphin Nose’. It was so named, because just like the steep, sharp nose of a dolphin, the land here sloped down straight and jutted into the sea. We got there at about 12:30 PM. This place has been currently taken over by the Navy and they have fixed the visiting hours from 3 to 5 PM. Fortunately, the gatekeeper was a Bengali and so, with the familiar, “Daaran. Aami dekhchhi ki kora jaay..” he went off to take a special permission. Soon, we had the tickets and were allowed in. We walked through a rather wild zone, covered by trees and creepers, weeds, small plants, and herbs and finally, came to a cement-paved clearing. A two-storied building with a tapering tower faced us. Signs of a recent celebration were still apparent from plastic cups, flowers and bits of papers carelessly strewn around. A big silver cloth was hanging in the front, with “Light House Day, 21st September” emblazoned on it in deep red. For the first time, I gathered, I was standing so close to a light house and what more, I was about to enter it.

Inside, we went up a narrow winding staircase. Even though, the steps were steep and it was quite a long way to the top, to end with a tricky monkey ladder, it seemed I had a sudden merry spring attached to my feet. I was suddenly transformed to a nimble-footed cat! I bend a round, and then another round, then another and on it went, till I stood beneath the monkey ladder, made good use of it, slouched through the small door, almost like the proverbial alley cat and out through it to the balcony in no time! And, then, I drew in a breath – where was I? Was that the paradise? Or the heavens? Was it real at all? Or was I... It seemed a big sink of liquid (not water), very much similar to a magical Pensieve,,, the clouds of thoughts and the past hung low over the sink, as if,,, each mist of thought dissolving into another,, each reality taking the form of a fancy, (or the other way round??),,, spiritual to material and again from the dust to the sky... Everything all at once: living and dead, factual and fiction, past and future, tangible and non-tangible, that which is there and that which is not,,, all dissolved and overlapping, as if in a colloidal solution, to very minute particles, suspended but indistinguishable. You think you can touch them, “There! There! Yes, I got it – ” but it escapes through your fingers! We stood there for a long time and I kept wondering, “If this is not experiencing God, then what else is?”

Caught in the Earthly Aromas,,, a sliver of song, dance, food and frolic... and sadness of a lost sneaker....

We drove back to the city. I was feeling a bit dizzy after the ‘Dolphin Nose’. Pinaki kaku took us to a big bookstore and asked me and Ritam to choose two books of our choice. I wandered about for a long time, unsure which one to ask for. I was still feeling very uncomfortable; my knees were shaking and I could feel a distinct headache. Finally, I decided on Nehru’s ‘Letters from a Father to His Daughter’. We next went to a plush restaurant, and kaku ordered for a hefty meal, but I didn’t have the appetite. I stayed put in the toilet there for a long time, but it still didn’t help. We decided to return to Simhadri in a taxi. Baba requested the others to carry on, but they wouldn’t listen. And, so, we were back at the Field-hostel by 6:00 PM that day.

On 25th, Saptami, we stayed back at the guest house for the first half. Ma-Baba slept the entire day, while I enjoyed myself watching ‘Mamma Mia’ on the TV in the living room. It was a mainstream Hollywood movie, starring Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan, but I loved the songs and the passion of the film altogether. It was raining outside all day long. We had opened the door to the balcony and watched it pouring, and I sang to my parents (when they woke and joined me in the living room), for the umpteenth time, “Chhaya ghonaichhe bone bone...”

At 5:30 PM, we got into two ambassadors that kaku had hired for the day and drove to the Sea Water Pump House of the Simhadri project. It was about 6:00 PM when we got there. The night was falling low and it was getting dark. We climbed up the stairs to the pump-house, lighted by yellow neon bulbs and met the nightly queen. There she was, with all her aura and gravity, rumbling yet composed and cool, sitting by the nightly king. He was there, erect, strong and mighty, touching the sky, guarding his queen. The Yin and the Yang. I stood there, resting on the rails, closing my eyes, taking big gulps of the salty air, paying my respects to them.

From the pump-house, we left for the Puja Mandap of the colony. (It was actually the Indoor stadium of the township where the puja had been organised, but still everyone knowingly referred to it as a ‘mandap’.) We opened our shoes outside, as was the rule, and went inside. We were back to the small damp earth of NTPC. Like the habitants of the earth, the people of NTPC don’t find it necessary to discuss things outside their project world (so that I normally can’t stand the gossips for more than five minutes) and like the earth is always round, we always meet old acquaintances from previous places in an NTPC gathering. The good part was here that we met Dr. Bardhan and his family there, were informed that Rashmi’s father has been transferred to Simhadri and that she is there too, met Mr. Venkateshwaran, the General Manager of the Simhadri project and many others. Meeting with old friends always feels good, but somewhere, it seemed, a big chunk of time from the huge time-cake had been sliced out, and we merrily jumped over this ‘missing link’ to arrive here... All was going well, but the anti-climax was that just as we decided to head back to the field-hostel, and went outside to put on our shoes, I found my sneakers missing. Well, “we always have to lose something to gain something”, I tried to console myself. We later heard that shoe-stealing at the mandaps was a rather common crime in that area. Baba left us there and got to get my pair of slippers. I put them on, tried not to be gloomy over the small loss, succeeded, ate a fine dinner and the day came to a close with an unusually peaceful sleep.

Of Emotions, misty eyed, of the Ethereal and the Mortal...............

On Ashtami morning, we went to the Puja mandap and attended the Pushpaanjali (Bardhan uncle guarded our shoes while we were gone). The priests and the dhakees were from Bankura, so that it was a completely ‘Bangali pujo’. Outside, the weather was pleasant and through the large windows of the stadium, light flooded in. The hills could be seen in the distance. There was a low murmur of talk,, a giggle, a guffaw, a roar of laughter now and then,, a mist of dung-cake and incense vapours and emotions hung heavy in the atmosphere, the idols looked lovely in the light of the day, the illuminations on the stage adding effect to it... As the aarti started, the dhakees hoisted up the dhaaks, and there was the familiar music of “dhing-dhi-da-dhang-dhidang-dhidang” and the “dhaa-kur-kur” along with the bells that rattled for the aarti. The dhakees played it with so much ardour and love, that I was all smiling. I was so much absorbed in the fervour of it all that when Baba patted me on my back and nodded towards Ma, I was surprised to see her all wet with tears. She missed Dida-Dadu (both of whom were alive and well during the last Puja), Baba explained...

We had the best lunch that day, with the khichuri-bhog at the mandap: there was a “khanti Bangali chochchori”, paapad, chatni and paayesh accompanying the kaaju-kishmish smeared khichuri. We got back to the field-hostel, took a short nap, and joined the others in a big Bolero that would take us to the left-over sites of Vishakhapatnam.

Between the sandy Beach, corn candy , and the Vastness of the Skies.....

We reached the Rishikonda beach at about 5:00 PM. It was a busy place, apparently the most famous beach in Vizag. It was nothing short of a mela there, with all kinds of vendors yelling hoarse over the noise of the crowd and the waves. A green giant of a hill on one side, and the beach on the other,, rocks garlanding the golden sands in some places, the scene appeared freshly lifted from a picture postcard I had seen in my old family album. Indeed, the most remarkable feature of Vizag may be here that you get the fun of both the seas and the hills at the same time. There was a part of the golden beach that rested on a higher platform supported by rocks a little distance away. Baba, Ma and I walked towards this part, climbed up the platform and the three of us stayed there for some time. A woman was selling baked corns. Baba bought me one. We sat on the sand, while I gorged on the bhutta. The sandy platform stretched out to the ocean, bending rightwards, thinning away towards the tip, ending up in rocks only and meeting the sea, halfway. We could have sat there for ages, it seemed... But, it obviously couldn’t happen that way: the others were waiting for us. So, we snapped some shots of the sea in the dusk-hours, retained quite a few of those which couldn’t be clicked anyway in our mind map, to be cherished long thereafter , hopped down and joined them to make our way to Kailash-giri.

By the time, we reached there, it was already dark. It was a splendid sight to look at the city below, sprinkled with numerous, big and small, white and yellow stars. The beach road of Vizag seemed to be flooded with lights, the golden sands of the beach reflected the light in turn, stretching in front of which was the nude blackness of the vast sea. The sea from the top suddenly transformed to a nothingness, an emptiness just like the space above. And, I suddenly felt as if, reed-like, I was falling through a sieve – deep, dark, bottomless and hollow...

It was a memorable experience too watching the colossal, life-sized, marble-white sculptures of Shiva and Parvati on the top of the hill. Kailash-giri is actually famous for the rope way and the beautiful little toy-train that gives a tour around the place, so that one gets a vantage view of the twinkling city from the top. But, unfortunately, we didn’t have much time, and all of us badly longed for a cup of coffee. Yes, above everything, I’ll remember the place for the little coffee-party we had in the snacks-canteen there. Of course, wherever we went we made quite a scene. However big or small the restaurant might be, we always requested to put up an arrangement for nine people (ten, if Joy would be there), which mostly involved the dragging of a table with a great deal of commotion, joining it to another table, putting up some extra chairs and requesting a few other customers to “kindly” move to that empty table and help us achieve our adda-cum-culinary mission. Well, after all this, we’d take about 10 minutes deciding the menu and ordering it and then, not putting a wee bit of effort in keeping our voices low while discussing – a discussion that we Bengalis so lovingly call as ‘aadda’ – on all topics under the sun and all this surely in absolute nirbhejal Bangla! Well, so, at the Kailsh-giri food-stop, we debated for a while on whether it would be egg pakodas or chicken pakodas, decided on egg finally; devoured on two plates of egg-pakodas, a plate of onion-pakodas and the special Telugu adrak-tea.

N. Raju, the Gandhi, Motionless beside my Pesky Baba......

The Bolero next drove us to the R K beach, another busy beach of Vizag. We met N. Raju here. He is a boy of about five to six years, who had been painted in bright silver all over when we met him (and we still don’t know how he looks naturally), sporting a round spectacles and a knee-length dhoti, holding a crooked stick in his right hand, posing with his right foot ahead of his left as if his walk had been frozen in a snapshot – being Gandhi. In front of him, a small steel can had been placed in which N. Raju’s admirers dropped a coin or two. We did the same. Baba kept remarking on his astonishing stamina to stand still for so long (Baba is a real pesky kid when he has to stand still for long at a given place. He is happy to sit or sleep on a wide range of comfortable and uncomfortable assortments of furniture, but not stand). We, and our nine long shadows (created by the neon lights of the evening), stood on the beach for just about 10 minutes, watching the queen of the night – a closer view this time. I wanted to stay for some more time, but we had to leave as it was getting late.

It was about 10:00 PM when we reached the field-hostel, to our comfy two-room suite. A long day it was, but a happy one nevertheless. In fact, it was one of my most memorable Ashtamis.

On Navami morning, nothing eventful happened, except that we had to shift to the main guest-house as the rooms were booked for some official guests. In the afternoon, Dr. Bardhan and his family hosted a little party in our honour at the guest-house. Dr. Bardhan is also an old friend from Kahalgaon, though his wife, Rina aunty, is an old friend of Maa’s, connected through an old music teacher of Konnagar. Rina aunty has a brilliant sonorous voice and is a well-known Rabindrasangeet singer in NTPC. I almost grew up admiring her singing. But, sadly, she told us that she is out-of-touch with music for long and howsoever we might request her, she wouldn’t sing. Instead, all of it fired back on poor me and it was I who finally did the singing of the noon. We had a good, Doctor-ish lunch (a real balanced diet) to end with.

The Mythological, logical and not so logical.......

Late in the evening, we went to the project-auditorium to witness a live Odissi performance of Ratikanta Mahapatra’s troop. It was indeed a most prized experience. They had divided their show into four acts: one of Krishna showing his Vishwarupa to Arjun in the Kurukshetra battle-field in Mahabharata, one of Shiva’s parlay-nritya with Parvati by his side, one of Ravana cruelly cutting off a wing of Jatayu (performed by Ratikantkanta Mahapatra himself) from Ramayana, and the final one based on Durga, the Mahishasuramardini. The sways, the tilts, the natural curves, the mudras, the vigour, the expressions,, that the dancers brought out so gracefully, almost as if giving a total outworldly dimension to the art of the feminine body, an adorable yet a proud one, that for once I felt physically superior to the other gender.

It was the beginning of closing the chapter. We bed good-byes to Tarun jethu, Rimi Jethima and Ritam, who had to leave for their train scheduled at 11:35 PM from Vishakhapatnam that night. We missed them at the dinner-table. Joy was more talkative during the last feast. He gave us a CD, with some photos copied down from their digicam of our sojourn together. And, all through the dinner, Toy kept chuckling to himself, remembering Ratikanta emoting Jatayu, with all his funny expressions even as he actually tried to look sad and hurt, creating a more than a serio-comical sight. Baba, in an attempt to correct Toy’s idea, said, “No, Toy. Actually, what he wanted to do wasn’t funny at all, you know, but what he ended up doing might have been funny though..”. At this, Toy started giggling even harder than before!

Well, by the time they left the guest-house, it was 11:30 PM in the night. And, I made a miserable scene getting up at 4:00 AM on the morning of Vijayadashami. On the way to the station, I wanted to have a last glimpse of the ocean. But, either we couldn’t convey ourselves properly or the driver was too much of a Telugu to understand Hindi, so that even though he nodded his head sideways in perfect understanding, he never took us there, and reaching the station, while we were still trying to comprehend his actions, he got our luggage down on the road from the back of the car (very helpfully) without even our asking him to do so.

So long and longing for..........

Somehow, in the end, we were left with a slight incomplete feeling about the whole tour. Of course, the reunion with old friends did score very high, but may be, we couldn’t do full justice to our ‘Vizag-ghora’. Perhaps, we’d have loved to spend some more time with the sea, stay in a sea-facing hotel in the city, perhaps we’d take a trip to the temple at Simachalam that Dida used to remember so fondly, perhaps, for just some more while, sitting idly on the Rishikonda beach or the R K beach, the three of us sharing a thread of thought now and then, connected through the silence of the night and the roar of the sea,,, and when the night would try to envelop the white foams of the rushing waves still prominent in the dark,, perhaps Baba would sing, “Raatri eshe jethay meshe diner paarabaare, tomaay aamay dekha holo shei mohanar dhaare...” Yes, all these are carried over to a probable second visit to Vizag in future. In a future , soon or a far one?? I really don’t know. All I know is this that there is the wish.

Of Nature’s beings – Mishakha ....

But our tour ended on a sweet Mishakha note. On the train, we got a young Kannada couple, travelling with their little daughter Mishakha of two and a half years, as our co-passengers. The child was a real delight. She was all cackles and glee and great wondrous questions about the world. In fact, she was mostly joy for her parents, obedient and matured at her age, instead of being a trouble. Even as her mother taught her the alphabets, spellings and the rhymes, she took it all with an adorable curiosity and enthusiasm. She regarded us with a plain joyous interest and we hardly got a blink of sleep, with her twittering away and putting up a grand show all the time. When I took out the camera to click a photo of hers, she was all ready with a pose and a perfect ‘cheese’ smile, looking straight at the lens.

For most part of the journey back home, I lay on the lower side-berth, and watched the cloud patterns outside,, the cotton-ish mists of clouds lower down blew by fast, while the fluffy milky ones higher above stayed longer.. A new mist kept replacing the old, as I gazed on. The old mists are always left behind, I mused, to be swapped by the new...

....Chilika.......

I was just dozing off when Maa cried, “Look, Mimi!” And, there it was, stretching wide and vast, surrounded by forests and fields, the Chilika lake! Though we have stayed in Orissa for long, we have never made it to the Chilika, but, of course, we’ve heard about it so often. The young couple also saw it eagerly, trying to spot it on the map of Orissa that they had brought along. The kid took some time to track the source of our amusement, peeped out from behind her daddy, herself amused now, she started clapping merrily with her little chubby fists. And, with that, our day was made, and our jaunt too... well almost.

.....and Brisha, the bull.............

And then, from the station as we wearied our way home, lapping up the final phase of our jaunt with all the thoughts, smiles and memories delicately suffused inside, our quiet reverie was snapped sharp by the sudden loud din and bustle and heat and dizzy lights of the Bhubaneswar highways.....As if the entire city was trapped in a mad rush to bedeck itself on the Vijayadashami day,,,, the puja processionists , the revellers, gyrating and drumbeating their way before and after slow moving matadors, the trombones and cymbals played in the background in uneven unison , the buses and autos and free wheelers frenetically honking for a right of way without yielding an inch to others, amidst a sea of humanity, from the curious to the casual, moving in waves, I saw, yes, a forlorn bull stuck in the middle of the road, out of nowhere, bewildered and lost. May be forsaken by the rakhal, it stood there, salivating and mildly shivering, its horns bloodily bruised, looking askance beyond the hype and hoopla, its large watery eyes – a shimmering ocean reflecting the lights, the dazzles and shadows of an ever busy city life....

Divine bookkeeping

2009-11-09T02:29:00.000-08:00

I suppose the whole cause-and-effect cycle of karma was devised by the wise sages of ancient times as a rule-of-thumb to guide our actions and inspire us to do good. Sounds fine on paper. But here are some critical points:

The devout among those who suffer in their present life accept it as unavoidable chastisement for past actions - which, undoubtedly, must be a good consolation. However, it also does away with the will to protest, and demand change. Quite often poor living and medical conditions are a result of bad laws and bad governance (regulations on free-trade, unfair taxation and monumental wastage of tax-money etc.). These are matters that may be changed slowly with awareness and social/political activism.
The lucky ones accept that their fortune is a result of previous good deeds, resulting in a crippling complacency in thought and action. That, according to the karmic theory, they will suffer again in next life gets drowned out in ennui.
In my opinion, there is a certain amount of unfairness in this whole matter. Suppose X kills Y. X gets away with it because he has better lawyers than Y's family. Should Y's family console themselves with the fact that X will be punished in some life after? Also, think of this: X is born again and has no recollections of his crime at all. Does he still deserve punishment? Can't he start anew in his next life?

All of this, mind, is argued from the POV of a believer. The final point is, however, this: why can't I live just for the sake of living? Can't I look forward to a pleasant stroll in the hills of Mussoorie without worrying about consequences?

P.S. - In the absence of a karmic code, how do you govern your actions? Simple: the democratic rule ("sway your stick while you walk, if you please, but take care it stops an inch short of my nose") and plain human conscience.

Love?

2009-11-05T00:52:00.000-08:00

Two bits of news this week: 1 and 2.

A year back, my reaction would be of mixed surprise and sadness. Now, I am a little amused: to think that I love someone too!

Free-market for victimless crimes

2009-11-03T02:03:00.000-08:00

Amit Varma's India Uncut has been one of my favourite blogs since I started following it some months back. One of the chief reasons for it is his ability to opinionate logically with the strictest economy of words. The second and most significant reason is that he contradicts me on so many points and in so many ways that it is impossible not to be intellectually stimulated.

Take this article as an example. It clashes with some closely-held beliefs that some of us - sane and logical for the most part - hold.

"Take me, for example: I sell my skills as a writer, limited as they are, to write pieces such as this one. You no doubt have a job that involves selling your skills as well. Many people trade not their intellectual skills but physical labour. Most such trades, made to mutual benefit, are considered respectable. But when a prostitute offers her sexual services, that is somehow considered improper and unethical.

What is even odder is that in most countries, if two consenting adults get together and have sex, the state will not interfere – unless money has changed hands. On one hand, we sanctimoniously frown upon sex; on the other, we frown at commerce. The human race would not exist without either of these two."

It is, perhaps, human tendency to judge prostitution through a moral prism. Morality is, strictly speaking, a personal thing - all of us have different standards and parameters of judgement. Our error is in overlapping moral opinion with state-sanctioned law. Yet, straight logical argument lays bare this fallacy in a few words - there is an undeniable (and ironic) truth in what Amit says in the second (quoted) paragraph.

Even his points about drug-usage are valid, I think. Here the objections are perhaps louder - given the possibly fatal consequences of decriminalisatioin and free-market-mechanism working in the case of drugs. Yet, in effect, if addiction is a punishable crime, so is attempting suicide.

Democracy allows everyone the choice to decide for himself/herself, unless the choice jeopardises or infringes the similar rights of another. It may be argued with some truth that the family of a drug-addict is affected, but that is a problem resting within the private domain of the individual - the state should have nothing to do or say about it.

As for Amit's solutions, I agree with him fully. Bringing businesses like prostitution, betting and drug-sale within the ambit of law and opening up the market to free competition will eliminate the functions of the mafia to a good extent, besides extending legal aid to marginalised outcasts like sex-workers and junkies. As has been cited, Netherlands is a good example of how well this system has worked. In a somewhat related note, Japan - the third highest porn-manufacturing country in the world - has some of the lowest rates of sex-related crimes.

"Within Japan itself, the dramatic increase in available pornography and sexually explicit materials is apparent to even a casual observer. This is concomitant with a general liberalization of restrictions on other sexual outlets as well. Also readily apparent from the information presented is that, over this period of change, sex crimes in every category, from rape to public indecency, sexual offenses from both ends of the criminal spectrum, significantly decreased in incidence.

Most significantly, despite the wide increase in availability of pornography to children, not only was there a decrease in sex crimes with juveniles as victims but the number of juvenile offenders also decreased significantly."

Is this proof enough?
But, of course, even a vocal proposition like this in touchy India is going to throw up flames.

The Human Detail

2009-10-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

The Tsunami of 2004 did not affect me – I was fortunately nowhere near the troubled areas. Read about the incidents in the papers, of course. Neither did those affect me. Was I hardhearted, too self-centred to really care about something that hit the shores in places far from West Bengal? No friend or relative of mine lives in the South or the Andamans – so that may be a possible answer. For a long time, I grappled with the uneasy feeling that somewhere deep down there I was, inspite of my pretensions, a callous fellow who did not give two hoots about matters not touching his immediate circle of existence. The doubts were unquestionably helped by my feeble powers of self-understanding and introspection. The years rolled by, and the doubts were demoted to some of those hazy backbenches of the mind, only surfacing during stray incidents – a death of some casual acquaintance whom I did not really know, for example. That slight guilty feeling crept back for a few hours, asked a few troublesome questions, and then shut up.

The questions were not answered until about a month back. Verve ’09, NITD’s literary and youth fest, had a journalism workshop conducted by Dilip D’Souza. A name I recalled being faintly familiar with – not quite remembering the precise context of reference (and it wasn’t the Swades connect). Of the many important points about responsible journalism he made, there was one that really resonated with my ideas. And shooed away the uneasy feeling. The human detail. Conspicuous, yet elusive. There to be seen, yet woefully ignored. Hence the dryness and wooden quality of journalism in even widely respected publications. While figures, facts and statements can make good reports, they never touch the lay reader who has no stakes in the matter being described – including large-scale tragedies like the Tsunami. If journalism is really meant to stir us into action, and not merely inform, it has to strike where we are most vulnerable: the heart. A death toll of thousands boggles the eye and mind, but to the heart it remains a number.

If I consider the human detail to be the highlight of his discussion, it is because it applies as much to journalism as it does to literature and cinema. The best of both the fields are remembered chiefly for their storehouse of such little details giving deep insight into human nature. The most poignant moment about Indir Thakrun’s death in Ray’s Pather Panchali was such a small nugget: drained of all hope of reconciliation with Sarbajaya, and a contented twilight to her life, Apu and Durga’s pishi takes a last sip of water in her pet brass tumbler before stepping out of the house for the last time. Having quenched her thirst, she performs one of her numerous habits from the old days: watering the plant by her quarters which she had once lovingly sown. Even with death approaching her, the zest for life, the stimulus of organic growth, remained alive in that little-noticed act. And soon after, the inevitable happened. It is the persistence of those lingering strains of hope (speaking for mankind, in general, and Indir Thakrun specifically) in the face of tragedy and death that drives the significance and sadness of the incident home– just about three seconds on celluloid are enough to move the observant viewer. In that, and numerous other observations of the kind throughout, lies the film’s enduring greatness as a human document. So here’s the crucial point – why does this cinematic segment about one person’s death affect us, while a newsreport on the death of thousands not?

Mr. D’Souza, on his part, was a fascinating speaker. He had just the right mix of conviction and humility that gives opinions and arguments weight without overpowering the listener. And he kept his talk punctuated with fitting anecdotes. I’ll recall one or two.

An American reporter (as far as I recall, some lady) assigned the seemingly trivial, but delicate, job of covering a young soldier’s untimely death visited the family on funeral day. She chatted with some of those present and made note. But before leaving, she wrote down one thing to embellish her report. It ended up being the very cornerstone – the boy’s ma had put the lights on in his personal room, now empty. Over the switch there was a strip of duck-tape. The lights would never go out.

Then there was this fellow – whose name has unfortunately slipped my mind – who held a 9-to-5 job in some plush Delhi office. In 1999, he opened the papers one fine day. There was a cyclone in Orissa. In a jiffy, he wrote out a leave application for about a fortnight, headed straight for the station, bought a few essentials on the way, and caught the first train to Orissa. Mr. D’Souza happened to be in the cyclone-hit area during the time too. He met this gentleman from Delhi. The latter had devoted himself to relief-work with an urgency and concern somewhat unusual and unbelievable given his background. On being lightly asked about his inspiration, he simply made a casual reply. “Oh nothing, just wanted to check out how far I can go!” That, in a line, perhaps said something about man’s vulnerability and response to emotional motivation better than anything else.

On second thoughts, I made one slightly erroneous statement at the start. The Tsunami did affect me – the pictures did. Wittingly or unwittingly (depending on the lensman), some of those photos captured little visual details about the victims which connected with me. (Quite instinctively, too.) The words, sadly, did not. In most cases.

P.S.: About the part concerning the death of casual acquaintances: maybe those don’t sadden me much because I seldom identify the human detail underlining the tragedy (what with post-death conversations usually rolling towards the dry details of the last day – “you know, he ate just an hour before he died”). Or maybe, I’m plain hard-hearted after all!

A Day in A Life

2009-08-05T04:56:00.000-07:00

For most of us, days go by in a steady rhythm, taking pre-planned paths, arriving nowhere, breeding quiet discontent. Often they drag along reluctantly, wishing to be left alone, grappling with themselves in the quagmire of business (much as old Watanabe, from Kurosawa’s Ikiru, did). Some are however redeemed – once in a lucky while - from such doomed ordinariness by imperceptible intrusions of fate. And so it was on a Sunday. Here goes two mails that speak for the occasion.

Just to share a few thoughts, LS ! As our car was wending its way back, cruising past Panagarh, I felt a sudden surge to meet Sudipto, who was just 15 kms down the fork: however, as like most of the ideas, popping up and dying away, I kept the idea to myself and promised that, must be, it has to be next time!

Along the Durgapur highway, bathed in the auburn rays of the sun, which isolatedly pierced through the ‘tangled skein’ of the cloud cover, in patches of fluffy white and dusky grey, making frantic efforts to conceal the nude blueness of the sky above, I was caught in a quiet reflective mood! My mind slouched back in a nostalgic reverie, a quaint déjà vu of sorts, as I tried to make merry with these fleeting flakes, coming from no-where, making curious shapes and patterns, in a slow-moving kaleidoscope!

I could figure out the mane of the lion there, slowly giving way to a hare, with its distinct well-protruded longish ears, guising in no time, in a super-slow motion , to the flung tail of a horse, may be, and that too vanishing under the garb of a huge proboscis of the defaced-demon and then, lo and behold! As if, prompted by a rumbling call from an inscrutable corner of a stage set afar, everything suddenly fell into place; the graphical outlines coalesced into a thick, black, swirl of an unmistakable cloud mass, invading the entire turf, with an unfailing vengeance! The various shades of grey, from the innocuous white to the jet black, overlapped seamlessly on the overarching canopy, pencil-marked in reckless doodles, as if nature, after a long wait, has managed to snatch it, from one of its unknown contenders, as its most cherished canvas and was desperate not to part with it!

And then followed the trickling droplets, the steady drips giving way to a gurgle, and soon, with the coyness of the initial overtures effectively mastered, there were the torrents lashing on the windscreen with the fury of a ravaging charioteer! My mind flew on the wings of time to a similar experience I had with my father, more than three decades back, stuck no-where in the midfields! The wipers, on the windscreen and down under, on the mindscreen, were working overtime to keep the vapours in check, knowing fully well that they were already fighting a lost battle! A blinding shroud encapsulated the horizon and the car revved and ranted and settled quietly! The greens, yellows, blues and greys, the nature’s polychromes are now a smudged white, awash in abandon with a child’s free-play brush!

And as if, suddenly realising that they were making just a few cameo appearances at this stage-show and had, somewhat overzealously, strayed beyond their allotted timescales and that they had to honour other pre-fixed assignments elsewhere, the players tried to beat a hasty retreat, leaving the atrium once again for the maverick clouds, the sun, by now getting a shade exhausted and reclining under a purplish haze, setting the stage afire, to complete their finishing chores for the day!

And someone hummed the tunes softly into my ears!

“Megher bag-er bhetor map royechhe kon sudurer pari,

pakdondi poth beye tar bagan ghera bari,

bagan sheshe shodor duwar,

barandate aram chair,

galche pata bichhanate chhotto roder phali,

sethaye eshe megh piyoner somosto bag khali”

Dear K-da,

Your LS here also had a little experience of her own while her K-da was musing on the greys, the whites, the blues; making a hearty conversation with the lion, the hare, the horse; tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel in rhythm with the pit-patter of the rains. Yes, it could be "haare rere rere aamay chhere dere dere" or "aaji jhoro jhoro mukhoro baadorodine, jaani ne, jaani ne, kichhute keno je mon laage naa" or even the non-borsha "kothao aamar haariye jaaowar nei mana" playing in the background as K-da's Santro (it's a Santro, isn't it?) whooshed past the greens and the laal-maati landscapes of Bolpur...

Well, here, your LS was making her way to her Sunday 11:15 class at Dakshinee along the footpaths of Deshopriyo Park. The bright blue sky, the sunny sun, along with the humidity in the air made it far from anything that you experienced on your way to Shantiniketan on the very same day. On other days, the same footpaths are inhabited by beggars of varied needs, losses, ages and colours. But, on this particular morning, there was only one (not sure, whether there was only one, or if I forgot to notice the others): a small boy of about four to five years old and his baby sister. The boy was sitting on the brick pavement holding a small tin can and the baby slept on a rag on the ground. There was something about them - perhaps the unbearable heat of the day, perhaps the indifference of the other passersby, perhaps the way the baby slept without stirring, as if a dead sleep, perhaps the way the boy looked so helpless - that made me stop and give a lozenge and a rupee to the boy.

I had my class and was heading back to the bus-stop, when I met them again. This time the boy, with the baby girl (now awake) clinging to his waist, was walking around, tugging at the sleeves of the men's shirts and the free ends of the women's sarees, asking for some money/food. When he reached me, he asked for the same. But, perhaps, I'm finally becoming an-adult-like adult, so much so that I said, "Ki re? Toke ektu aagei dilaam na?" ("Didn't I give you a rupee just a while ago?"). He smiled at me and with that, a mischievous look crossed his eyes. I had gone a little way, when I sighed to myself, "Uff, the heat!!". And, then, something happened that made me stop and look back. I turned and went up to the little boy. "Aaye, aamar shonge aaye." ("Come with me.") He once again flashed that mischievous smile and started walking with me. "Khabi kichhu?" ("Want to eat something?") I asked. He nodded his head, still smiling. "Mishti khabi?" ("Sweetmeats?") and again he nodded his head, this time more eagerly. I went up to the sweet shop on the bend of the street where Dakshinee stands and asked for four pieces of a certain kind of rasha-kadam. It cost twelve rupees. But, I had only one ten rupees note that I had saved for the bus-fare back home. So, I gave the vendor a hundred rupees note. But, he said he didn't have a change. I insisted that I wouldn't be able to take the sweets if he didn't have a change. He shrugged and said, "Do as you wish! I can't help, madame." He wouldn't make one sweet less, nor would he give a discount. I turned back and saw the boy waiting for me outside. I frantically rummaged through the pockets of my bag and finally found a five rupees coin and two one rupee coins. I was glad: the bus-fare cost only four rupees. I paid and bought the packet of sweets. I handed it over to the boy and felt a little unsure (quite unnecessarily) if he would be able to feed himself and his sister. "Bon ke khaowate paarbi?" ("Can you feed your sister?") I asked. He nodded and smiled his sweet mischievous smile. He walked a few paces with me and then quietly retreated somewhere I know not, for when I turned back, I couldn't spot him anymore. I lost him in the crowd, in the water-vapours of the day....

A cinema venture

2009-07-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

A second blog.

Its purpose, here.

Reader participation much welcome.

Soaked in vinegar

2009-07-03T05:44:00.000-07:00

Now that Section 377 has been finally been legally recognised to be trampling upon human dignity (besides violating several of the fundamental rights that the Constitution allows its people), we have gone a step forward toward achieving the true essence of democracy - liberalism. Social inhibitions and taboos are sure to remain for some time, but at least no one now can threaten a person with legal action just because of his/her sexual orientation. The government needs to amend the aforesaid section some time soon. Untouchability was a widespread social practice even some eight decades back and while significant traces of it remain even in today's India, it has become extinct in an overbearing oppressive manner (you jump into the Ganges no more if a sweeper's shadow falls on you!) at least in most parts of the country. Take an opinion poll and at least 80 out 100 persons are likely to dismiss untouchability as a disgusting shame for civil society. I hope that the taboo regarding homosexuality erodes away similarly.

Why is punishing homosexuality objectionable? For the same reason a physically handicapped child should not be held guilty for his condition (though lamentably, he is at times): he/she is born that way! Or has been shaped over the years by countless psychological and emotional undercurrents. Sexual orientation is natural (how really could "carnal intercourse against the laws of nature" be interpreted and turned upon homosexuals?). Moreover, it has no victim - we are talking of consensual intercourse in this matter. What has one got to be offended by? Say, if homosexuality were the "law of nature" and it had a biological result - children - and if it were the norm, would not heterosexuality be a taboo then? And under those circumstances, would it not be wrong to punish anybody for being attracted to the opposite sex?

As for our religious leaders, counter-activists and countless ordinary people worried about the threat posed to our culture and religions, I propose some measures that should work towards that objective in a far more logical and efficient manner:
1.) Stop heckling innocent people about things that are perfectly harmless to others. No burning of V-day cards and embarrassing lovers, no Mangalore-pub routs, no stupid court petitions for scratching off 'Barber' from a film's name either.

2.) Next time you see someone publicly relieving himself/herself, make it a point to politely request him/her to use a toilet. (If the need be, we can have more public toilets constructed and maintained.) On similar lines, no spitting and littering around. Be so kind as to follow these yourself before guiding others.

3.) Preserve heritage sites. If the government is apathetic towards maintenance, go through the bureaucratic and legal grind. If it still fails, go for independently raised public funds. I know it is thankless hard work; but if you are really concerned about culture, that should be the correct course. Many Indian lovers, in the admirable fashion of Shahjahan and Mumtaz, want to engrave their love immortal on stone. They may be politely requested to abstain from such ambitions. I am inclined to believe that a stern but polite request does the trick almost always.

4.) Behave well in public. Few things are as degrading to culture than watch thousands of people arguing openly on the streets about matters trivial and gargantuan. Things can be sorted out in private, preferably in peace. If such an option does not work, bad luck! No amount of shouting in public can solve deadlocks anyway. Also, remember to extend your help to people who need it: old people, children, physically handicapped, clueless foreigners...

5.) Take an active interest in art, read good books, watch good movies and listen to good music; if possible try your hand at writing. (This is subjective but not completely.) Nothing better at reviving culture! No need of banning Karan Johar and his ilk, just stop fattening his wallet by ignoring his latest floss (no need to picket theatres or harass devoted fans, all the same). Go fish out some RV Shantaram or Satyajit Ray. Keep the cultural economy open: allow influx and outflow.

6.) Ban censorship (haha!). One can and must decide what he/she wants to do, read, listen or watch unless it does not cause anyone any harm.

7.) Discourage mob politics. A crowd can get away with what three individuals cannot. It is badly reflective of our culture.

8.) Do away with religious and regional bias. An innocent Muslim should not be clubbed together with the irrational jihadi. Similarly, a Hindu murderer and rapist is as guilty as his Muslim counterpart. Also, Maharashtra is not only for Marathis.

Sounds impossible? Maybe. But criminalizing homosexuals in the name of preserving culture and religion surely is.

Rear Window

2009-06-28T18:32:00.000-07:00

Arani da wrote this wonderful review of The Trouble With Harry. I thank him a lot for opening up my eyes to Hitchcock's genius. I had watched his North By Northwest about four or five months back and mumbled to myself "Now, what's really the big deal with Hitchcock, eh?". Must get back to that film one of these days; but since then I have poured over a lot of Hitch... and noticed what I would have missed had it not been for that splendid write-up.

Rear Window is remarkable, first of all, for one simple fact: it is shot exclusively from two camera perspectives; both of a backyard in just about any small-town American neighbourhood. One is the POV of our protagonist, LB Jefferies (James Stewart), the other belongs to the audience. (There is a third, but it is given a screentime of barely ten seconds at the most) Given such a small setting and narrow range of views available, it is a challenging task for the director to construct the story so as to keep the viewer enthralled. So what do we have at hand? A kaleidoscope of contrasting characters. Facing Jeff's rear window, ground-floor left is an old spinster who likes sculpting and giving free advice to others; on the apartment over hers stays "Miss Torso", the ballerina. This pretty young thing is always twiddling around doing her chores, or entertaining affluent gentlemen. As a direct contrast to this, there's "Miss Lonelyhearts" on the righthand ground-floor apartment. She has, from the look of it, just stepped into middle age and every other night after meticulously dressing herself she lays out the best China and pours out the best wine. Then opening the door, she welcomes an unseen lover, invites him into the dining area, coyly accepts a warm kiss before breaking down into sobs. Her unhappy solitude is in direct contrast to Miss Torso's bustling room. Over Miss Lonelyhearts stays the quarrelsome couple - the husband a salesman, the wife a bickering invalid. Just the apartment overhead stays the peaceful man and wife. They possibly have no children and always sleep out in the balcony except when it's raining. In a studio apartment to Jeff's right, the musician practises all day long, his landlady the only encouragement. To Jeff's left, a newlywed couple have moved in. This canvas of different and complementing colours establish the perfect long shot. The need of the close-up is also established when the camera zooms in to any one of these several windows: a minute detail crucial to understanding the concerned person(s) replaces the bewildering melange in the long shot.

Jeff is a cameraman who has a broken leg cocooned in a cast due to a nasty accident on a motor-race track. Since he has little to do other than be cooped up in a wheelchair, he stares out of his window. His casual and nonchalant interest in the proceedings of these various characters parallels the narrow concern of the artist for his model. A painter sketching the imposing facade of some monument may not be quite interested in its history. Yet as he scans the salesman's or Miss Lonelyheart's apartment through his long-focus camera, his interest deepens. Quite imperceptibly, he starts getting involved. He is no more noticing just how they act, also why. The camera is Jeff's conduit to the privacy of his subjects much as it is to Jeff and his rear-window world for the audience. The audience's growing involvement is also mirrored in him. The broken leg does not allow him to get directly entangled even when he wants to, so he has to take the aid of his girlfriend Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly), pal Tom Doyle (Wendell Corey) and nurse Stella (Thelma Ritter). This is when he has to overcome the artistic limitations of being neutral witness to events. Ironically, the broken leg is why he gets interested in his neighbours in the first place! Had he been fit to move around freely, he'd already be on assignment in Kashmir!

Hitchcock of course asks the mandatory questions he is wont to. The ethics of voyeurism are challenged: after all, had Jeff not snooped in, would not the salesman walk away with a clean sheet? Something traditionally regarded as unethical - voyeurism - ironically delivers justice to a murder victim! Doyle initially dismisses Jeff's inference about the murder as backward (at the moment, we all agree that his verdict is in the right place given the lack of legal evidence) and lightly ridicules Lisa's feminine intuition, though both the points are ultimately proved correct. His argument is the banality of Jeff's observations and the slim probability of his conclusion being true. The director, through his film, reminds us that slim probabilities can click even in our lives; that things we imagine as commonplace can conceal what exceeds our perception of the normal. Hasn't everyone reassured himself at some point that death and disaster can strike all but him? Something so apparently commonplace as marital friction leads to murder in a neighbourhood that could easily be ours - so really how normal is normal? Intuition, a much misjudged instinct, is also dealt with - Stella's knack of predicting with astonishing precision is verified even in the murder case. Her predictions are derived from what one calls common-sense, which in turn is intuitive in nature. And yet, how many times have we rejected an intuitive thought in favour of "better judgement"?

The reclusive couple who sleep in their balcony own a pup. When it dies mysteriously, the enraged woman laments the lack of any warmth and compassion in her neighbourhood. It's a small town where one would expect old-world wisdom like "love thy neighbour" to be the byword. Ironically the place reeks of the very lack of it. Piqued by the woman's furore, the neighbours peek out of their windows, yet very few are really troubled by the dog's death. It's a dog who's died after all, not a man! Jeff and Lisa are among the very few who are really bothered, and they are voyeurs! Rear window ethics are questioned again.

When Doyle's investigation reveals facts that apparently indicate Mr. Thorwald's (the salesman) innocence, Jeff and Lisa are visibly disappointed. Lisa suddenly notes the irony in their behaviour - after all, that Mrs. Thorwald, the supposed murder victim, is alive should make one happy (again, what really is being normal?). Hitchcock hints how man is instinctively interested in mystery and morbidity (as if the lack of it somehow takes away some colour from life) even though he may seem and proclaim otherwise. Isn't that why thrillers - including the ones Hitchcock made - sell so well? Isn't that why people pay to visit horror-houses? Isn't that also why Jeff gets interested in the oddities at Thorwald's place?

The only other person who appears as a notable counterpoint (working as something more than an element of contrast) to the three main characters - Jeff, Lisa, Stella - is the pianist. The three see and act, he weaves their experience in music. He practises diligently from the start, working his notes well till his magnificent compostion has been polished to perfection. When he is still having trouble with the keys, Jeff and Lisa's relationship is seemingly in rough waters: they are on good talking terms but a little cold. Jeff is apprehensive if she can fit in with his adventurous lifestyle. His worries are taken care of when she daringly sneaks into the Thorwald house without prior warning. The tension regarding her safety does wonders for their bond: gone is the barrier that separated the two. The pianist meanwhile learns to master his songs, and works it out with a full ensemble. The musician represents the film-maker. The director has to create his own vision of a masterpiece all by himself, work little details slowly, smoothe out hurdles and then execute it with his crew. It is with his film's flow that the complications in the protagonist's lives are sorted out. At the end of the movie, the pianist reveals to his landlady - a constant source of enthusiasm - that his album is out after all the effort. As his completed record plays out in the background, we see that Jeff and Lisa are reconciled and living together. The album parallels the completion of the director's movie. Both the artists await the response to their art. (A little snippet that supports this inference: Hitchcock's cameo has him standing by the fireplace in the musician's studio apartment.)

Modern Times

2009-06-25T18:44:00.000-07:00

In 1931, Charlie Chaplin had just completed City Lights. With the release of The Jazz Singer four years ago, sound had been introduced in films. Silent films had been around for at least three decades and with the contributions of masters like Griffith, Lang, Eisenstein and Chaplin during the last half achieved heights almost unimaginable considering its infancy (compared to other visual mediums of artistic expression like theatre). These early masters learnt their craft exclusively by experience: trial-and-error. The challenges were many and solutions painstakingly developed. The advent of sound however changed the picture overnight: people started clamouring for talkies, even if the products were marked by a distinct mark of mediocrity. This did not certainly sit well with Chaplin. Defiant as ever, he wrote and made a silent film. City Lights was a surprising hit: its maker was somewhat assured that the audience had not been completely desensitized to true art. The atmosphere in Hollywood was however claustrophobic and he wished to revisit his homeland across the Atlantic.

At the same time, M.K. Gandhi was in London to attend the Second Round Table Conference as the sole representative of the Congress. The official job was an utter failure, but he gained many friends and had even a greater number of interviewers. Chaplin was one. During their meeting, he confessed being confused about the Mahatma's opposition to machinery. A patient interviewee explained with a benign smile on his face, for some hundredth time maybe, that he did not oppose to machines so long as they did not encroach on the individual and hinder his growth - economic, philosophical and spiritual. The answer may have been the seed from which Modern Times emerged.

The indifference to talkies was not merely a result of defiance to conform to a changing market scenario or artistic arrogance. The other big factor was that people identified Chaplin with the Tramp and the Tramp with Chaplin. Popularity aside, the figure had grown so close to him that he was not yet ready to make a film without Charlot. One can of course naively wonder why he couldn't just let the Tramp talk. That was unthinkable, and with good reason. What had started out as a comical character gradually became more and more nuanced until it could elicit laughter and tears with equal dexterity. Charlot could say sorry, express sorrow, cheer up a gloomy soul and even fall in love with a lady of his choice with minimal verbal exchange (the little he said was through title-cards). All through a wide array of silent gestures. That was part of his charm. Chaplin was aware that the moment the Tramp spoke, this delicate charm would be abruptly disturbed.

Silent films were all but dead by then. The art inspired few filmmakers; Chaplin was perhaps the last (barring later regressive enthusiasts). Yet, he was bent on making Modern Times. He contemplated giving up filmmaking altogether, then dismissed the idea. The film was to be as much about man and machines as it would be about his own art. With the possibility of rejection hanging about, he wanted to have a last laugh. He had a flash of genius: why not make a mock-talkie? Where machines would talk while humans still mimed! The idea was an answer to both the inspirations: it was a clear show of rebellion against the day's cinematic fashion while also encompassing the central theme of machine dictating to man. And while Charlie cannot be credited as the first man to take up the theme - Fritz Lang's Metropolis was released in 1927 - he can now, in retrospect, be credited as one of the earliest foreseers of cyberpunk!

The 1936 movie introduces the Tramp in a depression-era scenario. A factory-worker by profession, he struggles to keep up with the pace of an assembly line. In contrast, his co-workers are adept at their jobs. This marks out the individualist streak in him, a distinction harped out throughout the film's length. In a world where conditions have reduced man to a state of undistinguished uniformity - established in the opening montage of a flock of sheep and a crowd - the Tramp is forever attempting to carve out a separate place for himself. He has no name, shelter or property. Nothing is known about his origin or forebears; therefore he is free from any materialistic links. The working conditions in the factory are humiliating; moreover everyone is monitored and regulated by the boss with the aid of telescreens. (As if one has any doubt about Chaplin's foresight, he had dealt with surveillance - a defining feature of everyday urban life now - long before Hitchcock explored it in Rear Window and Vertigo! And this was before George Orwell wrote 1984.) In a move to further increase productivity, boss tries the feeding machine: a device that helps workers eat as they work! The guinea-pig selected for the experiment is, as anyone can guess, our protagonist. The trial is a dismal showing; hilarious for us, not so much for the victim. The overbearing workload translates into a nervous breakdown for the Tramp and he is ushered into an institute, but not before he has had sweet revenge on the perpetrators.

During WWII, Charlie received a lot of negative publicity and reaction as a communist sympathiser. He was undoubtedly a socialist by political belief (having had a taste of grinding poverty in his childhood, he realised the need for basic living conditions for all), but without party affiliations or narrow-minded dogma. Neither did he share a phobia of Russians like most of his countrymen; that would be anathema to his independent nature. After being restored to good health at the hospital, as the Tramp goes about without care, he unfortunately lands up in prison on mistaken charges of being a communist. Without being quite aware of it, Chaplin somehow wrote down his own future!

The Gamin (played by Paulette Goddard), a child of the waterfront whose father has lost his job during the depression, is perhaps the only person in a position to understand the Tramp's predicament. She is rebellious, optimistic and charming. After her father dies in labour union clashes, fate's invisible hand works in bringing two unique people together. The resonance that moves and connects both is a shared destiny and outlook. Even in the midst of changing times, they are both trying to assert their right to live as individuals. The irony is, of course, that they are at the very bottom of the socio-economic ladder. Which does nothing to deter them from dreaming. The Tramp tries to do odd jobs, unsuccessfully every time. He is perhaps too idealistic to fit into the rutted ways of society. Their dream of a house for themselves is realised once: a ramshackle affair threatening to come to pieces at the slightest provocation. Yet, like the couple in Maupassant's short story Happiness, they are happy and contented. The Gamin finally procures a job as a dancer in a restaurant and convinces the manager to give her lover a trial as a waiter and singer. The Tramp is unconvincing in the former role but fares well in singing. But just as a hint of prosperity is about to touch the couple's lives, law stands in between. Luckily, they both manage to evade the authorities. In a touching final scene, The Tramp tries to cheer his girl up as they walk down a long road that leads to the horizon. Unaware of what awaits them in the distant journey to eternity, they are still optimistic and prepared. Their hands are empty yet hearts full of warm love and hope for the future. That is perhaps the secret behind the immortality of their story.

When the last title-card of the film flashed "Buck up, never say die! We'll get along!", it was also Chaplin telling us that he was ready embrace his changing environment. His next, The Great Dictator, was a talkie and almost as good as his silent greats. But, of course, Modern Times was the swansong of the Tramp. He had walked a long way since Kid Auto Races at Venice: a sojourn encompassing time, a great many number of films and extraordinary character development. Eternity, the cherished goal, has since embraced the iconic character. Every man and child, even to this very day, readily recognises "Charlie Chaplin" (as his synonymous alter-ego) - in fact, many do not know that the real Charlie never had a toothbrush moustache and did not go around in baggy pants, oversized shoes, tight overcoat, derby hat and twisted cane!

No Chaplin movie is complete without its comic moments. Even when he is constantly parodying contemporary society, he cannot be dark and humourless (perhaps Monsieur Verdoux is the only exception of sorts). That is perhaps the best thing about his films, he elicits laughter spontaneously. His humour is generous, kind and simple - for even if he is pointing fingers at you, he'd probably have you laugh a good deal before you realise the need for introspection and reform. That is his way of winning hearts; and it is also why millions flocked to watch his comedies. He made people happy when things were dark and gloomy around. Among my favourite moments in this movie are the Tramp's tryst with the feeding machine, his dream of a perfect happy home with the Gamin, a sweet day at home the lovers share, the desperate attempt to bring roast duck to an angry customer at the restaurant, and of course that unforgettable comic song that he sings! The ditty is in pseudo-Italian gibberish (possibly predicting Adenoid Hynkel's garbled "German" speech in The Great Dictator), and is the only occasion in the Tramp's reel-life when he spoke. It is also the director's way of telling talkie-producers that dialogue is not essential to great cinema. The other snippets of sound heard in the film are uttered by the telescreen, mechanical salesman and prison radio.

In many ways, Charlie embodied the complete filmmaker: he wrote his own movies, composed music himself, acted and directed. He tackled issues of deep importance yet constructed his films so as to be accessible to all and sundry. Modern Times is perhaps the piece that goes closest to portraying the man as he was - individualistic, good-humoured, optimistic, loving; also the closest study of his socio-economic and political ground. Its universal appeal lies in that it can be enjoyed and understood at various levels and ages. That is an attribute that few great works of art can lay claim to: enthralling scholar and child alike!