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.

A Place to Belong

"It's not far now. I can see it...my end."  

"Oh! Stop being so dramatic."  

"Seriously! Two beers and you turn into a drama queen. It's not the end of the world" 

"Easy to say when you are not staring at your impending doom."  

"There we go again."  

"What happened at that party tonight? " 

"They all forgot me. It was like I was not even there. It started at the door. Miguel said - Meet Julia, wife of Josh. Wife of Josh! Wife of? Wife of!" 

The peanuts acrobatted into the air and most fell back in the bowl as Apostrophe banged the empty bottle down on the table.  

"Oh come on! Miguel is Spanish. For him you don't even exist."  

"Oh ya? But, he's been living in the land of the Queen's English for 15 years now. That's enough time to notice me. Anyways, it didn't stop with him! Suddenly it was wife of Tim and husband of Anna and mother of so-and-so and father of...! It spread faster than a virus."  

"Well you know...it's the SMS age. We all have to evolve with the change."  

"Don't start your pop psychology with me. Of course you like this change. It's made you more popular. They remember you, not once, not twice but thrice. And sometimes you come along without any real reason. I mean, what is '?!' for God's sake? Are you confused or surprised - make up your mind. Me, they omit even in the most obvious places, what the hell are - dint and dont? Evolve, my ass!"  

"Calm down. There is no reason to get nasty with Exclamation. She's just trying to help."  

"I know. But you guys don't get it. As it is English is pretty much the only language I exist in and if I can't hold on to my place here, then..."  

"Look, look at this menu. The name of the pub..."  

"What? Oh, Howard's Inn. That's because it's like 100 years old, when they still knew how to speak English. Look there, across the street - House of Fraser."  

"Ok, I stop here. There is no reasoning with you."  

"I have decided, I am the master of me. I am not going to wait for these people to eliminate me. I am going to move. Maybe then they'll realise how important I was. I know Howard will miss me," she trailed her index finger on the name on the menu.

"Move? Move where?"  

"To India. I hear they are still loyal to the Queen's English. They hold me dear, use me even when it doesn't make sense to. Yes sometimes they get confused especially when an 's' is involved. But, that's okay. I'll get used to it. I'll evolve..."

The Legacy of the Laadoos

A large focus of the conversation around the dining table at home is food. Or rather the food that will be consumed in subsequent meals.

"Churma na laadoo," dad ventures. They have been a paryushan special in my house for as long as I can remember. Paryushan, is the 8-day period of abstinence for Jains. It calls for a sacrifice of many meal staples like all vegetables, intoxicants, etc depending on every individual's chosen level of abstinence. But, it is not possible to abstain without distraction through indulgence. Thus, the discussion on laadoos.

Mom's response is a groan, albeit a suppressed one. Requests from dad, especially the culinary kind, are rare so she wants to indulge. But laadoos are a tiresome task.

"I'll make them," I offer. 

The yellow orange tome on my bookshelf is brought down - Dadimano Vaarso (Grandmother's Legacy). A collection of recipes passed down verbally were compiled by those with foresight. The recipes are in Gujarati and English and quantities which were once measured by sight and fists have been converted to American cup and spoon sizes.

I run through the recipe with mom.

"That's how Ba used to make them," dad says, misty-eyed. There is some nostalgia there. But, it is also not a very veiled remark at mom's recipe which is appreciated every year but not pedastalled next to Ba's.

With the tome opened up on the kitchen counter, I get to work. Ingredients are combined, cooked, smashed only to be combined again. The aroma of fried dough and jaggery combined with saffron and elaichi pulls wandering family members into the kitchen for a nibble at the work-in-progress. After 90 minutes of labouring and some consultations with mom, 20 fairly well-shaped laddoos are ready.

They are not perfect. The jaggery is a tad in excess. I blame the sister-in-law who siphoned away several bits of fried dough to munch on with her tea, and thus threw my proportions askew. The ghee is a bit in excess too. Better than than too dry I reason. The no-longer-little, littlest one licks her fingers with a grin and a 'tres bien'. I accept the compliment with a flying kiss and shoo away the barb that the compliment is more to do with her restricted French vocab than the taste test.

But, I am not too disappointed by the critique. After all, no legacy worth its salt can be claimed at first attempt. 

He Was Back, Was he?

No way. It couldn’t be him. Could it? The similarities were unmistakable. That same broad forehead extending into his hairline. The nose that looked like you could hang your coat on it. But, it had been so many years and she had been so little when he had disappeared. No no. she was making a mistake. ‘Imagining things’ as they would tell her then.

She peered closer. He smiled, and her heart trampolined into her mouth. That sneer. There was no mistaking that sneer. So evil that you had to avert your eyes, lest your blood froze to a stop.

He had changed. His hairline had receded extending the expanse of his already wide forehead. There were grooves at the ends of his sneer. On anyone else they would have been called laugh lines, but not on him. And there was something strange about one of his eyes. The pupil had not moved at all while the other one took in his surrounds. It shone, almost translucent. Glass! Why? How? Surely, not because of her…that night, twenty-five years ago.

She had been tossing and turning for hours. She had sipped cold water, Hugged Mr.Teddy tighter. Prayed. Nothing had helped. She could feel his fists from under her bed, through the mattress, punching her spine rhythmically. And every few punches would be punctuated by a soft whistle. Should she call out to her parents? No. He was sneaky. He would find a spot to hide if they came. He always did. And they would be upset with her. She had heard them talk, 'It’s from all those books. She always has her nose buried in one. We should cancel her library subscription for a few days.’

No. She could not loose her books. He whistled again. She felt the dog-eared book under her pillow. She had stuffed it there and pretended to be asleep when her mom had popped in to switch off the lights. Matilda would not be scared of him. She was 12 too. She reached out for the drawing compass on her desk. The point gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the window. She raised her hand above her head and plunged it through the mattress. His scream rang out in the darkness. She plunged again and again and again. His scream turned into a groan, then a whimper…and then there was silence. That’s when she stopped.

For the next few nights, she slept with the compass close at hand waiting for him to strike back. But there was silence. No punching. No humming. No calling her name. He was gone.

But, now here he was. The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered on to the saucer. The noise caught the attention of his roving eye and it came to rest on her. It was his turn to peer at her. Would he recognize her after all these years and with only one good eye? No way. But what if he did? No, she could not let that happen. He was still peering at her, a hint of recognition beginning to light his one pupil. She picked up the spoon without a sound, held her breath, raised her hand and plunged it into that roving eye. Hah!

THE EART IS FLAT

 The earth is flat – I discovered last week, quite by accident. I was in an Uber headed to Mumbai’s southern tip, except I had thought that it was at the Taj President hotel. But, the GPS on the driver’s phone indicated that I had another kilometre further south. I stepped out of the car and skid off the edge of my world and landed into another. 

Squat two-storey structures lined one side of the road. The top storey was accessed by metal step ladders nailed to the pavements and the buildings. I climbed up the ladder, envious of the two 8-9-year-olds who had clambered up like monkeys. I had two thoughts – one, if you slip, you’ll crush your ankles and a couple of the 9-year olds and two, thank god you swapped the dress for jeans. Upstairs, in one of the two classrooms engaged by Down To Earth are my students who are different levels in their undergraduate degree. The NGO has recruited me for a writing workshop for them. Over the next few days, I make more trips to this point beyond my erstwhile southernmost tip of Mumbai. Now, I know exactly where to ask the cab driver to stop. While nothing like the clambering monkeys – the next day I find them shimmying up and down the precarious ladder in jest, purely to mock me I am convinced – I am a little more surefooted.

This new annexe to my world appears familiar, but I am aware that it is dissimilar. Murakami and Marquez are welcomed but struggle to fit in. The settings in my anecdotes are alien as are the situations. Real people appear cloaked as unreal characters. I start, pause, start, stop, reorganize and restart. I change my stories a little and they indulge me a little. We meet halfway. It is when the stories tumble out that the variables dissipate…our stories separated by details are united by their themes.

In a couple of days, I no longer need to look at the steps on the ladder, my feet have memorized the distance between two steps. Another day and I skip the last two rungs and hop to the pavement. That’s the power of good stories. They don’t simply speak of its people and places. They make the most foreign world intimate and add a spring to your step as you go about exploring it.

They extend the perimeter of our flat world.