People,
I know I haven't been treating my blog right for a while now. Hopefully this post will help kick start things. I was tagged recently by fellow-editors Sujatha and Deepti Lamba with this very interesting set of questions titled "22 Things That A Man Wants To Know About Women"(The "when he is not so absorbed with himself" quip was my own addition).
Since I was tagged by the two ladies I wondered if maybe I get to put up 44 answers, but then decided that since men were confused as it is when it comes to this subject it would be a great disservice to the tag if I were to mislead these confounded beings even more with my heartless ambiguity.
So here are my answers:
1.How do you feel after a one night stand?
If you are a desi dude, I am a coy, squirming virgin.
2.Do you ever get used to wearing a thong?
I don't floss my teeth, so flossing my ass is out of question.
3.Does it hurt?
Do you want it to? (insert wicked giggle and BDSM style whip)
4.Do you know when you are acting crazy?
Nah, its never me. Its always the other person.
5.Does size really matter?
If you are small then it does...but if you are big then its the technique ;)
6.When the bill comes are you still a feminist?
I dunno, kinda depends on how Bill looks
7.Why do you take so long to get ready?
Takes a while to create a look that will hopefully take attention from your sloppy dressing sense and the mustard stain on your tie.
8.Do you watch Porn?
More into erotic stories really. Besides it is painful to find out that there are men out there with dongs bigger than yours.
9.Will something from Tiffany solve everything?
On the contrary, it won't solve anything at all.
10.Are you guys as big a mystery to yourself as you are to us
No, we've gotten ourselves all figured out. You are slower and therefore stumped.
11.Why do you sometimes think you are fat?
I also sometimes think you are stupid.
12.Why are you always late?
Cause you make me "come" late. (if you get the drift) ;)
13.Does it bother you when we scratch?
Depends on where the itch is.
14.Do you wish you could pee standing?
Nope...if a genie appears in front of me I cannot see myself going "I wish I could pee standing up"
15.Why do so many women cut their hair as soon as they get married?
I had no idea they did.
16.How often do you think about sex?
More than you think.
17.What do you think about women who sleep with men on their first date?
I try not to think about them
18.Would you?
Nah, there's a lot going on on a first date.
19.Do you realize every guy wants a girl like his mom
Do you realize every girl wants a guy like her dad?
20.Why does every woman think she can change her man?
I don't...so there goes the "every woman" theory
21.Does it matter the kind of car I drive?
If everything else about you is questionable then yes it does.
22. Do you ever fart?
I'll just let you be surprised...why kill the suspense?
Monday, November 19, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
A Tribute To Hrishikesh Mukherji
Very few films can be watched with the family. Even fewer films have the charm that draws an audience to them more than once. Such films remind one of themselves. These stories have the shades of realism that make the plot identifiable, a moral that makes the tale more than just about entertainment and a character who is hard to forget. Such were the films that Hrishikesh Mukherjee brought to Indian cinema.
A film with Hrishikesh Mukherjee's name ensured a new and original storyline in an industry plagued by unoriginal plots. His stories put relationships under a microscope and life in front of a mirror.
Abhiman, the Amitabh and Jaya Bachchan starrer. explored the fine angles of a marriage and the devastation resulting from a bruised male ego. Anand, brought us the memorable cancer patient who was remembered by his zest for life and the delightful “Babu Moshaiy!” “Life” Anand told us, “should be big, not long”. Guddi, starring Jaya Bachchan, dealt with the coming of age plot of a young girl fascinated by a filmstar. For the first and only time in a Hindi film, the unrealistic and fanciful world of films was challenged and scrutinized within a film itself.
Directors often use symbolism, camera angles and other intricate apparatus to convey subtle emotion within a story. Hrishikesh Mukherjee however used contrasting shades of the simplicity and complexity of the film’s central characters to do so. The song and dance sequence has for a long time stolen the flow of realistic depiction from Hindi cinema. But Hrishikesh Mukherjee managed to use music, background scores and songs to add to the story.
The female protagonist found an intellectual, strong and opinionated facet in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s films. The range of female characters and personas he explored through his stories is astonishing. From the submissive and subdued Anupama played by Sharmila Tagore to the outspoken and rebellious Manju of Khubsoorat played by Rekha, his films put the female protagonist in the spotlight.
His characters were quirky. They were real. They were honest. Most importantly, they had a little of each one of us in them. While watching a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film, one inevitably found in there a character to relate to. The love stories were not just of larger than life, brawny heroes. The romances were of the endearing common man. The struggle, the dreams and the humor were all borrowed from the middle class. The glitz of glamour was deftly replaced by the more fascinating sincerity of truth.
The lack of violence and the ample inclusion of realism favorably tempered by tasteful romance and wholesome humor make a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film one that the whole family can enjoy together. I could go out today and rent a DVD of Anand, Guddi, Abhiman, Khubsoorat or Gol Maal, knowing well that I have watched it several times before and sure that I will still enjoy it yet again.
A film with Hrishikesh Mukherjee's name ensured a new and original storyline in an industry plagued by unoriginal plots. His stories put relationships under a microscope and life in front of a mirror.
Abhiman, the Amitabh and Jaya Bachchan starrer. explored the fine angles of a marriage and the devastation resulting from a bruised male ego. Anand, brought us the memorable cancer patient who was remembered by his zest for life and the delightful “Babu Moshaiy!” “Life” Anand told us, “should be big, not long”. Guddi, starring Jaya Bachchan, dealt with the coming of age plot of a young girl fascinated by a filmstar. For the first and only time in a Hindi film, the unrealistic and fanciful world of films was challenged and scrutinized within a film itself.
Directors often use symbolism, camera angles and other intricate apparatus to convey subtle emotion within a story. Hrishikesh Mukherjee however used contrasting shades of the simplicity and complexity of the film’s central characters to do so. The song and dance sequence has for a long time stolen the flow of realistic depiction from Hindi cinema. But Hrishikesh Mukherjee managed to use music, background scores and songs to add to the story.
The female protagonist found an intellectual, strong and opinionated facet in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s films. The range of female characters and personas he explored through his stories is astonishing. From the submissive and subdued Anupama played by Sharmila Tagore to the outspoken and rebellious Manju of Khubsoorat played by Rekha, his films put the female protagonist in the spotlight.
His characters were quirky. They were real. They were honest. Most importantly, they had a little of each one of us in them. While watching a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film, one inevitably found in there a character to relate to. The love stories were not just of larger than life, brawny heroes. The romances were of the endearing common man. The struggle, the dreams and the humor were all borrowed from the middle class. The glitz of glamour was deftly replaced by the more fascinating sincerity of truth.
The lack of violence and the ample inclusion of realism favorably tempered by tasteful romance and wholesome humor make a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film one that the whole family can enjoy together. I could go out today and rent a DVD of Anand, Guddi, Abhiman, Khubsoorat or Gol Maal, knowing well that I have watched it several times before and sure that I will still enjoy it yet again.
Ganesha & The Globe: An Eco-Friendly Ganesh Chaturthi
Ganesh Chaturthi is one of my favorite festivals. Even now, away from home I can still remember the eve of Ganesh Chaturthi when the beautiful Ganesh idols would be welcomed into homes and residential communities. It marked the beginning of the festive season leading up to Diwali.
In Bombay, a lot of Ganesh idols are made by the humble artisans whose workshops come to life in the days leading up to the festival. The colors range from the orange hues of the majestic Siddhivinayak or the ornate, little Ganeshas all dressed up in pink dhotis and golden crowns. The Ganesh stays in the house like a much-loved guest. The homes that welcome the idol constantly carry the scent of incense and camphor. A corner of the house where Lord Ganesha sits looks all lit up and decorated. There is the rare abundance of modaks, the sweet cardamom flavored dumplings with a coconut filling that melts in your mouth. And then one day amidst melodious aartis and impassioned cries beseeching Ganpati Bappa to come again next year, the idol is immersed into the sea.
When this tradition first began the idols were made of clay which when immersed in water would dissolve, returning the spirit of this deity to the depths of nature. But lately, especially in Bombay, this festival has gained commercial significance. Public celebrations have created a competition where communities are seen vying each year to hoist the biggest idols on their pedestals. Enormous funds are gathered by the locals and the largest, most colorful of sculptures is put up, much like an exhibit. While this practice has helped cultivate a sense of community, the idols themselves are no longer made from environment friendly clay. The murtis (idols) that are placed for the visual delight of the crowds are now made from Plaster Of Paris.
Plaster Of Paris is easier to mould and the several intricate patterns that go onto a Ganesh idol are easier to carve on this material. Moreover, the increasing demand for Ganesh idols and the large sizes that are so popular make the artisans look towards the cheaper option. Plaster Of Paris is much cheaper than clay but unfortunately less soluble in water. As a result the Ganesh idol that has been treated like a beloved houseguest by so many faithful devotees, sits at the bottom of the ocean, slow disintegration of the plaster releasing toxic elements into the water. The chemicals used in painting the idol contain hazardous mercury and cadmium metals. As the magnificent four arms, golden crowns and loving brown eyes of the elephant god crumble into the seawater, the ocean's flora and fauna suffer from the sudden increase in acidity and toxicity of the water. For years this issue has been tap-danced around to protect religious sentiment. But the urgency of protecting the environment should probably hold more importance and urgency than people's religious sensitivities. Surely, educated men and women understand that to abuse the divine gift of nature is in no way a means of paying obeisance to a deity.
Those whose religious sentiments are hurt when it comes to protecting the environment have never taken a walk along the beaches in Bombay a day or two after the immersion (Anant Chaturdashi). A collection of pictures by Manish Vij shows the large disfigured, broken, scraped and dismembered Ganesh idols that float in with the sea debri onto the shore. A municipality truck arrives, gathers this debris like it would gather garbage and disposes it. Along with this debris are dead fish killed by the toxins and the high acidity of the seawater. So much for religious sentiment.
The Ganesh Chaturthi festival is a time when communities unite and celebrate together. Nobody wants to lose out on the festive occasion. But finding a way to be kind to the environment while indulging in the festivities is a responsible thing to do. There are always devotees who want to have an environment friendly Ganesh Chaturthi and wonder what their options are. There are various options to buying a large Plaster Of Paris idol. In fact, Wikipedia outlines a few easy and feasible solutions to addressing this issue:
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The Girgaum area is famous for skilled artisans who use traditional and environmental friendly clay to make the idols. There are famous Ganeshotsav mandals that choose to make creative Ganesh replicas from flowers, paper mache, coconuts etc. The Ganeshotsav mandals can choose to give out a prize for the one who comes up with the most environmental friendly design for a Ganesh idol every year. Families can buy a smaller, clay Ganpati for their home. A small idol can be prayed to. Faith should not be incumbent on the size of the idol, should it?
Commercialization of religious festivals likely has a positive influence in nurturing communal sense but when the celebration ends and the environment suffers, people need to evaluate this problem and treat it like their own. After all, Lord Ganesha would not want the beautiful gift of natural resources to be exploited and abused in this manner. Surely our devotion should not be blind towards God's fine creations in our zeal to uphold his idol.
In Bombay, a lot of Ganesh idols are made by the humble artisans whose workshops come to life in the days leading up to the festival. The colors range from the orange hues of the majestic Siddhivinayak or the ornate, little Ganeshas all dressed up in pink dhotis and golden crowns. The Ganesh stays in the house like a much-loved guest. The homes that welcome the idol constantly carry the scent of incense and camphor. A corner of the house where Lord Ganesha sits looks all lit up and decorated. There is the rare abundance of modaks, the sweet cardamom flavored dumplings with a coconut filling that melts in your mouth. And then one day amidst melodious aartis and impassioned cries beseeching Ganpati Bappa to come again next year, the idol is immersed into the sea.
When this tradition first began the idols were made of clay which when immersed in water would dissolve, returning the spirit of this deity to the depths of nature. But lately, especially in Bombay, this festival has gained commercial significance. Public celebrations have created a competition where communities are seen vying each year to hoist the biggest idols on their pedestals. Enormous funds are gathered by the locals and the largest, most colorful of sculptures is put up, much like an exhibit. While this practice has helped cultivate a sense of community, the idols themselves are no longer made from environment friendly clay. The murtis (idols) that are placed for the visual delight of the crowds are now made from Plaster Of Paris.
Plaster Of Paris is easier to mould and the several intricate patterns that go onto a Ganesh idol are easier to carve on this material. Moreover, the increasing demand for Ganesh idols and the large sizes that are so popular make the artisans look towards the cheaper option. Plaster Of Paris is much cheaper than clay but unfortunately less soluble in water. As a result the Ganesh idol that has been treated like a beloved houseguest by so many faithful devotees, sits at the bottom of the ocean, slow disintegration of the plaster releasing toxic elements into the water. The chemicals used in painting the idol contain hazardous mercury and cadmium metals. As the magnificent four arms, golden crowns and loving brown eyes of the elephant god crumble into the seawater, the ocean's flora and fauna suffer from the sudden increase in acidity and toxicity of the water. For years this issue has been tap-danced around to protect religious sentiment. But the urgency of protecting the environment should probably hold more importance and urgency than people's religious sensitivities. Surely, educated men and women understand that to abuse the divine gift of nature is in no way a means of paying obeisance to a deity.
Those whose religious sentiments are hurt when it comes to protecting the environment have never taken a walk along the beaches in Bombay a day or two after the immersion (Anant Chaturdashi). A collection of pictures by Manish Vij shows the large disfigured, broken, scraped and dismembered Ganesh idols that float in with the sea debri onto the shore. A municipality truck arrives, gathers this debris like it would gather garbage and disposes it. Along with this debris are dead fish killed by the toxins and the high acidity of the seawater. So much for religious sentiment.
The Ganesh Chaturthi festival is a time when communities unite and celebrate together. Nobody wants to lose out on the festive occasion. But finding a way to be kind to the environment while indulging in the festivities is a responsible thing to do. There are always devotees who want to have an environment friendly Ganesh Chaturthi and wonder what their options are. There are various options to buying a large Plaster Of Paris idol. In fact, Wikipedia outlines a few easy and feasible solutions to addressing this issue:
<
1. Return to the traditional use of natural clay idols and immerse the idol in a bucket of water at home.
2. Use of a permanent idol made of stone and brass, used every year and a symbolic immersion only.
3. Recycling of plaster idols to repaint them and use them again the following year.
4. Ban on the immersion of plaster idols into lakes, rivers and the sea.
5. Creative use of other biodegradable materials such as paper mache to create Ganesh idols.
6. Encouraging people to immerse the idols in tanks of water rather than in natural water bodies.
The Girgaum area is famous for skilled artisans who use traditional and environmental friendly clay to make the idols. There are famous Ganeshotsav mandals that choose to make creative Ganesh replicas from flowers, paper mache, coconuts etc. The Ganeshotsav mandals can choose to give out a prize for the one who comes up with the most environmental friendly design for a Ganesh idol every year. Families can buy a smaller, clay Ganpati for their home. A small idol can be prayed to. Faith should not be incumbent on the size of the idol, should it?
Commercialization of religious festivals likely has a positive influence in nurturing communal sense but when the celebration ends and the environment suffers, people need to evaluate this problem and treat it like their own. After all, Lord Ganesha would not want the beautiful gift of natural resources to be exploited and abused in this manner. Surely our devotion should not be blind towards God's fine creations in our zeal to uphold his idol.
Happy Is What Happy Does: Job Satisfaction, Creativity & Happiness
There was a time when getting a job and buying a house were the landmarks of "stability" that people sought. Planning a family, making sure the paycheck covered everything from diapers to electricity bills and then setting some aside for a rare vacation was the ideal life. The middle class made ends meet and left a few overhangs for the luxuries. The rich, it was assumed, had money and didn't really need a job to make them happy. In the bustle of cosmopolitan life, job satisfaction had little place.
In Bombay, I grew watching people worn out by the commute and the work hours. Work was work and was not meant to be fun. Lately, however I have noticed a change, a change for the better. People are growing more explorative. They want to go after the dreams that would've been put onto the backburner, somewhere under the smoldering heap of responsibilities and duties. Now as the world becomes more accesible, a growing sense of aspirations and adventure is detectable among the younger generation. I hear of students venturing into fields such as mass communication, multimedia, fashion designing, journalism, life sciences, theatre arts, graphic design etc. It brings back memories of when I was at a juncture in my career, ready to make such choices.
I must've slept a total of two hours per day during my higher secondary school examinations in India. When the hard work finally paid off, social pressure was on again; this time scrutinizing my decisions for a lucrative career. Against all expectations, I joined the Pharmaceutical Sciences program in spite of securing the much coveted medical seat and admission into biomedical engineering, a field gaining momentum at the time. How much one scored became a matter of prestige and not just self-actualization. One's percentage, class, marks, grade was their label. Exam results hovered above our young, weary heads like a halo defining our future. People clucked at those who chose Arts over Sciences and shrugged in disbelief at the few who choose Life Sciences over Engineering. "Look, everybody is going to the US on the software bandwagon!" I was told. By the time I finished my undergraduate training, the software hype had fallen on its face and Silicon Valley was less lit up. Software engineers are still considered quite accomplished but only if they managed to find a niche that didn't get sweeped away when the boom collapsed. The social burden surrounding career choices still has not changed.
I remember the few bold ones who had ventured into the Arts when I had given in to social expectations and chosen the Sciences. Today I envy them for the diverse and creative fields they eventually received their calling in. Some are foreign language instructors, some theatre artists and a few others have mastered the culinary arts. I find myself constantly wondering what my life would've been had I picked poetry over public opinion.
Every year when the SSC and HSC results are announced, suicide rates among teenagers escalate. A significant portion of the parents' salaries is invested in tuition classes and competitive practice tests. A friend of mine who moved from India to the US, narrowly escaping the SSC fever once remarked that these exams were like "SATs on sterioids". I remember the pressure I felt eventhough my parents never pushed me into studying. I never had anyone breathing down my neck making sure that the grades didn't fall. My parents were more worried about the kind of person I would turn into. Principles, ideals, values and even sports took precedence over grades. In spite of this, I felt the heat. Neighbours, friends, their parents, newspapers, media, teachers, everybody seemed to be zooming in on the one aspect that apparently determined one's intellect and level.
I might get some flak for bringing this up but I believe that India's exam meritocracy has swallowed many a talent. People find it hard to digest that I as a cancer researcher with a biology background also take literature classes and am a creative writer. While one of my manuscripts is lined up for submission to a biomedical journal, yet another is a full-length chapbook for a poetry collection. While I edit pictures of cancer cells in lab one morning, I edit at night my beloved documentary films. They both bring me immense pleasure and whats more if I were ever to be frustrated or bored by one aspect, I always unwind by indulging in the other. This I say not to blow my own trumpet but to bring attention to the fact that I always find a few people who don't think there is something quite right with this odd miscellany of activities that keep me pleasantly occupied. It might as well be a coincidence, but most of these people are Indians. A couple of Indian professors once remarked quite pointedly about how my passion for poetry and literature could take away from the keen focus that is required in science. I asked them to recommend a manner by which I could instruct my brain to let the creative juices flow in a scientific direction while thwarting the ones channelized towards the arts. They could not answer that one.
The other day I happened to be home to watch an episode of the Oprah Winfrey show. A woman who looked barely thirty was talking about how she had pursued her dreams and stayed young as a result of the happiness she derived from doing this. She had started taking classes at a much later age and managed to successfully pursue a direction which she'd been told was a challenging one. How much later could it have been, I wondered. She looked so young. As if reading my mind, Oprah asked her how old she was. Sixty three, she replied and my jaw hit the floor. I wouldn't have gone so far as saying that her lack of aging was entirely due to her happy occupation but then they showed pictures of her from when she was unhappy in her work environment. If job dissatisfaction could be measured by wrinkles, let me just say, she was extremely dissatisfied and her face was a mirror of that discontent. It was then that I realized how much of that had been true for me. Ever since I have started writing, attending literary workshops and filming, I had been feeling happier, a lot more confident and content.
Plenty of success stories have been associated with calculated risk and diverse interests. Rohit Vishvanath, winner of CNN's Young Journalist Of The Year Award, an established business writer is also known for his interest in archeology. Few people know that Nana Patekar, the intense and passionate actor is also an expert sketch artist. R.K.Laxman, the noteworthy cartoon artist, was rejected from the J.J School of Arts. Lata Mangeshkar's first attempts at playback singing were dismissed by a film producer who criticized her voice of being "too thin". Satyajit Ray received his degree in Economics although his first love was fine arts. Fine arts ultimately was what led him to fame through his poignant films.
Putting job satisfaction above finances is impractical. But assuming that a creative occupation would automatically be less lucrative is an error in judgement. More often than not I see Indian parents encouraging their child to pursue a trodden path, devoid of risks, potential pitfalls. An adult who has been cushioned in this manner is least likely to respond well to an unexpected failure such as is common in a shifty economy. Intellect is not just defined by one's grades, percentages, marks and test scores. Intellect has greater bearings in creativity, expression and unique perspective. These manifestations of intellect put people above mediocrity and beyond the judging hum of the masses. You may very well be a university ranker, a class topper, a distinction holder, a summa cum laude with five degrees next to your name but the kind of immortality that creativity and individuality brings is far greater than having a value put to your intellect.
When children are asked who they want to become their answers range from pilot to gardener. Somewhere along the line this adventurous sentiment gets replaced by adult sensibilities. One of my very best friends used to tell me when she was hardly twelve that she wanted to speak German. Today she is a foreign language coordinator at a leading University and guess what? She speaks German and loves it. I admire her for doing what she truly wanted to do without letting adult interference affect her decision.
My father once told me of a boy in his neighbourhood who wanted to become a kite-maker while everybody else made plans to pursue engineering, physics, accounting and other such lucrative careers. My father narrated with a sheepish grin of all the times that he and his friends made fun of this boy for his child-like aspiration and his fascination with kites. When I grew up I came to know this man as the kite maker whose astounding collection of kites could be seen decorating Bombay's skies every Sankranti festival. Political party leaders came to have their emblems and logos printed on his kites during election season. Lovers would pay him to make a kite that proclaimed their love to the world over the majestic Arabian sea. His kites were not just kites. They were beautiful pieces of shimmering art. They had faces and personalities. There were sequined mermaids, cricket personalities, a map of India, birds, planes, fire engines and even lanterns built into the kite. He probably made enough money and was always in a cheery mood. His wife, children and brothers all worked in a tiny workshop crafting the wedding decorations, the styrofoam blimps, posters and of course the seasonal kites.
Believe me, I have met a lot of people with good salaries and impressive credentials whose names I will eventually forget but I will never forget the sight of that brilliant, life-sized kite that made its way into the sky, a fluorescent lamp in its belly, animating a sky during a starry Diwali night all those years ago. It soared across the sky like aspirations should.
In Bombay, I grew watching people worn out by the commute and the work hours. Work was work and was not meant to be fun. Lately, however I have noticed a change, a change for the better. People are growing more explorative. They want to go after the dreams that would've been put onto the backburner, somewhere under the smoldering heap of responsibilities and duties. Now as the world becomes more accesible, a growing sense of aspirations and adventure is detectable among the younger generation. I hear of students venturing into fields such as mass communication, multimedia, fashion designing, journalism, life sciences, theatre arts, graphic design etc. It brings back memories of when I was at a juncture in my career, ready to make such choices.
I must've slept a total of two hours per day during my higher secondary school examinations in India. When the hard work finally paid off, social pressure was on again; this time scrutinizing my decisions for a lucrative career. Against all expectations, I joined the Pharmaceutical Sciences program in spite of securing the much coveted medical seat and admission into biomedical engineering, a field gaining momentum at the time. How much one scored became a matter of prestige and not just self-actualization. One's percentage, class, marks, grade was their label. Exam results hovered above our young, weary heads like a halo defining our future. People clucked at those who chose Arts over Sciences and shrugged in disbelief at the few who choose Life Sciences over Engineering. "Look, everybody is going to the US on the software bandwagon!" I was told. By the time I finished my undergraduate training, the software hype had fallen on its face and Silicon Valley was less lit up. Software engineers are still considered quite accomplished but only if they managed to find a niche that didn't get sweeped away when the boom collapsed. The social burden surrounding career choices still has not changed.
I remember the few bold ones who had ventured into the Arts when I had given in to social expectations and chosen the Sciences. Today I envy them for the diverse and creative fields they eventually received their calling in. Some are foreign language instructors, some theatre artists and a few others have mastered the culinary arts. I find myself constantly wondering what my life would've been had I picked poetry over public opinion.
Every year when the SSC and HSC results are announced, suicide rates among teenagers escalate. A significant portion of the parents' salaries is invested in tuition classes and competitive practice tests. A friend of mine who moved from India to the US, narrowly escaping the SSC fever once remarked that these exams were like "SATs on sterioids". I remember the pressure I felt eventhough my parents never pushed me into studying. I never had anyone breathing down my neck making sure that the grades didn't fall. My parents were more worried about the kind of person I would turn into. Principles, ideals, values and even sports took precedence over grades. In spite of this, I felt the heat. Neighbours, friends, their parents, newspapers, media, teachers, everybody seemed to be zooming in on the one aspect that apparently determined one's intellect and level.
I might get some flak for bringing this up but I believe that India's exam meritocracy has swallowed many a talent. People find it hard to digest that I as a cancer researcher with a biology background also take literature classes and am a creative writer. While one of my manuscripts is lined up for submission to a biomedical journal, yet another is a full-length chapbook for a poetry collection. While I edit pictures of cancer cells in lab one morning, I edit at night my beloved documentary films. They both bring me immense pleasure and whats more if I were ever to be frustrated or bored by one aspect, I always unwind by indulging in the other. This I say not to blow my own trumpet but to bring attention to the fact that I always find a few people who don't think there is something quite right with this odd miscellany of activities that keep me pleasantly occupied. It might as well be a coincidence, but most of these people are Indians. A couple of Indian professors once remarked quite pointedly about how my passion for poetry and literature could take away from the keen focus that is required in science. I asked them to recommend a manner by which I could instruct my brain to let the creative juices flow in a scientific direction while thwarting the ones channelized towards the arts. They could not answer that one.
The other day I happened to be home to watch an episode of the Oprah Winfrey show. A woman who looked barely thirty was talking about how she had pursued her dreams and stayed young as a result of the happiness she derived from doing this. She had started taking classes at a much later age and managed to successfully pursue a direction which she'd been told was a challenging one. How much later could it have been, I wondered. She looked so young. As if reading my mind, Oprah asked her how old she was. Sixty three, she replied and my jaw hit the floor. I wouldn't have gone so far as saying that her lack of aging was entirely due to her happy occupation but then they showed pictures of her from when she was unhappy in her work environment. If job dissatisfaction could be measured by wrinkles, let me just say, she was extremely dissatisfied and her face was a mirror of that discontent. It was then that I realized how much of that had been true for me. Ever since I have started writing, attending literary workshops and filming, I had been feeling happier, a lot more confident and content.
Plenty of success stories have been associated with calculated risk and diverse interests. Rohit Vishvanath, winner of CNN's Young Journalist Of The Year Award, an established business writer is also known for his interest in archeology. Few people know that Nana Patekar, the intense and passionate actor is also an expert sketch artist. R.K.Laxman, the noteworthy cartoon artist, was rejected from the J.J School of Arts. Lata Mangeshkar's first attempts at playback singing were dismissed by a film producer who criticized her voice of being "too thin". Satyajit Ray received his degree in Economics although his first love was fine arts. Fine arts ultimately was what led him to fame through his poignant films.
Putting job satisfaction above finances is impractical. But assuming that a creative occupation would automatically be less lucrative is an error in judgement. More often than not I see Indian parents encouraging their child to pursue a trodden path, devoid of risks, potential pitfalls. An adult who has been cushioned in this manner is least likely to respond well to an unexpected failure such as is common in a shifty economy. Intellect is not just defined by one's grades, percentages, marks and test scores. Intellect has greater bearings in creativity, expression and unique perspective. These manifestations of intellect put people above mediocrity and beyond the judging hum of the masses. You may very well be a university ranker, a class topper, a distinction holder, a summa cum laude with five degrees next to your name but the kind of immortality that creativity and individuality brings is far greater than having a value put to your intellect.
When children are asked who they want to become their answers range from pilot to gardener. Somewhere along the line this adventurous sentiment gets replaced by adult sensibilities. One of my very best friends used to tell me when she was hardly twelve that she wanted to speak German. Today she is a foreign language coordinator at a leading University and guess what? She speaks German and loves it. I admire her for doing what she truly wanted to do without letting adult interference affect her decision.
My father once told me of a boy in his neighbourhood who wanted to become a kite-maker while everybody else made plans to pursue engineering, physics, accounting and other such lucrative careers. My father narrated with a sheepish grin of all the times that he and his friends made fun of this boy for his child-like aspiration and his fascination with kites. When I grew up I came to know this man as the kite maker whose astounding collection of kites could be seen decorating Bombay's skies every Sankranti festival. Political party leaders came to have their emblems and logos printed on his kites during election season. Lovers would pay him to make a kite that proclaimed their love to the world over the majestic Arabian sea. His kites were not just kites. They were beautiful pieces of shimmering art. They had faces and personalities. There were sequined mermaids, cricket personalities, a map of India, birds, planes, fire engines and even lanterns built into the kite. He probably made enough money and was always in a cheery mood. His wife, children and brothers all worked in a tiny workshop crafting the wedding decorations, the styrofoam blimps, posters and of course the seasonal kites.
Believe me, I have met a lot of people with good salaries and impressive credentials whose names I will eventually forget but I will never forget the sight of that brilliant, life-sized kite that made its way into the sky, a fluorescent lamp in its belly, animating a sky during a starry Diwali night all those years ago. It soared across the sky like aspirations should.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Tagged!: Do I Love You, Billy, Or Do I Hate You?
This story is a continuation of a tag. Fellow author and Desicritics editor Amrita Rajan passed the tag on to me. While I have never written fiction that does not have a first person address (Personal history chronicle tone) before, it was kind of fun writing this post. What I did differently with the story than what has been done in the first 3 parts is, I brought in new characters and added to the story a piece of computer art which is like a trademark that goes with my creative writing exploits. I do hope I don't disappoint those who have been following this tag. Available here are: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3
Just a WARNING…do NOT scroll through the entire stretch of the post before you begin reading because I include some computer art with my fiction/ poetry that may act as a spoiler! Beware!
Story begins here...
********************************************
"Bonnie, wakie wakie, Come on, Bonnie, its time for breakfast" a shrill voice called out like it did every time sunlight flooded the room. It was quiet in here; too quiet. The air smelled of chlorox and bleach and if you stuck your tongue out for too long it tasted bitter. It wasn't the air that was bitter, she realized as she felt the small trickle from a gash on her lip. The petite woman in flowe-print scrubs rolled in a trolley.
She felt a retch building up in her throat as she saw the yolks wiggle on the egg whites as the woman pulled the trolley upto the bed. She started rolling up the bed to an incline.
"Come on now. Up you go. You must eat, you know...otherwise we cannot give you your medications" the woman said in a high-pitched saccharine voice.
"No shit, bitch!" a shrill voice said rang inside Bonnie's head, startling even her. The woman turned around.
"Umm, did you say something hun?" the woman asked with a frown. Bonnie mumbled and shook her head. She wondered if this recurring dream would end soon. Sometimes she felt this was the real world and her life with Billy was the dream. She could never tell.
"You will be seeing Dr.Weldy at 2 pm today" the woman said as she shut the door behind her just after Bonnie took a peek at her badge. 'Nurse Linda White' it said in blue letters, followed by 'Mercy County Psychiatric Facility'.
Bonnie could feel panic rising to her ears with the rush of adrenaline and a horrible pit was growing in her stomach.
"What am I doing here?" she thought, her eyes scanning the steel door, nervously, her breath inhaling the cold sterile smell, her mind resounding every fearful question in the hum of silence. The white walls were closing in as a slideshow flashed in front of her. The needle jammed above her wrist now suddenly stung. The steady drip of sedatives seemed to climb to her forehead, numbing her eyelids and bringing thick black curtains of sleep that finally pulled her in.
"Ma'am, do you know what happened to the dog?" she heard the booming voice and the unshaven face of the detective made its way out of the fog.
"No" she said in a strangely toneless voice. She could see herself slouched in front of the detective, in a cotton nightie doused with crimson stains that were darkening with every passing minute. He pushed a glass of water towards her.
"Are you cold Ma'am?' the detective asked, offering her a jacket and she didn't even look up as she shook her head.
"Could you tell us where you were last night. How did you get those bloody gashes on your back? Ma'am, you know we can't let you go home unless you tell us something" the detective prodded, his voice still calm and unthreatening.
"I said I don't know" came the toneless voice again, this time with the slightest hint of anger.
Questions were suspended inside her own mind, floating about even as the detective looked towards the glass partition and shook his head, shrugging one last time before he left. As the door shut behind him in a soft thud, she watched her own face change, a hint of a smile was playing in the eyes that had been expressionless for so long. Was she having an out of body experience, she wondered as she watched her own face look like that of a stranger. Was this really her, being interrogated by detectives?
Behind the glass partition, the baffled members of the district attorney's office and the detective stood sipping coffee awaiting Dr.Weldy and his psychiatric team to come evaluate the woman they had found clutching a dead terrier in her neighbour's backyard. The scene had gotten gory as they approached the house that neighbours had pointed out. While two children slept in the bedroom upstairs, a large man lay sprawled face down in a pool of blood in the hallway to the kitchen. His hair had been sheared with a knife which lay bloody and strewn and words neatly carved into his back. "Yours, Delilah" it said when the blood had been wiped and the body lay cold and glistening under scrutiny on the forensic examiner's table.
Long after rigor mortis set in, the stunned expression on that man's face was still as agonizing as it had probably been when the knife first went through his heart.
"Bonnie, are you there? Bonnie?" the deep voice cut through her oblivion and she opened her eyes taking in the kind face of a man she knew she had seen before.
"Good afternoon, Bonnie. How are you feeling today?" he asked as sat down in the chair across from her. She mumbled and tried to sit up.
"Where are the kids?" she asked. Her head was throbbing and she couldn't get the image of Billy's cold body lying on the examiner's table. Had that been a dream, she wondered quietly, her eyes unconsciously glancing over to the name plate on the desk. "Dr.John Randall Weldy" said the golden letters.
"Where are my kids?" she whispered, this time the urgency clear in her voice.
"Do you remember their names?" he asked looking over his glasses.
"What do you mean do I remember their names?!" she began her voice rising, "Billy Junior and Jean....after my sister" she answered composing herself.
"Good, that is very good" Dr.Weldy said encouragingly. His tone was making her drowsy.
He went behind his desk and returned with what looked to her stinging eyes like a large black snake. He unwound it and the belt at once gleamed in the dim yellow light of his office. She remembered that buckle, her skin had felt the nook of its metal, she had tasted the cold blood that trickled out of her back when that very buckle had hit her square across the spine.
"Do you recognize this, Bonnie?" Dr.Weldy asked.
"Yeah, yes..." she began softly but the tears were making it hard to speak.
"Are my kids ok?" she asked through a gulp, "Did I..." she began, too afraid to go on, "Did I kill him?" she finally asked, tortured by the finality of that question. Dr.Weldy surveyed her for a brief moment.
"Well, Bonnie, did you?" he asked studying her expression carefully.
He started walking towards her the belt in his hand. The buckle was mocking her now as it caught light and a reflection danced wildly on her face. His slow, determined footsteps echoed inside her head and a low toneless voice was resounding in her ears. She had heard this voice before. It was the voice she had heard in the interrogation room, it was the voice that had rung inside her head when the nurse had come in that morning.
"Back off asshole" she heard the voice say, her white knuckles clutching the arm rests.
"Bonnie" Dr.Weldy said bending down.
"Bonnie!" the voice mocked him, "You get that filthy thing away from me, asshole. Bonnie's the weakling. You're dealing with Delilah now."
"Bonnie, how are we doing?" he asked, "Does this scare you Bonnie?" he was holding the belt out.
"It might scare her but you know what...nothing scares this one here" the voice said breaking off into a high-pitched laugh. Dr.Weldy watched at once fascinated and fearful of this creature that had emerged from Bonnie's face. This face, this voice, this demeanour was not that of a woman or a remorseful wife, but that of a bully.
"You get that thing near me and I will wipe that smile off your face, baldy" she now reached out and flung the belt.
She lunged out of her chair and almost immediately felt a needle sting into her arm, subduing her voice to a gasp. The eyes changed and the smirk left her face.
"My kids...where are my kids?" she said, her expression relaxing, as her eyes closed yet again and they wheeled her out of the office.
********************************************
Dr.Weldy sat in his office studying the verses Bonnie had been scribbling every time she woke up from her deep sedation. He had emailed Dr.Drury at Princeton to see if the verses matched any known literature. Dr.Drury's reply was now in front of him, the answer presenting only more questions than before.
John,
Sorry about the delay in replying. I had trouble looking through the scanned pages you sent me. While most of it was illegible, one verse did seem quite clear. Despite a few spelling errors I was able to crack the stanza. The verse was as follows,
"To the bodies wounds and sores
With maladies innumerable
In heart, head, breast, and reins;
But must secret passage find
To th' inmost mind"
They belong to a tragic poem by Milton, titled Samson Agonistes which dramaticizes the story of Samson from the Old Testament.
Let me know if you need any more information.
RD
The email didnt shed light on much. John Weldy immediately wrote back his questions, at least a few of the odd million that had crossed his mind.
This case had been as obscure as one pulled straight out of a movie. John Weldy's life had come to standstill after having met Bonnie. He couldn't get her face out of his head. Each time he saw her, her eyes had sunk in some more. All she asked him about now was her kids. He had been instructed by the police to not inform her about their location for the sake of the children's protection. And then there was the bleak face of Delilah which emerged every now and then from Bonnie's soft features, like that of an abused, angry animal. The same eyes, the same frail face, but such a contrasting countenance. Each time he wanted to tell Bonnie that her children were safe with their grandmother, Delilah's angry face flashed before him and told him not to.
Weldy had been shocked at the scars and bruises all over Bonnie's back. Evidence indicated that the abuse had been long and traumatic. This would be his first case of dissociate personality disorder and he had been reading and researching all day to try and understand the psyche of this woman, who the police had said was their only suspect.
It was time to call it a night, he finally decided. It was after midnight, way past his bedtime. And just before heading off to bed John Weldy decided to test his luck. A quick search on the internet won't take too long, he told himself. 107,000 pages of information came up, on his first search for Samson Agonistes. He clicked on the first link not hoping to find much and then something caught his eye. As his eyes skimmed the details, he found the one detail that stood out, clear as daylight. Weldy pushed his glasses back and slowly took in the details in disbelief. Goose bumps began to scale his arms. Everything seemed to fit.
"Delilah, the wife of Samson who had betrayed him...his locks had been sheared, his strength had been stolen...a death had to take place -- his death, Samson's death"
********************************************
As she was wheeled into the lobby, she noticed new faces, faces that had not been there.
"Where is Nurse White?" she asked the young nurse who was wheeling her through the glass hallways.
"Umm, I'm sorry, I don't really know a Nurse White" replied the young girl. She seemed barely out of college.
As Bonnie turned to look into the glass panels, an old weary face looked back at her.
That couldn't be me, she thought as she squinted and touched the hair on her head. It had been days since she'd been rolled out into the lobby. The day of the trial was the last she remembered. Her mother-in-law had dropped off a letter and pictures of Billy Junior and Jean. She had worn a lavender suit and sat sedated through the trial, faces of the jury weaving in and out of her delusions.
The glass panel ended and at the far end of the hallway stood a tall man in a dark suit. He seemed familiar. Even from this far, his frame and the way he stood seemed to move something inside her. The slideshow that had mellowed over the years came back again. Those were the eyes, she realized as she came closer. that had looked at her in shock when she dug the knife deep into his heart. Light caught the brown hues of this man's hair bringing back memories, of the locks she had once put away in her musical jewellery box. How they had been strewn mercilessly over the floor of the hallway that fateful night. God alone knew how much time had passed but she could still hear the neighbour's terrier barking even now as if it had been last night. His paws scraping the glass windows, his whining boiling inside her head, turning things to a blur.
Her wheelchair was nearing the beige lobby. The man that stood at the end of the hallway was now walking towards her. His face caught her like a sudden gale and she could feel her throat clamming shut. His footsteps were burning her ears sending a wicked chill through her spine. How was this possible? Could he still be....was he still alive, she thought. The memory of the wound on her spine came back like a ghost as she stared into the same blue eyes. Those were the eyes that had widened and then frozen in shock, when metal had snuffed his heartbeat that night. The blue eyes that had looked at her one last time, like two haunting mirrors in the face of her betrayal, were now looking down at her, brimming with a smile, with a mysterious sorrow.
"Billy!" she gasped, touching the face that had lived now only in her dreams. Gone was the desolate look that alcohol had poured into the beautiful blue eyes. They were as clear as they had been on the night of their last kiss. These eyes were the ones she had fallen in love with, before all the bitterness began. Her lips could not move. She was back in the throes of that one night when they had made love, for the very last time. She was falling fast through the scenes, a white wedding, the two beautiful babies, the laughter. She clutched the fabric of his shirt.
"Oh Billy" she whispered, her mind answering to a different world.
"How've you been?" he said finally, peering into her brown eyes, his voice hoarse from holding back his own tears.
"How've you been, Ma?" he repeated,louder this time, trying hard to break through her glazed look, as she crumbled into his arms yet again, lost, like she had been every time she saw him.
"Do I love you, Billy?" she whispered, as he buried his tears on his mother's shoulder, "Or do I hate you?"
Just a WARNING…do NOT scroll through the entire stretch of the post before you begin reading because I include some computer art with my fiction/ poetry that may act as a spoiler! Beware!
Story begins here...
********************************************
"Bonnie, wakie wakie, Come on, Bonnie, its time for breakfast" a shrill voice called out like it did every time sunlight flooded the room. It was quiet in here; too quiet. The air smelled of chlorox and bleach and if you stuck your tongue out for too long it tasted bitter. It wasn't the air that was bitter, she realized as she felt the small trickle from a gash on her lip. The petite woman in flowe-print scrubs rolled in a trolley.
She felt a retch building up in her throat as she saw the yolks wiggle on the egg whites as the woman pulled the trolley upto the bed. She started rolling up the bed to an incline.
"Come on now. Up you go. You must eat, you know...otherwise we cannot give you your medications" the woman said in a high-pitched saccharine voice.
"No shit, bitch!" a shrill voice said rang inside Bonnie's head, startling even her. The woman turned around.
"Umm, did you say something hun?" the woman asked with a frown. Bonnie mumbled and shook her head. She wondered if this recurring dream would end soon. Sometimes she felt this was the real world and her life with Billy was the dream. She could never tell.
"You will be seeing Dr.Weldy at 2 pm today" the woman said as she shut the door behind her just after Bonnie took a peek at her badge. 'Nurse Linda White' it said in blue letters, followed by 'Mercy County Psychiatric Facility'.
Bonnie could feel panic rising to her ears with the rush of adrenaline and a horrible pit was growing in her stomach.
"What am I doing here?" she thought, her eyes scanning the steel door, nervously, her breath inhaling the cold sterile smell, her mind resounding every fearful question in the hum of silence. The white walls were closing in as a slideshow flashed in front of her. The needle jammed above her wrist now suddenly stung. The steady drip of sedatives seemed to climb to her forehead, numbing her eyelids and bringing thick black curtains of sleep that finally pulled her in.
"Ma'am, do you know what happened to the dog?" she heard the booming voice and the unshaven face of the detective made its way out of the fog.
"No" she said in a strangely toneless voice. She could see herself slouched in front of the detective, in a cotton nightie doused with crimson stains that were darkening with every passing minute. He pushed a glass of water towards her.
"Are you cold Ma'am?' the detective asked, offering her a jacket and she didn't even look up as she shook her head.
"Could you tell us where you were last night. How did you get those bloody gashes on your back? Ma'am, you know we can't let you go home unless you tell us something" the detective prodded, his voice still calm and unthreatening.
"I said I don't know" came the toneless voice again, this time with the slightest hint of anger.
Questions were suspended inside her own mind, floating about even as the detective looked towards the glass partition and shook his head, shrugging one last time before he left. As the door shut behind him in a soft thud, she watched her own face change, a hint of a smile was playing in the eyes that had been expressionless for so long. Was she having an out of body experience, she wondered as she watched her own face look like that of a stranger. Was this really her, being interrogated by detectives?
Behind the glass partition, the baffled members of the district attorney's office and the detective stood sipping coffee awaiting Dr.Weldy and his psychiatric team to come evaluate the woman they had found clutching a dead terrier in her neighbour's backyard. The scene had gotten gory as they approached the house that neighbours had pointed out. While two children slept in the bedroom upstairs, a large man lay sprawled face down in a pool of blood in the hallway to the kitchen. His hair had been sheared with a knife which lay bloody and strewn and words neatly carved into his back. "Yours, Delilah" it said when the blood had been wiped and the body lay cold and glistening under scrutiny on the forensic examiner's table.
Long after rigor mortis set in, the stunned expression on that man's face was still as agonizing as it had probably been when the knife first went through his heart.
"Bonnie, are you there? Bonnie?" the deep voice cut through her oblivion and she opened her eyes taking in the kind face of a man she knew she had seen before.
"Good afternoon, Bonnie. How are you feeling today?" he asked as sat down in the chair across from her. She mumbled and tried to sit up.
"Where are the kids?" she asked. Her head was throbbing and she couldn't get the image of Billy's cold body lying on the examiner's table. Had that been a dream, she wondered quietly, her eyes unconsciously glancing over to the name plate on the desk. "Dr.John Randall Weldy" said the golden letters.
"Where are my kids?" she whispered, this time the urgency clear in her voice.
"Do you remember their names?" he asked looking over his glasses.
"What do you mean do I remember their names?!" she began her voice rising, "Billy Junior and Jean....after my sister" she answered composing herself.
"Good, that is very good" Dr.Weldy said encouragingly. His tone was making her drowsy.
He went behind his desk and returned with what looked to her stinging eyes like a large black snake. He unwound it and the belt at once gleamed in the dim yellow light of his office. She remembered that buckle, her skin had felt the nook of its metal, she had tasted the cold blood that trickled out of her back when that very buckle had hit her square across the spine.
"Do you recognize this, Bonnie?" Dr.Weldy asked.
"Yeah, yes..." she began softly but the tears were making it hard to speak.
"Are my kids ok?" she asked through a gulp, "Did I..." she began, too afraid to go on, "Did I kill him?" she finally asked, tortured by the finality of that question. Dr.Weldy surveyed her for a brief moment.
"Well, Bonnie, did you?" he asked studying her expression carefully.
He started walking towards her the belt in his hand. The buckle was mocking her now as it caught light and a reflection danced wildly on her face. His slow, determined footsteps echoed inside her head and a low toneless voice was resounding in her ears. She had heard this voice before. It was the voice she had heard in the interrogation room, it was the voice that had rung inside her head when the nurse had come in that morning.
"Back off asshole" she heard the voice say, her white knuckles clutching the arm rests.
"Bonnie" Dr.Weldy said bending down.
"Bonnie!" the voice mocked him, "You get that filthy thing away from me, asshole. Bonnie's the weakling. You're dealing with Delilah now."
"Bonnie, how are we doing?" he asked, "Does this scare you Bonnie?" he was holding the belt out.
"It might scare her but you know what...nothing scares this one here" the voice said breaking off into a high-pitched laugh. Dr.Weldy watched at once fascinated and fearful of this creature that had emerged from Bonnie's face. This face, this voice, this demeanour was not that of a woman or a remorseful wife, but that of a bully.
"You get that thing near me and I will wipe that smile off your face, baldy" she now reached out and flung the belt.
She lunged out of her chair and almost immediately felt a needle sting into her arm, subduing her voice to a gasp. The eyes changed and the smirk left her face.
"My kids...where are my kids?" she said, her expression relaxing, as her eyes closed yet again and they wheeled her out of the office.
********************************************
Dr.Weldy sat in his office studying the verses Bonnie had been scribbling every time she woke up from her deep sedation. He had emailed Dr.Drury at Princeton to see if the verses matched any known literature. Dr.Drury's reply was now in front of him, the answer presenting only more questions than before.
John,
Sorry about the delay in replying. I had trouble looking through the scanned pages you sent me. While most of it was illegible, one verse did seem quite clear. Despite a few spelling errors I was able to crack the stanza. The verse was as follows,
"To the bodies wounds and sores
With maladies innumerable
In heart, head, breast, and reins;
But must secret passage find
To th' inmost mind"
They belong to a tragic poem by Milton, titled Samson Agonistes which dramaticizes the story of Samson from the Old Testament.
Let me know if you need any more information.
RD
The email didnt shed light on much. John Weldy immediately wrote back his questions, at least a few of the odd million that had crossed his mind.
This case had been as obscure as one pulled straight out of a movie. John Weldy's life had come to standstill after having met Bonnie. He couldn't get her face out of his head. Each time he saw her, her eyes had sunk in some more. All she asked him about now was her kids. He had been instructed by the police to not inform her about their location for the sake of the children's protection. And then there was the bleak face of Delilah which emerged every now and then from Bonnie's soft features, like that of an abused, angry animal. The same eyes, the same frail face, but such a contrasting countenance. Each time he wanted to tell Bonnie that her children were safe with their grandmother, Delilah's angry face flashed before him and told him not to.
Weldy had been shocked at the scars and bruises all over Bonnie's back. Evidence indicated that the abuse had been long and traumatic. This would be his first case of dissociate personality disorder and he had been reading and researching all day to try and understand the psyche of this woman, who the police had said was their only suspect.
It was time to call it a night, he finally decided. It was after midnight, way past his bedtime. And just before heading off to bed John Weldy decided to test his luck. A quick search on the internet won't take too long, he told himself. 107,000 pages of information came up, on his first search for Samson Agonistes. He clicked on the first link not hoping to find much and then something caught his eye. As his eyes skimmed the details, he found the one detail that stood out, clear as daylight. Weldy pushed his glasses back and slowly took in the details in disbelief. Goose bumps began to scale his arms. Everything seemed to fit.
"Delilah, the wife of Samson who had betrayed him...his locks had been sheared, his strength had been stolen...a death had to take place -- his death, Samson's death"
********************************************
As she was wheeled into the lobby, she noticed new faces, faces that had not been there.
"Where is Nurse White?" she asked the young nurse who was wheeling her through the glass hallways.
"Umm, I'm sorry, I don't really know a Nurse White" replied the young girl. She seemed barely out of college.
As Bonnie turned to look into the glass panels, an old weary face looked back at her.
That couldn't be me, she thought as she squinted and touched the hair on her head. It had been days since she'd been rolled out into the lobby. The day of the trial was the last she remembered. Her mother-in-law had dropped off a letter and pictures of Billy Junior and Jean. She had worn a lavender suit and sat sedated through the trial, faces of the jury weaving in and out of her delusions.
The glass panel ended and at the far end of the hallway stood a tall man in a dark suit. He seemed familiar. Even from this far, his frame and the way he stood seemed to move something inside her. The slideshow that had mellowed over the years came back again. Those were the eyes, she realized as she came closer. that had looked at her in shock when she dug the knife deep into his heart. Light caught the brown hues of this man's hair bringing back memories, of the locks she had once put away in her musical jewellery box. How they had been strewn mercilessly over the floor of the hallway that fateful night. God alone knew how much time had passed but she could still hear the neighbour's terrier barking even now as if it had been last night. His paws scraping the glass windows, his whining boiling inside her head, turning things to a blur.
Her wheelchair was nearing the beige lobby. The man that stood at the end of the hallway was now walking towards her. His face caught her like a sudden gale and she could feel her throat clamming shut. His footsteps were burning her ears sending a wicked chill through her spine. How was this possible? Could he still be....was he still alive, she thought. The memory of the wound on her spine came back like a ghost as she stared into the same blue eyes. Those were the eyes that had widened and then frozen in shock, when metal had snuffed his heartbeat that night. The blue eyes that had looked at her one last time, like two haunting mirrors in the face of her betrayal, were now looking down at her, brimming with a smile, with a mysterious sorrow.
"Billy!" she gasped, touching the face that had lived now only in her dreams. Gone was the desolate look that alcohol had poured into the beautiful blue eyes. They were as clear as they had been on the night of their last kiss. These eyes were the ones she had fallen in love with, before all the bitterness began. Her lips could not move. She was back in the throes of that one night when they had made love, for the very last time. She was falling fast through the scenes, a white wedding, the two beautiful babies, the laughter. She clutched the fabric of his shirt.
"Oh Billy" she whispered, her mind answering to a different world.
"How've you been?" he said finally, peering into her brown eyes, his voice hoarse from holding back his own tears.
"How've you been, Ma?" he repeated,louder this time, trying hard to break through her glazed look, as she crumbled into his arms yet again, lost, like she had been every time she saw him.
"Do I love you, Billy?" she whispered, as he buried his tears on his mother's shoulder, "Or do I hate you?"
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Adventures Of Mahasahasrapramardini Namboodiripad: A Confused Desi In Bombay
I don't like the term ABCD (American Born Confused Desi). I really don't. Most of my American Born Desi friends are a lot together at times than I am and it makes feel sheepish when they are called "confused". One of my closest friends is an American Born Desi (ABD) and has had Indian graduate students, fresh off the boat, greet her very politely and ask "Oh, are you an ABCD?".
"Well, I'm not that confused....most times," she replies through her teeth, trying to blow off the unintended insult with some humor while the student blushes at the faux-pas.
But the one area in which the "C" probably does apply, is to all things Desi. My ABD friend has some of the most interesting questions about things that are quite obvious to me. For the entertainment of desi readers I am about to list some of the most interesting, and may I say hilarious, questions that my friend, Mahasahasrapramardini Namboodiripad (**name changed upon request**) has managed to ask me thus far. Most of these questions were posed on a recent visit to India, MN's very first trip to Bombay. And we all know, Bombay's no place for a novice, now don't we?
So here goes:
1. While watching a boxer short clad Shakti Kapoor dancing in David Dhavan's Raja Babu, we had the following exchange:
MN: He looks SO much different than the rest of his brothers.
Me (quite impressed that she knew Shakti Kapoor had brothers): Umm, really?
MN: Of course! I mean Rishi Kapoor is quite good looking and he looks nothing like any of the other ones.
2. While watching a scene from a 70s movie where the heroine's blouse has been ripped and the villain switches off the light:
MN (suddenly yelling): What? What? WHAT?
Me (alarmed): What happened?
MN: I don't know what happened? He switched off the bloody lights!
3. Looking out of a building window at jam packed local trains:
MN: Are those people hanging outside because its too hot inside?
4. This particular incident amused my driver no end. We were stuck in a traffic jam and had a Shiv Sena van in front of us with Balasaheb Thackeray's life size picture on the back. In the picture, Shri Thackeray was wearing a flowing saffron kurta and tulsi beads around his neck as always. A phone number for the Shiv Sena office was printed underneath.
MN: Oh, lets try calling that number.
Me (baffled): Why would you want to do that?!
MN: I wanted to get my horoscope read on this India trip.
Me: Yeah, so?
MN: Well, isn't that a babaji? (pointing to the picture)
5. I received a letter from my friend Preetiman (a Bengali name, I believe).
MN: Does he put Man after his name because Preeti is a woman's name?
6. While handing over alms to a little beggar boy:
MN (to the little boy, much to his confusion): You won't give this to the underworld dons like in the film Traffic Signal, will you?
7. Our driver told her of all the impressive real estate values and how people spent obscene amounts of money in malls etc. After listening to him speak for at least fifteen minutes or so:
MN: What is lakhs? Is that like a piece of gold or something?
8. Having heard about Goregaon and the Aarey milk colony she reached Bombay with quite a list of things she wanted to see. My dad, ever the eager tourist guide, asked what all she wanted to see.
MN: Would it cost too much to see buffaloes being given a bath? I want to take pictures.
9. To the paani-puri wallah who handed her her first puri with the spiced water:
MN: Ek hi milta hai ke aur ek milega? (Do I get just one or can I get one more?)
Paani-puri wallah: Madam, aap bologe to pura theila de doon? (Madam, if you'd like I could give you the whole sack of puris.)
10. On her must-see list was the Gateway Of India and when we reached the place, she got out of the car and turned to me, her brows knitted:
Me (a bit irritated): What? You don't like the Gateway of India? They can't revamp it you know.
MN: Are you sure this is it?
Me: Umm, yeah (starting to get mad). Why?
MN: Where is that flame?
Me: What flame?
MN: The flame of the eternal warrior...Amar Jawan Jyoti?
10. After we got off a crowded train in Bombay:
MN (trying to sound casual): Is it normal for people to pinch your bottom here?
[I stopped dead in my tracks and threw her an exasperated look.]
MN: I mean, should one protest if somebody pinches your bottom...I wasn't sure what the system was.
11. Our driver was very happy to show a foreigner around town. He happily pointed out the majestic Haaji Ali in the middle of the ocean:
MN: Do they give prashaad there? I'm hungry.
12. On our return flight to the US, we had a man clad in a Madrasi lungi folded twice upto his upper thighs. MN stared at him long and hard and then turned to me.
MN: Can I have the camera?
13. There was a major water deficit in Bombay during the month of our visit and when MN turned the tap on and nothing happened, she bit her lip and started walking towards the second bathroom:
MN (gesturing us to follow): Come on, maybe there is water in the other tap.
14: To a harassed looking paav bhaaji stall owner at Juhu chowpatty
MN: Do you accept credit cards?
15. Having waited in the rain for a while, MN finally got into a taxi.
MN: Siddhivinayak Temple
Taxi driver: Nahi janeka hai (I don't wanna go there).
MN (not accustomed to having public transport providers refuse passengers): Lekin mujhe jaana hain! (But I wanna go there!).
"Well, I'm not that confused....most times," she replies through her teeth, trying to blow off the unintended insult with some humor while the student blushes at the faux-pas.
But the one area in which the "C" probably does apply, is to all things Desi. My ABD friend has some of the most interesting questions about things that are quite obvious to me. For the entertainment of desi readers I am about to list some of the most interesting, and may I say hilarious, questions that my friend, Mahasahasrapramardini Namboodiripad (**name changed upon request**) has managed to ask me thus far. Most of these questions were posed on a recent visit to India, MN's very first trip to Bombay. And we all know, Bombay's no place for a novice, now don't we?
So here goes:
1. While watching a boxer short clad Shakti Kapoor dancing in David Dhavan's Raja Babu, we had the following exchange:
MN: He looks SO much different than the rest of his brothers.
Me (quite impressed that she knew Shakti Kapoor had brothers): Umm, really?
MN: Of course! I mean Rishi Kapoor is quite good looking and he looks nothing like any of the other ones.
2. While watching a scene from a 70s movie where the heroine's blouse has been ripped and the villain switches off the light:
MN (suddenly yelling): What? What? WHAT?
Me (alarmed): What happened?
MN: I don't know what happened? He switched off the bloody lights!
3. Looking out of a building window at jam packed local trains:
MN: Are those people hanging outside because its too hot inside?
4. This particular incident amused my driver no end. We were stuck in a traffic jam and had a Shiv Sena van in front of us with Balasaheb Thackeray's life size picture on the back. In the picture, Shri Thackeray was wearing a flowing saffron kurta and tulsi beads around his neck as always. A phone number for the Shiv Sena office was printed underneath.
MN: Oh, lets try calling that number.
Me (baffled): Why would you want to do that?!
MN: I wanted to get my horoscope read on this India trip.
Me: Yeah, so?
MN: Well, isn't that a babaji? (pointing to the picture)
5. I received a letter from my friend Preetiman (a Bengali name, I believe).
MN: Does he put Man after his name because Preeti is a woman's name?
6. While handing over alms to a little beggar boy:
MN (to the little boy, much to his confusion): You won't give this to the underworld dons like in the film Traffic Signal, will you?
7. Our driver told her of all the impressive real estate values and how people spent obscene amounts of money in malls etc. After listening to him speak for at least fifteen minutes or so:
MN: What is lakhs? Is that like a piece of gold or something?
8. Having heard about Goregaon and the Aarey milk colony she reached Bombay with quite a list of things she wanted to see. My dad, ever the eager tourist guide, asked what all she wanted to see.
MN: Would it cost too much to see buffaloes being given a bath? I want to take pictures.
9. To the paani-puri wallah who handed her her first puri with the spiced water:
MN: Ek hi milta hai ke aur ek milega? (Do I get just one or can I get one more?)
Paani-puri wallah: Madam, aap bologe to pura theila de doon? (Madam, if you'd like I could give you the whole sack of puris.)
10. On her must-see list was the Gateway Of India and when we reached the place, she got out of the car and turned to me, her brows knitted:
Me (a bit irritated): What? You don't like the Gateway of India? They can't revamp it you know.
MN: Are you sure this is it?
Me: Umm, yeah (starting to get mad). Why?
MN: Where is that flame?
Me: What flame?
MN: The flame of the eternal warrior...Amar Jawan Jyoti?
10. After we got off a crowded train in Bombay:
MN (trying to sound casual): Is it normal for people to pinch your bottom here?
[I stopped dead in my tracks and threw her an exasperated look.]
MN: I mean, should one protest if somebody pinches your bottom...I wasn't sure what the system was.
11. Our driver was very happy to show a foreigner around town. He happily pointed out the majestic Haaji Ali in the middle of the ocean:
MN: Do they give prashaad there? I'm hungry.
12. On our return flight to the US, we had a man clad in a Madrasi lungi folded twice upto his upper thighs. MN stared at him long and hard and then turned to me.
MN: Can I have the camera?
13. There was a major water deficit in Bombay during the month of our visit and when MN turned the tap on and nothing happened, she bit her lip and started walking towards the second bathroom:
MN (gesturing us to follow): Come on, maybe there is water in the other tap.
14: To a harassed looking paav bhaaji stall owner at Juhu chowpatty
MN: Do you accept credit cards?
15. Having waited in the rain for a while, MN finally got into a taxi.
MN: Siddhivinayak Temple
Taxi driver: Nahi janeka hai (I don't wanna go there).
MN (not accustomed to having public transport providers refuse passengers): Lekin mujhe jaana hain! (But I wanna go there!).
Ocean's Thirteen
I guess I like being in touch with my masculine side. Not only do I hate the mushy chick-flicks but j'adore the other four: drama, thrillers, comedy and even action. If there ever was a movie that could have encompassed all four in its theme, it was the Ocean's series.
Danny Ocean and his gang are back, reportedly for the last time in Ocean's Thirteen.
The impressive ensemble star cast, I will not list and if I reveal the plot, I will be doing you movie buffs, a great disservice. So this should be a pretty short review, right? Wrong!
Deceived by his associate Willy Bank, Reuben, of the Ocean's crew suffers a heart attack. Being swindled out of the partnership for a new Las Vegas Hotel & Casino renders him mum and bedridden. The Ocean's team gathers around like true friends do, to survey the losses ready as ever to get even. And they do it in such style.
As each member is assigned a casino game to rig or ruin, the plot gets busier. The many facets of the strategy only add to the electric drama and surprisingly, do not interfere with the pace of the film. While the first half of the movie builds the momentum, the latter half unleashes the plot bit by delicious bit.
The Clooney-Pitt rapport, blithe as always, adds to the humor and so does Matt Damon playing the eager thug-in-training. Andy Garcia with his smoking Cuban and an equally smoking smile, add the right touch of pazzaz to this film.
The cinematography is rich and fulgent like the Las Vegas casino where most of the film has been shot. The sets are beautiful, the men are gorgeous and there is no greater high than the one of sweet revenge as Willy Banker's dream casino is played ruthlessly to the ground by the Ocean's trifling thirteen.
Whoever said 13 was an unlucky number?!
Danny Ocean and his gang are back, reportedly for the last time in Ocean's Thirteen.
The impressive ensemble star cast, I will not list and if I reveal the plot, I will be doing you movie buffs, a great disservice. So this should be a pretty short review, right? Wrong!
Deceived by his associate Willy Bank, Reuben, of the Ocean's crew suffers a heart attack. Being swindled out of the partnership for a new Las Vegas Hotel & Casino renders him mum and bedridden. The Ocean's team gathers around like true friends do, to survey the losses ready as ever to get even. And they do it in such style.
As each member is assigned a casino game to rig or ruin, the plot gets busier. The many facets of the strategy only add to the electric drama and surprisingly, do not interfere with the pace of the film. While the first half of the movie builds the momentum, the latter half unleashes the plot bit by delicious bit.
The Clooney-Pitt rapport, blithe as always, adds to the humor and so does Matt Damon playing the eager thug-in-training. Andy Garcia with his smoking Cuban and an equally smoking smile, add the right touch of pazzaz to this film.
The cinematography is rich and fulgent like the Las Vegas casino where most of the film has been shot. The sets are beautiful, the men are gorgeous and there is no greater high than the one of sweet revenge as Willy Banker's dream casino is played ruthlessly to the ground by the Ocean's trifling thirteen.
Whoever said 13 was an unlucky number?!
Thursday, July 05, 2007
The Fiery Masala Of Female Sexuality: Mira Nair & Her Bold Female Protagonists
"Wish me a happy birthday" whispered the sultry Mina to her lover after a long night of leisurely love-making.
This is a scene from Mississippi Masala, the love story of an interracial couple starring Sarita Chaudhary-Denzel Washington. While the affair brings to boil the cultural stew, the delicate handling of the love scene heats up the raw chemistry between the two actors.
In a seemingly simplest of scenes the two lovers speak softly over the telephone. Mina's thigh lays exposed from under the sheets, her bronze skin catching just the right shades of yellow light, her shy smile lighting up the scene.
The strong sense of sexuality that the female protagonists of Mira Nair's films portray was unmistakable in Mississipi Masala as with her other movies.
Monsoon Wedding had two shades of female sexuality each of which spelled emancipation in contrasting manifestations. In this wedding-family drama, while the bride Aditi comes to terms with a pre-marital affair before moving on to a life of conjugal bliss, cousin Ria finally faces the ugly demons of early sexual abuse by an uncle.
In Salaam Bombay, the two lives of prostitutes in Bombay are explored. While Rekha is on the brink of escaping the depravity of the flesh trade, Sola Saal is sent out to entertain her first client thus beginning a journey down an abysmal path.
In The Perez Family, the wildly sensual Dorita Perez brings color, spice and zest to a great storyline. One doesn't know whether to credit Mira Nair's directorial abilities or the script for the juxtaposition of young versus mature sexuality in this film but the sheer contrast of these two facets made it a more appealing story.
Ashok and Ashima Ganguli the characters of Mira Nair's The Namesake, arrive in the United States as immigrants, their new betrothal a product of a traditionally arranged alliance. The handling of the scene of their first awkward night of coupling is near perfect. The audience can feel the inhibitions giving way and the intimacy building. Moushmi, Gogol's love interest explodes onto the screen, her pouted lips and insolent admissions of ex-lovers, exuding bold sexuality made more apparent by the clever camera angles than merely by her body language.
In a discussion about Ms.Nair's handling of female sexuality, one cannot leave out Kama Sutra, A Tale Of Love, the story of the sensual exploration of two women, a princess and her servant. It reminds us that sexuality, treated as a taboo in Indian society, was in ancient times an art worthy of exploration.
It is said that art imitates life and I have often wondered why female sexuality is so blatantly ignored in films. Popular Indian cinema exploits the lowest form of female sexuality by incorporating exposed bodies and cheap meaningless lust that serves only to plant misconceptions into the impressionable youth living in a society that regards sexuality like somewhat of a forbidden fruit. In a laughable display of ignorance, effigies are burnt and protests are voiced when a filmmaker chooses to deviate from what is considered proper and accepted.
Male filmmakers, no matter how liberal in their thinking, often lose out on the effervescence of the more sensationalist approach of a female firecracker by sticking to the trodden path. A female protagonist who is outspoken, confident of her abilities and displays self-assured body language would be deemed too threatening and is rarely seen.
A shy, blushing damsel is usually gets credited as the lead. As a result most films portray men as the ones making the first move and are assumed to be the sexually aggressive ones. The propriety of a love scene is determined by the intensity with which a man kisses a woman before the curtain falls. Mira Nair in her films brings a refreshing sense of power in her subtle yet bold undertones of female sensuality.
In Mississippi Masala, when Denzel Washington crooned "Happy Birthday", he could've put Marilyn Monroe's birthday song for Kennedy to shame.
This is a scene from Mississippi Masala, the love story of an interracial couple starring Sarita Chaudhary-Denzel Washington. While the affair brings to boil the cultural stew, the delicate handling of the love scene heats up the raw chemistry between the two actors.
In a seemingly simplest of scenes the two lovers speak softly over the telephone. Mina's thigh lays exposed from under the sheets, her bronze skin catching just the right shades of yellow light, her shy smile lighting up the scene.
The strong sense of sexuality that the female protagonists of Mira Nair's films portray was unmistakable in Mississipi Masala as with her other movies.
Monsoon Wedding had two shades of female sexuality each of which spelled emancipation in contrasting manifestations. In this wedding-family drama, while the bride Aditi comes to terms with a pre-marital affair before moving on to a life of conjugal bliss, cousin Ria finally faces the ugly demons of early sexual abuse by an uncle.
In Salaam Bombay, the two lives of prostitutes in Bombay are explored. While Rekha is on the brink of escaping the depravity of the flesh trade, Sola Saal is sent out to entertain her first client thus beginning a journey down an abysmal path.
In The Perez Family, the wildly sensual Dorita Perez brings color, spice and zest to a great storyline. One doesn't know whether to credit Mira Nair's directorial abilities or the script for the juxtaposition of young versus mature sexuality in this film but the sheer contrast of these two facets made it a more appealing story.
Ashok and Ashima Ganguli the characters of Mira Nair's The Namesake, arrive in the United States as immigrants, their new betrothal a product of a traditionally arranged alliance. The handling of the scene of their first awkward night of coupling is near perfect. The audience can feel the inhibitions giving way and the intimacy building. Moushmi, Gogol's love interest explodes onto the screen, her pouted lips and insolent admissions of ex-lovers, exuding bold sexuality made more apparent by the clever camera angles than merely by her body language.
In a discussion about Ms.Nair's handling of female sexuality, one cannot leave out Kama Sutra, A Tale Of Love, the story of the sensual exploration of two women, a princess and her servant. It reminds us that sexuality, treated as a taboo in Indian society, was in ancient times an art worthy of exploration.
It is said that art imitates life and I have often wondered why female sexuality is so blatantly ignored in films. Popular Indian cinema exploits the lowest form of female sexuality by incorporating exposed bodies and cheap meaningless lust that serves only to plant misconceptions into the impressionable youth living in a society that regards sexuality like somewhat of a forbidden fruit. In a laughable display of ignorance, effigies are burnt and protests are voiced when a filmmaker chooses to deviate from what is considered proper and accepted.
Male filmmakers, no matter how liberal in their thinking, often lose out on the effervescence of the more sensationalist approach of a female firecracker by sticking to the trodden path. A female protagonist who is outspoken, confident of her abilities and displays self-assured body language would be deemed too threatening and is rarely seen.
A shy, blushing damsel is usually gets credited as the lead. As a result most films portray men as the ones making the first move and are assumed to be the sexually aggressive ones. The propriety of a love scene is determined by the intensity with which a man kisses a woman before the curtain falls. Mira Nair in her films brings a refreshing sense of power in her subtle yet bold undertones of female sensuality.
In Mississippi Masala, when Denzel Washington crooned "Happy Birthday", he could've put Marilyn Monroe's birthday song for Kennedy to shame.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Shootout At Lokhandwala A Cop Out?
There was a time when Bombay's underworld had a presence that could put the Italian mafia to shame. Right from the slum thickets of Dharavi to the posh locales of Lokhandwala, the bhai-log reigned. They wielded pistols, AK-47s and at times even the hooked Ram Puri. A single call from Dubai executed threats, quick extortions and even death sentences. Money was delivered in "petis" and "khokas" and the "ghoda" arrived tucked under the belts of trigger-happy men who figured that a hafta would pay their bills better than the humble salary of a hawaldar.
From the paan-wallahs' tiny shanties to the builders' air-conditioned offices, all fractions of Bombay quaked at the mention of bhai's name. I remember a time when a few struggling young men would, one fine day, buy a flat in one of Bombay's elite complexes and within a matter of months move their families out of the shoddy chawls where they had spent their frustrated lives.
While everybody wondered about how they had made it big, their naive mothers spoke of how their sons' fortunes had changed overnight ever since they joined the "company". Restaurant owners, bhajiwallahs and even jewellers offered their goods for free when bhai's family went window shopping. It has been difficult since then to guage who really makes or marrs the law in Bombay.
Shootout At Lokhandwala brings us the story of Maya Dolas (played by Vivek Oberoi) and Dilip Kokak alias Bhuva (played by Tusshar Kapoor) who were killed in a Lokhandwala encounter in 1991. Controversy still shrouds this encounter and like most police encounters, its legitimacy and intent is questioned every now and then.
Inspired by true events but highly dramatized as is expected of the Bollywood factory, this film surprisingly evokes neither empathy nor awe. It brings us a farcical version of Bombay underworld dramas like Satya and Company. What was director Apporva Lakhia thinking, I wondered through several exaggerated scenes.
I rolled my eyes when Amitabh Bachchan banged his desk rudely bellowing "Shut Up!" for no apparent reason. Thankfully it shut-up Suniel Shetty whose sluggish dialogue delivery, I concluded in hindsight, might've been the reason for Mr.Bachchan's sudden outburst.
Sanjay Dutt's role was elevated to that of a police demigod. Dramatic background scores played as Sanju Baba walked in slow-mo towards the site of the shootout, nudging away a bullet-proof vest offered to him by officers. Stray, half-done snippets were scattered throughout the storyline as a poor substitute for windows into some of the characters. These attempts barely scratched the surface and left the plot seeming even more inadequate than it would've if these peeks had been left out altogether.
A single bosom heaving session in one odd drunken song could've been left out for a relevant scene but no! A Bollywood film without the right doses of naach-gaana is like bhai-giri without a pistol.
The story narrated from the one-dimensional perspective of the police officers being interviewed in an enquiry session brings no insight into the complex personas of the three most interesting characters that this film could've potentially explored further: Maya, Bhuva and Maya's mother Aai.
Vivek Oberoi sports not only the same unshaven look but even the exact disposition that brought him fame with Company. He is somewhat of a natural at being the bhai though. Tusshar Kapoor does very little justice to what is known through police files and crime records about Dilip Bhuva, one of the most ruthless and cold blooded henchmen of the D-Company in Bombay. His gruff appearance did very little to mask the high-pitched, boyish voice and one wonders if his acting efforts were hampered by the film partly being a mummy-didi home production. Also, I had trouble deciding which one of the two was wasted, Amrita Singh or the character of Aai which could've used a few more poignant shades.
Honestly, a few years ago I would've been thoroughly impressed by Shootout At Lokhandwala simply because it wasn't yet another love/ wedding story and because it atleast tried to capture a true story. In the intervening years, however, films like Black Friday, Satya and Company have raised my expectations of films based on Bombay's underworld. Scenes of a car being blown up, a hundred rounds of ammo being fired and a script garnished with foul language just doesn't evoke any acute emotion. Meaningless action falls off one's pysche by the sheer lack of a storyline.
Come to think of it, what could've been more powerful than the true story of ruthless gangsters all under the age of 30 who were so taken by the conscienceless life of the underworld that they did not see their own doom over the glitzy horizon? But overdramatization, the trademark of mainstream Hindi cinema, is a cruel cop out that takes away the raw and moving realism that is characteriztic of stories inspired by true events.
Sadly, dried blood being sweeped off the Lokhandwala complex and the bodies of dead gangsters piled up after an encounter does not tell the audience what to feel. The goosebumps stayed locked in the stories behind the dead faces; the stories that were left unexplored by this film.
From the paan-wallahs' tiny shanties to the builders' air-conditioned offices, all fractions of Bombay quaked at the mention of bhai's name. I remember a time when a few struggling young men would, one fine day, buy a flat in one of Bombay's elite complexes and within a matter of months move their families out of the shoddy chawls where they had spent their frustrated lives.
While everybody wondered about how they had made it big, their naive mothers spoke of how their sons' fortunes had changed overnight ever since they joined the "company". Restaurant owners, bhajiwallahs and even jewellers offered their goods for free when bhai's family went window shopping. It has been difficult since then to guage who really makes or marrs the law in Bombay.
Shootout At Lokhandwala brings us the story of Maya Dolas (played by Vivek Oberoi) and Dilip Kokak alias Bhuva (played by Tusshar Kapoor) who were killed in a Lokhandwala encounter in 1991. Controversy still shrouds this encounter and like most police encounters, its legitimacy and intent is questioned every now and then.
Inspired by true events but highly dramatized as is expected of the Bollywood factory, this film surprisingly evokes neither empathy nor awe. It brings us a farcical version of Bombay underworld dramas like Satya and Company. What was director Apporva Lakhia thinking, I wondered through several exaggerated scenes.
I rolled my eyes when Amitabh Bachchan banged his desk rudely bellowing "Shut Up!" for no apparent reason. Thankfully it shut-up Suniel Shetty whose sluggish dialogue delivery, I concluded in hindsight, might've been the reason for Mr.Bachchan's sudden outburst.
Sanjay Dutt's role was elevated to that of a police demigod. Dramatic background scores played as Sanju Baba walked in slow-mo towards the site of the shootout, nudging away a bullet-proof vest offered to him by officers. Stray, half-done snippets were scattered throughout the storyline as a poor substitute for windows into some of the characters. These attempts barely scratched the surface and left the plot seeming even more inadequate than it would've if these peeks had been left out altogether.
A single bosom heaving session in one odd drunken song could've been left out for a relevant scene but no! A Bollywood film without the right doses of naach-gaana is like bhai-giri without a pistol.
The story narrated from the one-dimensional perspective of the police officers being interviewed in an enquiry session brings no insight into the complex personas of the three most interesting characters that this film could've potentially explored further: Maya, Bhuva and Maya's mother Aai.
Vivek Oberoi sports not only the same unshaven look but even the exact disposition that brought him fame with Company. He is somewhat of a natural at being the bhai though. Tusshar Kapoor does very little justice to what is known through police files and crime records about Dilip Bhuva, one of the most ruthless and cold blooded henchmen of the D-Company in Bombay. His gruff appearance did very little to mask the high-pitched, boyish voice and one wonders if his acting efforts were hampered by the film partly being a mummy-didi home production. Also, I had trouble deciding which one of the two was wasted, Amrita Singh or the character of Aai which could've used a few more poignant shades.
Honestly, a few years ago I would've been thoroughly impressed by Shootout At Lokhandwala simply because it wasn't yet another love/ wedding story and because it atleast tried to capture a true story. In the intervening years, however, films like Black Friday, Satya and Company have raised my expectations of films based on Bombay's underworld. Scenes of a car being blown up, a hundred rounds of ammo being fired and a script garnished with foul language just doesn't evoke any acute emotion. Meaningless action falls off one's pysche by the sheer lack of a storyline.
Come to think of it, what could've been more powerful than the true story of ruthless gangsters all under the age of 30 who were so taken by the conscienceless life of the underworld that they did not see their own doom over the glitzy horizon? But overdramatization, the trademark of mainstream Hindi cinema, is a cruel cop out that takes away the raw and moving realism that is characteriztic of stories inspired by true events.
Sadly, dried blood being sweeped off the Lokhandwala complex and the bodies of dead gangsters piled up after an encounter does not tell the audience what to feel. The goosebumps stayed locked in the stories behind the dead faces; the stories that were left unexplored by this film.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Horn Ok Please!
The rains began coming down in torrents. I rolled down my window and took in the fresh smell of wet soil and a few pleasant drops. The breeze rushed in, bringing the tangy aroma of chaat from nearby stalls and stopped abruptly as the traffic brought us to a standstill. A long queue of cars, buses, trucks, rickshaws waited in the rain, scooters and motorcycles occasionally weaving in and out of the dense mesh. Everybody honked once in a while as if to make their presence felt. The shrill notes of a rickshaw mingled with the low boom of a honking truck.
Our car too let out a delicate squeal and contributed towards the growing traffic symphony.
"Why did you honk?" I asked our driver and his usually neutral, shy face gave way to a sheepish smile. He shrugged and I felt bad about having put him on the spot.
"I just asked out of curiosity" I persisted. A few, long seconds of silence passed and then just as I was about to make yet another attempt at breaking the silence, he cleared his throat.
"Madam, what to do?" he began in a thick Bihari accent, "The rickshaw-wallahs need passengers and so they dilly-dally looking around for their girahik. If I don't honk they don't move."
"Yes, but this is a whole line of stalled vehicles" I asked almost wanting to kick myself in the ass for sounding so argumentative. I couldn't believe I was making my driver feel bad when cars all around us were sounding random beeps. He sank into the silent mode again. A hush fell around us as people settled down into the jam and stopped voicing their impatience with honks.
People were done honking and were now waiting silently hoping for a traffic policeman to come save them from this mess. A few cars down, a truck driver and a bus conductor were arguing relentlessly over who should budge.
To my great astonishment after a couple of minutes, my driver began to giggle.
"You want to see something funny, madam?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Sure" I said. Entertainment in a traffic jam was more than welcome.
Suddenly and without warning our driver hit the center of the steering wheel and the car let out a sharp, long peal. Immediately, the cars in front of us honked and soon everybody in the line was honking.
"Chain reaction" my driver softly muttered in satisfaction, pointing over to a tea shanty. I looked around trying to figure out what it was the he was showing me. And then I saw him. Under an umbrella tied to a chair was a traffic policeman snoozing with his cap over his face. He stirred a few times and the sudden and insistent honking finally roused him from his deep reverie. He wiggled out of the chair, his face a picture of chagrin. He pulled up his trousers over an inflated belly and surveyed the scene while getting into a yellow raincoat. His red lips were rotating furiously over a mouthful of tobacco like alike a clockwork being unwound. He slowly and very self-importantly sauntered over to the front of the waiting traffic and waved his hands about, till the truck and the bus that had been clogging this intense bottle-neck finally moved. The vehicles began to inch forward and in a matter of minutes, the jam disloged. We were on our way, the breeze toying with my hair again and stray raindrops tickling my nose.
I looked over in awe at our driver who was beaming. He honked playfully and looked over at me.
"In Bombay, this is not a horn, Madam. It is an alarm clock for Mamu-log", he said, his shoulders bobbing in mirth.
Note: For those unfamiliar with Bombay lingo: Girahik: Passenger/ Customer, Mamu-log: Traffic policemen, hawaldars, police or anyone really! Also, the title "Horn Ok Please" is a message commonly found as bumper stickers on trucks that have an atrociously wide blind-spot.
Our car too let out a delicate squeal and contributed towards the growing traffic symphony.
"Why did you honk?" I asked our driver and his usually neutral, shy face gave way to a sheepish smile. He shrugged and I felt bad about having put him on the spot.
"I just asked out of curiosity" I persisted. A few, long seconds of silence passed and then just as I was about to make yet another attempt at breaking the silence, he cleared his throat.
"Madam, what to do?" he began in a thick Bihari accent, "The rickshaw-wallahs need passengers and so they dilly-dally looking around for their girahik. If I don't honk they don't move."
"Yes, but this is a whole line of stalled vehicles" I asked almost wanting to kick myself in the ass for sounding so argumentative. I couldn't believe I was making my driver feel bad when cars all around us were sounding random beeps. He sank into the silent mode again. A hush fell around us as people settled down into the jam and stopped voicing their impatience with honks.
People were done honking and were now waiting silently hoping for a traffic policeman to come save them from this mess. A few cars down, a truck driver and a bus conductor were arguing relentlessly over who should budge.
To my great astonishment after a couple of minutes, my driver began to giggle.
"You want to see something funny, madam?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Sure" I said. Entertainment in a traffic jam was more than welcome.
Suddenly and without warning our driver hit the center of the steering wheel and the car let out a sharp, long peal. Immediately, the cars in front of us honked and soon everybody in the line was honking.
"Chain reaction" my driver softly muttered in satisfaction, pointing over to a tea shanty. I looked around trying to figure out what it was the he was showing me. And then I saw him. Under an umbrella tied to a chair was a traffic policeman snoozing with his cap over his face. He stirred a few times and the sudden and insistent honking finally roused him from his deep reverie. He wiggled out of the chair, his face a picture of chagrin. He pulled up his trousers over an inflated belly and surveyed the scene while getting into a yellow raincoat. His red lips were rotating furiously over a mouthful of tobacco like alike a clockwork being unwound. He slowly and very self-importantly sauntered over to the front of the waiting traffic and waved his hands about, till the truck and the bus that had been clogging this intense bottle-neck finally moved. The vehicles began to inch forward and in a matter of minutes, the jam disloged. We were on our way, the breeze toying with my hair again and stray raindrops tickling my nose.
I looked over in awe at our driver who was beaming. He honked playfully and looked over at me.
"In Bombay, this is not a horn, Madam. It is an alarm clock for Mamu-log", he said, his shoulders bobbing in mirth.
Note: For those unfamiliar with Bombay lingo: Girahik: Passenger/ Customer, Mamu-log: Traffic policemen, hawaldars, police or anyone really! Also, the title "Horn Ok Please" is a message commonly found as bumper stickers on trucks that have an atrociously wide blind-spot.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Mumbai Se Aaya Mera Dost-1
My recent visit to India was wonderfully gratifying and deeply disturbing all at the same time. I was shooting a documentary film and got to witness a part and people of Bombay that I hadn't scrutinized before.
These faces and places had been lost to the busy commute and bustling crowds when I lived in the city some years ago but as we focused our lenses on them, they became more and more interesting and the crowd fell away. What stood out then, is the medley of contradictions that Bombay has now become.
Odd juxtapositions are now more noticeable than ever. Tall skyscrapers fringed by an abysmal slum area, large malls coming up beside rows of chawls and glitzy showrooms right next to the humble furniture workshops that work in the light of a single yellow bulb. Bombay's own sophisticated versions of Costco towers above harassed heads of the city's loyal bhaaji-wallahs and vendors. Simple, cotton kurtas hang forlorn from the street shanties at Linking Road and Dadar, the mirrors and sequins on their soft fabric winking at the spotless windows of a shopping center where similar ones are sold at thrice the price.
I heave a sigh of relief on noticing that the pav-bhaaji shack is still intact beside a brand new Pizza Hut. In the United States, McDonald's is a fast-food chain and in Bombay it is a family restaurant where people eat a less delectable version of the city's staple "vada-paav" for at least ten times its price.
While the middle class struggles for basic amenities, the malls have twenty-four hours of electricity and running water. On the day of a power outage, these malls stand magnificently lit up, their rich and arrogant frames looking down on the darkness of the city.
The chasm between the rich and the poor has widened dangerously and the pit of crime that bridges the two, threatens to swallow the frustrated. There are street kids doing drugs on railway bridges and rich brats doing drugs in dim lit discotheques. Kamathipura continues to exist like a parallel city mocking those of us who still believe in the power of the legal system.
How inured have we become, I wonder, as I watch children frolicking on a swing tied to the pillars of the busy Andheri flyover. By the time one flyover is done being constructed, work will begun on yet another and Bombay will always move in slow motion while contractors and political moghuls pull in the riches. There is an upside to all of this. The poor then find a new concrete roof above their heads. One day, the monsoons arrive like they did last year on 26th July and flood these lives, trying in their own cruel way to purge the city.
When I want to click pictures of a wide-eyed street child I am glared at.
"Why don't you click pictures of the Taj, Madam?" a man asks me, "Why you want Amrikka to see beggars?" he chides, as he fills paper cones with spiced gram and chopped onions.
"Channa chor garam," he calls out to passers-by and if it weren't for my intolerance of denial, I realize, I probably would've been thoroughly impressed by his sense of pride.
Our driver who witnesses this exchange has an entirely different take. He shakes his head vehemently as he pulls the car deftly in and out of potholes, barely missing the rickshaw ahead.
"Who cares if Amrikka sees the rip in our vest?" he snaps matter of factly, wiping his brow, "We know it is torn, no? We hide the hole and ignore it, it keeps getting wider. Nahin madam?" he asks me and I am stirred by his profound analogy.
I hear people brag about the technological advances even as the city's youth sleeps through the day and wakes up at night to disappear into call centers. I see them in Tata Sumos and Qualises, huddled, waiting to get to their night shift. I hear people proudly declare that India is turning into a hub for clinical research even as my heart sinks with the realization that a "hub for clinical research" for pharmaceutical companies translates to "a country with a large population and plenty disease for drug trials". Not something to be proud of, is it?
The one bearing in which the curve of economic status collapses is in a traffic jam, the city's greatest equalizer. The rich in their chaffeur driven cars, the middle class and the poor in the buses, taxis and rickshaws are all trapped in the serpentine queue of bright red, brake lights while traffic policemen wave their hands around inconsequentially for a little while. They then give up and sit back to watch this dazzling evening show ruminating on mouthfuls of tobacco. Nobody gets to work or reaches home on time irrespective of their socio-economic status. The faces at the traffic signal are scattered snippets from Madhur Bhandarkar's last film and there is nothing one can do about them, I am repeatedly told, except look away or roll up my window.
When I voice some of my concerns, wondering if there was something people could do, I am swiftly shushed, reprimanded, my N.R.I arrogance mocked. On the day of my return, I sit in the car on my way to the airport, finally silenced, behind a large, overloaded truck that looks like it could topple over any minute. "Mera Bharat Mahan" ("My India Is Great") it tells me. A noose hangs near it.
These faces and places had been lost to the busy commute and bustling crowds when I lived in the city some years ago but as we focused our lenses on them, they became more and more interesting and the crowd fell away. What stood out then, is the medley of contradictions that Bombay has now become.
Odd juxtapositions are now more noticeable than ever. Tall skyscrapers fringed by an abysmal slum area, large malls coming up beside rows of chawls and glitzy showrooms right next to the humble furniture workshops that work in the light of a single yellow bulb. Bombay's own sophisticated versions of Costco towers above harassed heads of the city's loyal bhaaji-wallahs and vendors. Simple, cotton kurtas hang forlorn from the street shanties at Linking Road and Dadar, the mirrors and sequins on their soft fabric winking at the spotless windows of a shopping center where similar ones are sold at thrice the price.
I heave a sigh of relief on noticing that the pav-bhaaji shack is still intact beside a brand new Pizza Hut. In the United States, McDonald's is a fast-food chain and in Bombay it is a family restaurant where people eat a less delectable version of the city's staple "vada-paav" for at least ten times its price.
While the middle class struggles for basic amenities, the malls have twenty-four hours of electricity and running water. On the day of a power outage, these malls stand magnificently lit up, their rich and arrogant frames looking down on the darkness of the city.
The chasm between the rich and the poor has widened dangerously and the pit of crime that bridges the two, threatens to swallow the frustrated. There are street kids doing drugs on railway bridges and rich brats doing drugs in dim lit discotheques. Kamathipura continues to exist like a parallel city mocking those of us who still believe in the power of the legal system.
How inured have we become, I wonder, as I watch children frolicking on a swing tied to the pillars of the busy Andheri flyover. By the time one flyover is done being constructed, work will begun on yet another and Bombay will always move in slow motion while contractors and political moghuls pull in the riches. There is an upside to all of this. The poor then find a new concrete roof above their heads. One day, the monsoons arrive like they did last year on 26th July and flood these lives, trying in their own cruel way to purge the city.
When I want to click pictures of a wide-eyed street child I am glared at.
"Why don't you click pictures of the Taj, Madam?" a man asks me, "Why you want Amrikka to see beggars?" he chides, as he fills paper cones with spiced gram and chopped onions.
"Channa chor garam," he calls out to passers-by and if it weren't for my intolerance of denial, I realize, I probably would've been thoroughly impressed by his sense of pride.
Our driver who witnesses this exchange has an entirely different take. He shakes his head vehemently as he pulls the car deftly in and out of potholes, barely missing the rickshaw ahead.
"Who cares if Amrikka sees the rip in our vest?" he snaps matter of factly, wiping his brow, "We know it is torn, no? We hide the hole and ignore it, it keeps getting wider. Nahin madam?" he asks me and I am stirred by his profound analogy.
I hear people brag about the technological advances even as the city's youth sleeps through the day and wakes up at night to disappear into call centers. I see them in Tata Sumos and Qualises, huddled, waiting to get to their night shift. I hear people proudly declare that India is turning into a hub for clinical research even as my heart sinks with the realization that a "hub for clinical research" for pharmaceutical companies translates to "a country with a large population and plenty disease for drug trials". Not something to be proud of, is it?
The one bearing in which the curve of economic status collapses is in a traffic jam, the city's greatest equalizer. The rich in their chaffeur driven cars, the middle class and the poor in the buses, taxis and rickshaws are all trapped in the serpentine queue of bright red, brake lights while traffic policemen wave their hands around inconsequentially for a little while. They then give up and sit back to watch this dazzling evening show ruminating on mouthfuls of tobacco. Nobody gets to work or reaches home on time irrespective of their socio-economic status. The faces at the traffic signal are scattered snippets from Madhur Bhandarkar's last film and there is nothing one can do about them, I am repeatedly told, except look away or roll up my window.
When I voice some of my concerns, wondering if there was something people could do, I am swiftly shushed, reprimanded, my N.R.I arrogance mocked. On the day of my return, I sit in the car on my way to the airport, finally silenced, behind a large, overloaded truck that looks like it could topple over any minute. "Mera Bharat Mahan" ("My India Is Great") it tells me. A noose hangs near it.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Tagged! Indian Authors: Of Experiences & In Anticipation
When Amrita Rajan, a fellow author at Desicritics informed me that I had been tagged, I was overjoyed to see the topic of choice: "Indian Authors That I Had Read Or Wanted To Read". Finally! Would this include Indian Poets too, I wondered, as I sat down pulling out of memory every delightful book I had ever read. I decided I would make this slight variation myself and add a few poets to the mix; I am sure Amrita won't mind. For after all, every beautiful string of words is worth a thought and every creative exploit deserves analysis. Moreover, I personally believe that the more successful of authors have the ability to inculcate poetry into their prose.
In addition to the legendary greats, this list will also include a few poets and authors whose work, may not commercially popular but very different and enlightening on several literary levels. Some of them don't have portfolio of works but a single piece managed to make an impression on me. Each author or poet that I list has a story that somewhere along the line merged with my own:
NISSIM EZEKIEL:
My mother finished her English literature thesis at University of Mumbai (then Bombay University). One of her favorite professors was Nissim Ezekiel and she had a book of his poems tucked away near her nightstand. I remember giggling away as she read "Goodbye Party For Miss Pushpa T". These poems light-heartedly mocked Indian-English. Not the accent but the direct translation of Indian phrases. I have never seen such a direct and simple source of humor as the Ezekiel poems. Years later I read V.S.Naipaul's "The Mystic Masseur" and the rib-tickling phrases had me reminiscing of Nissim Ezenkiel's style. As is known, Indians translate Hindi or other Indian languages into English with amusing results. A question as simple as "What are you doing?" gets flipped around into "What you are doing?", "How you are doing, what you are doing?".
Mr.Ezekiel's poetry was the first to show me how cultural faux-pas could contribute to literature without being grammatically accurate. What a unqiue and informal way of inculcating culture into poetry! My mother had promised me that she would take me to meet Mr.Ezekiel but sadly he passed away in 2004 after a long drawn battle with Alzhiemer's. Even as I shed the rhymes of verbose and romantic English poets, Nissim Ezekiel's simple, lucid and rich language settled over my first attempts at free verse.
Recently, my mother and I shared a laugh trying to imagine what Mr.Ezekiel would've thought of the catchy "Beedi Jalay Le" number from "Omkara".
"It is so cold, get somebody's glove. Go get fire from the neighbour's stove", he would've said and guffawed.
DILIP CHITRE:
Bilingual writers fascinate me. They get the best of both worlds and with good reasons; the puns, the verbal gymnastics (as I like to call figures of speech), the metaphors that get lost in translation, are all in the perception of these writers. Kudos to these few literary beings for translating the wisdom, the humor and the insight of one language into another. They are the ones who truly share literature while the rest of us selfishly indulge.
Do people remember Smita Patil and Om Puri's riveting drama, Ardha Satya? The verse that summarized the film was Mr.Chitre's poem by the same name.
"Ek palde mein napunsakta, doosre palde mein paurush, aur theek tarazu ke kaante par, ardh satya"
There have been people who have translated this poem based on their own interpretations or sometimes very literally. But to me, these lines have a universal meaning. Literally translated these lines mean the following:
"On one side of the scale is the weakness of neutrality, on the other side, the strength of man, And on the needle of this fine balance, the Half Truth"
"The Half Truth" to me is an interesting concept because it leaves room for interpretation. It means that it is not just our angle, our perspective but our positions in this cosmos that determine our vision of the truth. Mr.Chitre might just shake his head and dismiss my far fetched interpretation but since this is the meaning that makes the poem sublime for me, I will stick to it. This is one of the reasons I would like to read more of Mr.Chitre's books. Reading more than one book by an author provides greater insight into the author's thinking and outlook. He has translated works by some of the exalted Marathi saints, Sanata Tukaram, Santa Dnyaneshwar and my literary psyche tingles in anticipation of a poet's view on religious verses.
MIRA BAI:
Ok, before people roll their eyes and wonder why a religious bhajan writer of the 16th century is listed among Indian authors, let me clarify. I have forever been in awe of Mira Bai's poems and have wanted to translate them from the perspective of an Indian woman of my generation. Most of the raw sensuality in these poems has been doused by the religious connotations, which is a good and a bad thing. Good, because it allowed the poetry to be preserved in spite of the stringency and taboos associated with sensuality and especially female sexuality. Bad, because what literature wants to explore with passion, is now married to religion. Any translator venturing into the sensuality aspect will probably face the irrational wrath of political parties. I can almost picture my effigy being burnt.
An example of the beautiful, romanticized and sensual poetry is as follows:
"Chhandon langar mori bahiyan gahaun na
main to naar paraye ghar ki, mere bharose gupal rahau na,
Jo tum meri bahiyan dharat ho, nayan jor mere praan harau na,
Vrindavan ki kunjgali mein rit chhod, anriti karau na,
Mira ke prabhu Giridhar naagar charan kamal chitth tare tarau na"
Literal translation-by Aditi Nadkarni (Do Not Duplicate)
"Leave, naughty one, don't hold my hand,
I belong to someone else, do not trust me at all,
Even if you do hold my hand,
don't conquer my soul through my eyes,
In the forests of Vrindavan, do not abandon convention,
Do not accept wantonness,
Mira's Lord Giridhar, do not take away the lotus of your feet,
That resides in the depths of my heart"
The above literal translation hints towards the naughty banter between lovers and although the mention of Lord Giridhar (Krishna) brings in religious connotation, this verse has a lot of lovelorn references that use wanton lust as a metaphor for devotion.
Mira Bai's verses are on my list of poetry readings for this year!
KIRAN NAGARKAR:
Speaking of Mira Bai reminds me of Kiran Nagarkar's 'Cuckold', the story of the prince of Chittor, Maharaj Kumar who was married to the saint Mira Bai. This reference shifts the focus a bit from ancient to contemporary and from poetry to fiction.
Mr.Nagarkar's much talked about work, for me, more than anything else is an exploration of the male psyche; something women have always scrutinized with great interest. He too is a bilingual writer who has published works in both English and Marathi. Sadly, believe it or not, I have read only book reviews of 'Cuckold' and plan to read it this year.
I like to be in the story, if you know what I mean. If the story is about someone, I immediately find a character who I could be and then take great delight as that persona is explored and mourn when they are killed or eliminated. With 'Cuckold' I want to find myself in the 16th century and be there to witness what the Maharaj Kumar thought. For after all, fiction allows us the liberty of escape.
R.K.NARAYAN:
This man wove the touching tales around which my childhood revolved. Practically every Indian belonging to my generation, remembers 'Malgudi Days'. Deftly exploiting my eagerness to watch the 'Malgudi Days' television series, my mother has had me wolf down many a leafy, green vegetable, that I would've otherwise promptly turned up my nose at.
In Malgudi Days, the 'coming-of-age' plot was dealt with such sensitivity that I now feel I knew Swami and his friends and have actually been to Malgudi. The informal style and the lack of rich vocabulary that is characteristic of R.K.Narayan's classics has been widely criticized. However, I feel, that is precisely what makes each of his characters so endearing. The protagonist is always someone who Indian readers can identify with. Not many people know this but the Dev Ananad starrer, 'Guide' was based on R.K.Narayan's book by the same name. Every story has a moral, a social message and at the center of it all, a character who we can empathize with. R.K.Narayan is undoubtedly, one of my favorite Indian authors.
RUSKIN BOND:
An Indian author from the days of the British Raj, Bond's writing describes in great detail the picturesque northern India. I have to admit, I liked his short stories more than the novels. His style is what I adapted when I first started writing short stories. Set the scene, identify the characters, set a routine for each of the characters and then one day have something happen that changes everything. Rsukin Bond I think is best at imagery. Once I began reading his book I could never quite step outside the scenes he created with his words. The plots were simple but the characters were so well-developed that the intensity of events left you riveted. His description of the natural beauty of India's foothills makes me want to visit and find those places. As the story starts, one can imagine an old caretaker, the small bungalow in Kasauli, the darkness of an evening as shadows swallow treees and hills in their wake, the rustling of a thick forest, the quiet railway stations where a traveller has just arrived and our journey will now begin with his.
Ruskin Bond's 'The Blue Umbrella' was recently adapted to a film by Vishal Bharadwaj ('Chhatri Chor'). Below is a scene from the film.
VIJAY TENDULKAR:
I credit one of my earliest feminist influences to Mr.Tendulkar's story, 'Umbartha' starring Smita Patil. There wasn't a single point during that story where I didn't have goosebumps. His contributions towards non-mainstream cinema that brought attention towards social issues are particularly noteworthy. Screenplays of poignant Hindi films such as 'Ardha Satya', 'Manthan', 'Nishant', 'Akreit' and 'Kamla' were written by Vijay Tendulkar.
When I was younger, my parents warned me against being selective towards English authors. I read Marathi books but by the time I reached an age when I could read Vijay Tendulkar's books, my reading, quite regretfully, had skewed much towards English authors. When I was fifteen or so, my father bought us tickets to the Marathi musical 'Ghashiram Kotwal' and that is when I truly was able to appreciate a Vijay Tendulkar play. I hope someday to rejuvenate my Marathi reading and treat myself to some more of Mr.Tendulkar's stories.
RANI DHARKER:
I read one book by Rani Dharker and was bowled over. Her 'Virgin Syndrome' left me laughing, raising my eye-brows, turning pages eagerly and then wanting more. I am not sure if Ms.Dharker wrote any more such noteworthy books but her one literary exploit delved into the female sexuality of an Indian middle-class woman with subtle shades of autobiography that I so love.
SHOBHA DE:
Yes, I know, she has had plenty commercial (some times undeserving you say?) success thanks to generous inclusions of sensationalism and sexuality. I also realize that she isn't the kind of author you would expect to find in the list such as this one. I can almost feel Vijay Tendulkar glaring at me for including his work with Shobha De's racy novels. But let me explain.
I have read two types of De Novels: Ones that were heavily tinged with the Jackie Collins style and then ones that weren't. Her 'Speedpost' surprised me quite pleasantly. I must say that Ms.De's 'Speedpost' is something I would recommend as a Mothers' Day gift for, ahem...daughters. Yes, you heard me right.
Unbeknownst to many, Ms.De was Ms.Rajadhyaksha before marriage and that makes her a Saraswat Brahmin like myself, before she married into a Bengali family. So some of the references she makes in 'Speedpost' were identifiable for me. Description of her mother's coconut aamti, the environment in her home when she was growing up in Bombay and the little, stray things that are so characteristic of the Bombay middle-class, made me nostalgic. This book of hers, confirmed my hypothesis that the success of a book depends largely on how much of themselves, authors reveal within the story. So if there's a De non-fiction in sight, I'd say try it out.
ANURAG MATHUR:
I would love to have feedback (and free copies!) of Anurag Mathur's 'The Inscrutable Americans'. I have heard so much about this book from fellow-desis in the U.S that I HAVE to read this one before 2008. Yes, I am starting to give myself deadlines; unfortunately between writing and research, reading does take a backseat.
SUKETU MEHTA:
On my last visit to India, I started reading 'Maximum City' and left it behind. Exploring Bombay's under-belly without evoking grimaces is a truly diffcult task. The packed railway stations, the harassed middle-class, the crumbling chawls, the happy brown faces of street children, the traffic jams and the quiet ocean that fringes this sublime craziness are all part and parcel of the city's unique spirit. I wouldn't trade it for anything. This side of Bombay is as endearing or possibly more than the glitzy face and it always leaves me a little disappointed when people treat it with excessive criticism. What city doesn't have issues that need attention? Bombay, has more than just those. It has a soul. If as critics say, Suketu Mehta has managed to capture this soul, then he definitely has my respect.
An autobiographical account as a first book, however, I find a bit worrisome because it makes me doubt whether the author will be able to follow it up with a second one that can match expectations. Nonetheless, 'Maximum City' has been touted as one of the best travelogues and I plan to get back to reading it on my upcoming India trip.
I can hardly wait to visit my beloved book stores near the Fort area, where out of sheer habit, I will happily haggle with book vendors even in the rain, something I miss doing at Barnes & Nobles here. Ha! The things we miss!
******************************************************************************************************************************
I could go on and on and write about a few more authors that I haven't mentioned in this post but as Tagore would say "Love does not claim possession but gives freedom". So I will now scour blogs looking for an appropriate person to pass on this very fortunate tag. Thank you for the opportunity Amrita. I had a blast writing this one!
UPDATE: For those of who read this post, the follow-up of the tag is available on Vivek Sharma's Blog:
http://viveksharmaiitd.blogspot.com/2007/05/indian-authors-ive-read-and-plan-to.html
It is a very comprehensive list. Hope you guys have fun reading it!
In addition to the legendary greats, this list will also include a few poets and authors whose work, may not commercially popular but very different and enlightening on several literary levels. Some of them don't have portfolio of works but a single piece managed to make an impression on me. Each author or poet that I list has a story that somewhere along the line merged with my own:
NISSIM EZEKIEL:
My mother finished her English literature thesis at University of Mumbai (then Bombay University). One of her favorite professors was Nissim Ezekiel and she had a book of his poems tucked away near her nightstand. I remember giggling away as she read "Goodbye Party For Miss Pushpa T". These poems light-heartedly mocked Indian-English. Not the accent but the direct translation of Indian phrases. I have never seen such a direct and simple source of humor as the Ezekiel poems. Years later I read V.S.Naipaul's "The Mystic Masseur" and the rib-tickling phrases had me reminiscing of Nissim Ezenkiel's style. As is known, Indians translate Hindi or other Indian languages into English with amusing results. A question as simple as "What are you doing?" gets flipped around into "What you are doing?", "How you are doing, what you are doing?".
Mr.Ezekiel's poetry was the first to show me how cultural faux-pas could contribute to literature without being grammatically accurate. What a unqiue and informal way of inculcating culture into poetry! My mother had promised me that she would take me to meet Mr.Ezekiel but sadly he passed away in 2004 after a long drawn battle with Alzhiemer's. Even as I shed the rhymes of verbose and romantic English poets, Nissim Ezekiel's simple, lucid and rich language settled over my first attempts at free verse.
Recently, my mother and I shared a laugh trying to imagine what Mr.Ezekiel would've thought of the catchy "Beedi Jalay Le" number from "Omkara".
"It is so cold, get somebody's glove. Go get fire from the neighbour's stove", he would've said and guffawed.
DILIP CHITRE:
Bilingual writers fascinate me. They get the best of both worlds and with good reasons; the puns, the verbal gymnastics (as I like to call figures of speech), the metaphors that get lost in translation, are all in the perception of these writers. Kudos to these few literary beings for translating the wisdom, the humor and the insight of one language into another. They are the ones who truly share literature while the rest of us selfishly indulge.
Do people remember Smita Patil and Om Puri's riveting drama, Ardha Satya? The verse that summarized the film was Mr.Chitre's poem by the same name.
"Ek palde mein napunsakta, doosre palde mein paurush, aur theek tarazu ke kaante par, ardh satya"
There have been people who have translated this poem based on their own interpretations or sometimes very literally. But to me, these lines have a universal meaning. Literally translated these lines mean the following:
"On one side of the scale is the weakness of neutrality, on the other side, the strength of man, And on the needle of this fine balance, the Half Truth"
"The Half Truth" to me is an interesting concept because it leaves room for interpretation. It means that it is not just our angle, our perspective but our positions in this cosmos that determine our vision of the truth. Mr.Chitre might just shake his head and dismiss my far fetched interpretation but since this is the meaning that makes the poem sublime for me, I will stick to it. This is one of the reasons I would like to read more of Mr.Chitre's books. Reading more than one book by an author provides greater insight into the author's thinking and outlook. He has translated works by some of the exalted Marathi saints, Sanata Tukaram, Santa Dnyaneshwar and my literary psyche tingles in anticipation of a poet's view on religious verses.
MIRA BAI:
Ok, before people roll their eyes and wonder why a religious bhajan writer of the 16th century is listed among Indian authors, let me clarify. I have forever been in awe of Mira Bai's poems and have wanted to translate them from the perspective of an Indian woman of my generation. Most of the raw sensuality in these poems has been doused by the religious connotations, which is a good and a bad thing. Good, because it allowed the poetry to be preserved in spite of the stringency and taboos associated with sensuality and especially female sexuality. Bad, because what literature wants to explore with passion, is now married to religion. Any translator venturing into the sensuality aspect will probably face the irrational wrath of political parties. I can almost picture my effigy being burnt.
An example of the beautiful, romanticized and sensual poetry is as follows:
"Chhandon langar mori bahiyan gahaun na
main to naar paraye ghar ki, mere bharose gupal rahau na,
Jo tum meri bahiyan dharat ho, nayan jor mere praan harau na,
Vrindavan ki kunjgali mein rit chhod, anriti karau na,
Mira ke prabhu Giridhar naagar charan kamal chitth tare tarau na"
Literal translation-by Aditi Nadkarni (Do Not Duplicate)
"Leave, naughty one, don't hold my hand,
I belong to someone else, do not trust me at all,
Even if you do hold my hand,
don't conquer my soul through my eyes,
In the forests of Vrindavan, do not abandon convention,
Do not accept wantonness,
Mira's Lord Giridhar, do not take away the lotus of your feet,
That resides in the depths of my heart"
The above literal translation hints towards the naughty banter between lovers and although the mention of Lord Giridhar (Krishna) brings in religious connotation, this verse has a lot of lovelorn references that use wanton lust as a metaphor for devotion.
Mira Bai's verses are on my list of poetry readings for this year!
KIRAN NAGARKAR:
Speaking of Mira Bai reminds me of Kiran Nagarkar's 'Cuckold', the story of the prince of Chittor, Maharaj Kumar who was married to the saint Mira Bai. This reference shifts the focus a bit from ancient to contemporary and from poetry to fiction.
Mr.Nagarkar's much talked about work, for me, more than anything else is an exploration of the male psyche; something women have always scrutinized with great interest. He too is a bilingual writer who has published works in both English and Marathi. Sadly, believe it or not, I have read only book reviews of 'Cuckold' and plan to read it this year.
I like to be in the story, if you know what I mean. If the story is about someone, I immediately find a character who I could be and then take great delight as that persona is explored and mourn when they are killed or eliminated. With 'Cuckold' I want to find myself in the 16th century and be there to witness what the Maharaj Kumar thought. For after all, fiction allows us the liberty of escape.
R.K.NARAYAN:
This man wove the touching tales around which my childhood revolved. Practically every Indian belonging to my generation, remembers 'Malgudi Days'. Deftly exploiting my eagerness to watch the 'Malgudi Days' television series, my mother has had me wolf down many a leafy, green vegetable, that I would've otherwise promptly turned up my nose at.
In Malgudi Days, the 'coming-of-age' plot was dealt with such sensitivity that I now feel I knew Swami and his friends and have actually been to Malgudi. The informal style and the lack of rich vocabulary that is characteristic of R.K.Narayan's classics has been widely criticized. However, I feel, that is precisely what makes each of his characters so endearing. The protagonist is always someone who Indian readers can identify with. Not many people know this but the Dev Ananad starrer, 'Guide' was based on R.K.Narayan's book by the same name. Every story has a moral, a social message and at the center of it all, a character who we can empathize with. R.K.Narayan is undoubtedly, one of my favorite Indian authors.
RUSKIN BOND:
An Indian author from the days of the British Raj, Bond's writing describes in great detail the picturesque northern India. I have to admit, I liked his short stories more than the novels. His style is what I adapted when I first started writing short stories. Set the scene, identify the characters, set a routine for each of the characters and then one day have something happen that changes everything. Rsukin Bond I think is best at imagery. Once I began reading his book I could never quite step outside the scenes he created with his words. The plots were simple but the characters were so well-developed that the intensity of events left you riveted. His description of the natural beauty of India's foothills makes me want to visit and find those places. As the story starts, one can imagine an old caretaker, the small bungalow in Kasauli, the darkness of an evening as shadows swallow treees and hills in their wake, the rustling of a thick forest, the quiet railway stations where a traveller has just arrived and our journey will now begin with his.
Ruskin Bond's 'The Blue Umbrella' was recently adapted to a film by Vishal Bharadwaj ('Chhatri Chor'). Below is a scene from the film.
VIJAY TENDULKAR:
I credit one of my earliest feminist influences to Mr.Tendulkar's story, 'Umbartha' starring Smita Patil. There wasn't a single point during that story where I didn't have goosebumps. His contributions towards non-mainstream cinema that brought attention towards social issues are particularly noteworthy. Screenplays of poignant Hindi films such as 'Ardha Satya', 'Manthan', 'Nishant', 'Akreit' and 'Kamla' were written by Vijay Tendulkar.
When I was younger, my parents warned me against being selective towards English authors. I read Marathi books but by the time I reached an age when I could read Vijay Tendulkar's books, my reading, quite regretfully, had skewed much towards English authors. When I was fifteen or so, my father bought us tickets to the Marathi musical 'Ghashiram Kotwal' and that is when I truly was able to appreciate a Vijay Tendulkar play. I hope someday to rejuvenate my Marathi reading and treat myself to some more of Mr.Tendulkar's stories.
RANI DHARKER:
I read one book by Rani Dharker and was bowled over. Her 'Virgin Syndrome' left me laughing, raising my eye-brows, turning pages eagerly and then wanting more. I am not sure if Ms.Dharker wrote any more such noteworthy books but her one literary exploit delved into the female sexuality of an Indian middle-class woman with subtle shades of autobiography that I so love.
SHOBHA DE:
Yes, I know, she has had plenty commercial (some times undeserving you say?) success thanks to generous inclusions of sensationalism and sexuality. I also realize that she isn't the kind of author you would expect to find in the list such as this one. I can almost feel Vijay Tendulkar glaring at me for including his work with Shobha De's racy novels. But let me explain.
I have read two types of De Novels: Ones that were heavily tinged with the Jackie Collins style and then ones that weren't. Her 'Speedpost' surprised me quite pleasantly. I must say that Ms.De's 'Speedpost' is something I would recommend as a Mothers' Day gift for, ahem...daughters. Yes, you heard me right.
Unbeknownst to many, Ms.De was Ms.Rajadhyaksha before marriage and that makes her a Saraswat Brahmin like myself, before she married into a Bengali family. So some of the references she makes in 'Speedpost' were identifiable for me. Description of her mother's coconut aamti, the environment in her home when she was growing up in Bombay and the little, stray things that are so characteristic of the Bombay middle-class, made me nostalgic. This book of hers, confirmed my hypothesis that the success of a book depends largely on how much of themselves, authors reveal within the story. So if there's a De non-fiction in sight, I'd say try it out.
ANURAG MATHUR:
I would love to have feedback (and free copies!) of Anurag Mathur's 'The Inscrutable Americans'. I have heard so much about this book from fellow-desis in the U.S that I HAVE to read this one before 2008. Yes, I am starting to give myself deadlines; unfortunately between writing and research, reading does take a backseat.
SUKETU MEHTA:
On my last visit to India, I started reading 'Maximum City' and left it behind. Exploring Bombay's under-belly without evoking grimaces is a truly diffcult task. The packed railway stations, the harassed middle-class, the crumbling chawls, the happy brown faces of street children, the traffic jams and the quiet ocean that fringes this sublime craziness are all part and parcel of the city's unique spirit. I wouldn't trade it for anything. This side of Bombay is as endearing or possibly more than the glitzy face and it always leaves me a little disappointed when people treat it with excessive criticism. What city doesn't have issues that need attention? Bombay, has more than just those. It has a soul. If as critics say, Suketu Mehta has managed to capture this soul, then he definitely has my respect.
An autobiographical account as a first book, however, I find a bit worrisome because it makes me doubt whether the author will be able to follow it up with a second one that can match expectations. Nonetheless, 'Maximum City' has been touted as one of the best travelogues and I plan to get back to reading it on my upcoming India trip.
I can hardly wait to visit my beloved book stores near the Fort area, where out of sheer habit, I will happily haggle with book vendors even in the rain, something I miss doing at Barnes & Nobles here. Ha! The things we miss!
******************************************************************************************************************************
I could go on and on and write about a few more authors that I haven't mentioned in this post but as Tagore would say "Love does not claim possession but gives freedom". So I will now scour blogs looking for an appropriate person to pass on this very fortunate tag. Thank you for the opportunity Amrita. I had a blast writing this one!
UPDATE: For those of who read this post, the follow-up of the tag is available on Vivek Sharma's Blog:
http://viveksharmaiitd.blogspot.com/2007/05/indian-authors-ive-read-and-plan-to.html
It is a very comprehensive list. Hope you guys have fun reading it!
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