The Expressionist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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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.