Of Sundays Past

(Original post written in 2017)

If you are from the pre-millenial era, like yours truly, you probably have some distinct memories of Sunday tele. There was Chitrahar just before lunch and the news followed by a montage of 'Aapan yanla pahilyat ka' and a late afternoon movie. The same 6-7 movies were shown in a loop through the year...not sure whether it was because DD was on a tight budget or the I&B ministry wanted to keep the audience on a restricted low-calorie diet. One of the movies I remember seeing many times over was Kabuliwala, based on Rabindranath Tagore's short story by the same name. I remember the exact tune of the singy-songy way Mini would call out "Kabuliwala...o...kabuliwala!"

(Image from IMDb)

So when Bioscopewala releases, nostalgia makes me heady and inhibits my power to concentrate (Yes, that's a real power!). I sneak away from my desk to catch an afternoon show of the film, being described as an adaptation of Tagore's story.

This version of the classic focusses on Mini's perspective. Grownup and working as a filmmaker in Paris, Mini has to make an unscheduled trip to her hometown  Kolkata when her father dies in a plane crash on his way to Kabul. On her first day back in Kolkata, the police releases an ex-convict into her custody. At first, Mini is irritated to be straddled with this stranger but it does not take long for memories to come rushing back and for her to realise that he is no stranger. He is the bioscopewala, a travelling cinema of sorts, an important part of her childhood, the person who kindled in her the love for moving images. She finds out that her father had spent the better part of the last decade fighting to get the man lawfully released and he was the reason her father was making the trip to Afghanistan. She takes it upon her to fulfil her father's wish and reunite the bioscopewala to his family.

The storyline moves in parallel timelines between Mini's past and her present. The back story unfolds through flashbacks and letters and pictures. As Mini investigates the bioscopewala's roots, she also reconnects with her own and reconciles with the distance that had crept up between her and her father. The movie also subtly draws attention to some relevant issues. Displacement of refugees and their miserable conditions as they flee from the horrors of their homeland only to be greeted by apathy from their new homes. Ordinary lives ravaged by wars they have no influence on and childhoods destroyed  by death or worse still by living in the shadow of war. At the core of it though it is the story of Mini, the little one and the grown-up one, and her efforts to reunite with them both.

It is impossible for me to compare the two. One, because it's been years since I saw Kabuliwala. Two, because the movies are driven through vvery different perspectives, they are distinctly different. There are holes one could pick in Bioscopewala and question the possibility of certain happenings. But, I don't care to. The movie pulls me within and carries me with it, I hope against hope that Mini will find Bioscopewala's little Rabia...and that's all I really care about.

Seasoned actors have been cast who have effortlessly donned the garb of their characters and made them their own. But, it is Dannu Denzongpa that wows...not just by his acting chops but also his youthful complexion. This man just does not seem to age! Maybe it is the mountain air...he lives there, descending only when he signs on a film.

That's what I need I realise as I examine the bags under my eyes and burrows in my forehead...several ounces of the mountain air every day! So, if you like my blog contribute in kind, a brick at a time, towards my house in the hills...with a writing desk by the window and a bioscope a short walk away.

Coffee, tea or...?

(Originally published in 2019)

I have always found it more difficult to sit through an ordinary play than a bad movie. Perhaps because I expect more from theatre than from cinema. Usually, i would find out what a play is about, who's written it, who's in it, etc before opting to watch it.

So, it was odd that I decided to watch Coffee in the Canteen, a play I knew nothing of. I will chalk it down to two reasons, one, it was playing at Tamasha Studio - a place I have recently developed starry-eyed adoration for. Two, I would avoid the peak hour traffic on the drive back to Sobo. The reasons, in themselves, should have created enough foreboding. There is a reason I am not an impulsive person.

Coffee in the Canteen focusses on the inter personal relationships of four college friends as their college days draw to an end and they plan the next phase of their life. They struggle with their decisions as they are torn between being pragmatic and chasing their dreams. It is easy to identify with their struggles as something many of us would have gone through. It will remind you of that guy who you thought was the happily ever after but is now reduced to an appearance on your FB timeline.

Coffee in the Canteen is not a bad play by any means. It provides a few memorable moments especially when actor Kavin Dave (popular-ish face on TV and film) is on stage. It is a fun one hour at the theatre but it does not create a lasting impression. It does not stimulate dialogue or challenge thought and ideas. It entertains, mildly, like a cafe latte. I prefer a double shot espresso.

Three days later, I am back on the western express highway. After navigating 90 minutes of peak hour traffic, I am at Prithvi Theatre for Notes on Chai. This play has created enough buzz among theatregoers for her fourth show to be sold out, and on a weeknight too. The artist Jyoti Dogra is known and appreciated enough for her to draw in the audience.

The auditorium is plunged into pitch darkness. As the seconds tick on, the unease in the audience is evident from the sound of the butts shifting in the seats and the throats being cleared. After about a minute, a spotlight shines on the artiste in the centre of the stage and she starts to move forward one high step at a time. So fluid is her movement, that it seems she is levitating. I am riveted.

For the next hour and a half Dogra inhabits several characters and changes her voice and body language as she flows in and out of their lives. While there is no denying the skill of the performer, it gets repetitive and some of the sounds that emanate from her grate on the nerves. Add to that, the lack of a gripping storyline and I find myself distracted and awaiting the darkness to claim the auditorium again. I come away, awed by the performer but underwhelmed by the performance. 'I am a hard audience to please,' I chastise myself.

For the rest of the week I stay away from the theatre and stick to the friendly neighbourhood Starbucks for my beverage needs.

O Kabira...

26th January 2019

It is 6:30am on a Saturday morning as I get on to the south end of the Sea Link. As the radio channel belts out Chaugada, I turn the music up, bob my head along and sing along with abandon. Wait a minute. I am going for an early morning Kabir concert, should I be listening to Bollywood? Maybe I should be evacuating my head and soul in preparation? Well, maybe just this one song...

I must admit that I am second-guessing my motives for this early morning excursion. I enjoy classical music but enough to sustain two hours of it. Not sure. As far as Kabir goes, I remember studying him rather reluctantly in grade 10 and all that has stayed with me is that he wrote dohas and each one had "kahat Kabir" in them. So what am I doing buying a return pass at the Sea Link at the crack of dawn from a half-sleepy, bundled-up-like-it's-the Rohtang-pass, toll attendant? Perhaps it's this need to test anything new. Or, I am doing my best to live up the moniker of 'arty farty' that a friend has bestowed on me?

The sun has not yet risen as I drive up the Carter Road promenade, but it's lurking at the horizon lending the blue sky a lavender hue. The morning walkers are pounding down the beaten track and some foolish-hearts have ventured out on the rocks jutting out in the sea. Farther out, I can make out the silhouette of small fishing boats, anchored through the night.

The poster says Carter Road open-air amphitheatre but I miss it the first time I drive past. I was expecting a more formal setup with a grand stage and a couple hundred people sitting on mattresses. It's not, in fact it's not much larger than the laughing groups that gather in gardens early morning. The performers are seated int he centre with myriad instruments. I recognize a harmonium, small cymbals, dholak and small tanpura like instrument. About 30 listeners have gathered in a circle around them, some seated on jute mats, some senior citizens on chairs and some standing at the periphery. I join the peripheral, already plotting my exit strategy.

A singer and a dholak player start off and within seconds, they stand up, take centre stage and break into a jig as they sing and play. Some in the group are swaying with the music, and a few, probably the organisers are singing along. As I allow the music to wash over me, my roving eye takes in the sights. Not more than 20 metres from the group, on an elevated podium a young man is jogging on the spot. It seems like his regular spot, and he has not relinquished it this morning to Kabir.

My eyes wander back to the concert. Another singer has taken over accompanied by the tanpura. The crowd has billowed to about 60. Some have procured hot beverages in paper cups though I cannot figure from where. My stomach grumbles in supplication but I stay rooted at my spot. I am not transfixed by the music so much as the atmosphere. More join the audience. Some walkers, probably curious about this distraction on their walking track. A family has wandered ovwr from a residence across the road, tbeir coffee cups in hand. A few seem like afficionados singing along, eyes-closed swaying along.

Have I had enough? Should I leave? Maybe a few minutes longer. My eyes wander back to the jogger, he's still at it...piling up the miles but never leaving his spot. The sun is up, it has dispersed most of the early morning colours and turned the sky an even cobalt.

A lady dressed in a short embroidered jacket over her salwar kurta is in the middle of tbe circle. As the singer's voice fills the air, she raises her hand to the sky and arches her back like a ballet dancer. The song continues and she stretches and arches and sways i  slow elaborate movements. I can't understand the words but she seems to absorb them and react to them through the movements.

It's been an hour and a half and the spot jogger has neither stopped nor moved.

It's been an hour and a half and I too have not moved. I am not sure what has held me to that spot...the music, the singers, the collective vibe of the crowd that has swelled to over a hundred now? I give up on the self-analysis and surrender to the moment.

The session is nearing its end and as all music concerts do, this one too is rising to a crescendo. All the performers are on their feet, singing, playing music, dancing and jumping. The joy on their faces is unmistakable. I realise I too have been swaying with the tunes and I can feel my smike stretched from ear to ear. Why? I don't know and I don't care.

And the jogger, he's gone.