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.

Making History

(Post originally written and published in January 2018)

"Thanks to you, I know the life story of Raja Rammohan Roy," my cousin narrows her eyes at me as she dips a piece of khakhra into the glass of milk.

"Huh?"
"You were reciting it in your sleep last night," she snips as a piece of soggy khakhra breaks away and sinks to the bottom of the glass.
"Oops. Sorry."

In grade 10, we were required to learn the biographies of some Indian leaders for our Board exams. I scored 90 in my History exam, so I must have learnt them well. But, I am sure it was wiped clear from my head, as soon as the exam bell went off.

In recent years, I have learnt much about various Indian and global historical events through books and films. And I can't help rue the fact that history was taught through drab textbooks in school.

This week's history lesson is delivered through the film The Darkest Hour. The time period is the early years of World War II and Winston Churchill has been chosen as Prime Minister. It is a difficult time for the Allies. As the Nazi forces troop across Western Europe, the invasion of Great Britain seems imminent. Should Churchill negotiate terms of a treaty with Hitler as advised by his War Committee or should be continue to resist, thus potentially sacrificing thousands of British troops trapped in Dunkirk? The movie focusses on Churchill's thought process as he navigates this crucial decision.

Gary Oldman as Churchill is brilliant. His drooping jowls and grunts for dialogue are on point and there is not one moment where he slips out of Churchill's skin. And, the strong support cast makes it an inspired ensemble performance. The film Dunkirk in 2017 showed the on-field angle of the same event as experienced by the troops. The Darkest Hour takes us to the inner sanctum, the minds of the policymakers and the circumstances that govern those decisions.

The best bit about art's portrayal of history is that it brings out details which have no place in fact sheets in history textbooks. Through the interactions between Churchill and his wife and the scenes with his young secretary Ms Leyton, the viewer gets acquainted with a different, lesser-known side of Churchill. The writer and director do twist the facts a little and drama overrides the adherence to facts. For instance Churchill's ride in the underground which never happened. But, they don't irk as they are meant to dramatize and not mislead. And, for that the creators may be forgiven.

***

It is a busy week at the movies. Next in the week is the screening of Young Marx, a play from London's West End brought to Mumbai's NCPA through National Theatre Live (NTL).

Young Marx is a snippet of Karl Marx's life, of the days just before he wrote Das Kapital. The play introduces the viewer to the carefree (or rather careless?) Young Marx who mouths the laws of economy yes but is also a drunk, a womanizer and a wastrel. The play's premise helps the viewer understand the genesis of Marx's most most famous work.

I must taken a moment here to gush over NTL. It is an initiative by London's Royal National Theatre to take their plays across the globe through screenings. In the last two years, I have enjoyed over two dozen of West End's best productions at the NCPA's Godrej Theatre.

The last watch of the week is Padmaavat. So much was said before the release of the movie and so much continues to be said after that I don't think I can add anything to it. Two points stand out. One, the character of Khilji, created with abandon by Bhansali and played with equal abandon by Ranveer Singh. A character with a single-minded obsession for power right to his last moment, he has me riveted. The second is the relationship between Khilji and Malik Kafur, all is said through body language without using language to overstate. And it works. I am happy that Khilji has Kafur, his one true love who stands by him even as his thirst for power destroys everything else. Khilji is the life of the film, the Rajput king and queen, and Deepika's digitally covered torso as she Ghoomars are rendered inconsequential.

During the movie, three cops enter the cinema and take the vacant seats next to me and there are more cops patrolling the entrance and other areas of the multiplex. It is the first weekend and the protesting army has not yet woken up to the ridiculousness of its protests. I wonder though why there has been no protest from a group in Afghanistan or Turkey for portraying Khilji, who they share a bloodline with, as a bisexual megalomaniac? Perhaps they have more pressing matters taking up their time, like what should be cooked for dinner?

Palestine by Joe Sacco

For years cartoonist Joe Sacco had been watching and reading the news of the Palestinian uprising. Are all Palestinians terrorists or victims? He would ask himself as he saw the news flashing across his TV screen. What about the average guy with routine concerns like food on the table for his family and getting to work on time. Where was that guy? Dissatisfied with the media’s portrayal of the Israeli-Palestinian situation, Joe decided that he needed to see it for himself, from ground zero.

In the winter of 1991-1992, he made his way to the region and parked himself in Jerusalem. For two months, he crisscrossed across the borders between West Bank, Israel, and the Gaza strip. He met labourers, refugees, ex-prisoners, soldiers, volunteers…all the different people who were a part of the fabric of this troubled region. He met children who had not seen any other way of life and geriatrics who had lived in peaceful times much before the 1948 Palestine war. His companion on this travel was his trusty notebook for his doodles, cartoons, and observations.

This notebook would later take the shape of Joe Sacco’s graphic memoir – Palestine. 

The novel, both written and illustrated by Sacco, is divided into nine issues, each one divided into multiple chapters. The story is built through anecdotes that he gathers as he travels across the region. In towns like Nablus, Ramallah and Hebron in the West Bank, he visits market places, hospitals, schools and local homes. He meets Palestinians who have spent multiple terms in Ansar III, the largest detention centre in the world. He travels to the extreme west to the Gaza strip where he spends a week in the Jabalia refugee camp and witnesses first-hand the living conditions.

While his witty remarks often elicit laughter, the underlying tone of empathy for the helpless situation is starkly evident. For instance, his visit to Nablus, where a milkman he encounters in the market insists on playing tour guide. He drags Joe to the local hospital and tows him from bed-to-bed, introducing him to the casualties and listing the details of their injuries. The patients are not all rebels. Many, including children, are wounded by army bullets that zipped into their homes or school compounds. The situation is grim, but the writer’s presentation of the hospital as a tourist spot and himself as a tourist makes one laugh out loud.

The author’s intent is not to trivialize the Palestinian situation. Sacco’s use of humour manages to evoke discomfort in the reader, engrossed in the story from the warmth and safety of her home.

A chapter on Sacco’s interaction with the detainees from Ansar III highlights the fact that incarceration was an accepted fate by Palestinian men at the time. The story of the prisoners brings out nuances of life inside a detention camp, many of which are astonishing. For instance, the formation of committees among the prisoners to oversee seemingly mundane tasks like the equitable distribution of tea. And, the organization of lectures by the prisoners on topics like Einstein, philosophy and split-up of the Soviet Union. As also, their strategies based on the careful study of the soldiers’ routines, such as planning contentious activities just before the weekend, when the officers are looking forward to heading home.

At the end of the two months, Sacco visits Tel Aviv, the capital of Israel, on the insistence of two tourists he meets in Jerusalem. They want him to see ‘their side of things’. During those few hours in Tel Aviv, the writer sees a different side of the region, meets people who remind him of people he meets in America and Europe. He concedes that yes there is an Israeli side of the story which he has neglected in this novel, but that calls for another trip. This trip was an exercise to uncover the Palestinian perspective, largely disregarded by popular media.

Sacco alternates between playing narrator and protagonist. As the narrator, he shares with the reader his reflections on the people, their situation and the policies that govern this region. He also includes nuggets from history to help understand how events have evolved to reach the current status quo. With regards to the other characters, he is matter-of-fact, presenting them without over-dramatization and allowing the reader to draw conclusions.

The illustrations are monochromatic, and Sacco strikes a balance between vacuity and busyness in every box. Some bits are filled with fine lines, squiggles and other patterns, which enhance the starkness to the blank bits in the box. His drawings acquaint the reader with a close-up view of a land that has primarily been seen only through the long-focus lenses of reporters.

‘Palestine’ drives home the power of stories – they engage and thus, affect. And they stay with the reader, much after the news has been relegated to the archives.

Originally published in www.theseer.in

Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie

Salman Rushdie’s reputation as a writer is popularly defined by two books – The Midnight’s Children and The Satanic Verses. The Midnight’s Children fetched him the Booker Prize in the year of its release and later, the Booker of Bookers and the Best of the Booker. The Satanic Verses, apart from accolades and awards, fetched him a fatwa calling for his assassination. This brought him fame that extended far beyond the literary circles. For an evolved reader, a Rushdie novel features as a must-read. The fainthearted reader is likely to be overwhelmed by his literary reputation and move on to a less daunting author on the bookshelf. Haroun and the Sea of Stories is the bait to reel in that hesitant reader.

Twelve-year old Haroun is leading a pretty nondescript existence in his hometown with his mother and his storyteller father Rashid. When his mother is seduced by the neighbour and leaves them, his father loses his gift of the gab. A storyteller who can say nothing more than ark, ark, ark is a storyteller without a job. An unexpected turn of events leads father and son to the Sea of Stories. Khattam-Shud, the evil ruler of the Kingdom of Chup is planning to plug the Story Source at the bottom of the Sea of Stories. If he succeeds, the sea will be silenced forever. Haroun and his new friends Iff, Mali – the gardener of stories, Butt the Hoopoe, and others must find a way to foil his evil plot. On the other hand, the neighbouring Kingdom of Gup is preparing to declare war against Chup to recapture Princess Batcheat, the betrothed of Prince Bolo of Gup. Haroun and his friends join forces with the Gup army led by General Kitab and storm the fortress of Chup. Will Haroun be able to help his friends in this mystical land? And what about his own life? Will he return home and have a happy end to his story?

While the story has a dark undertone the author uses a comical vibe to make his point. Rushdie is at his witty best with the dialogue. He liberally layers the said with the unsaid forcing the reader to stop, wonder, discover, and chuckle at the discovery. It is evident that the writer spent considerate amount of time and thought on selecting the names of all his characters. They are not merely names, they are loaded with the intent they carry to the writer. Also, they are a clever play on words. Set under the theme of good vs. evil, the names of the ‘good’ characters are all things speech (Chattergy, Gup, Bolo, Kitab) whereas their nemesis represent oppressed silence (Khattam-shud, Chup).

The premise of good vs. evil and a seemingly simplistic plot may fool a Rushdie fan into relegating Haroun… to the bottom of his reading list. It would be a grave mistake. Like all of Rushdie’s works, it is replete with symbols that draw attention to societal issues. The philosophical commentary and puns are subtle and demand a pause if they are to be truly savoured. With Haroun and the Sea of Stories, the author manages to present a story that works on two levels. One, a simple adventurous tale of a young boy in a fantastical land and two, an allegory on the power of stories. It is upon the reader to determine which one to read.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories was published in 1990, two years after Satanic Verses, a book which forced him to retreat into silence for a short while. This book appears to have been born out of that forced silence. In the story, when Haroun finally confronts Khattam-shud, he asks, “But why do you hate stories so much? Stories are fun.” A question which must have surely plagued the author himself when he was threatened with death. Perhaps, the book is a ploy by the author to convey his angst over the extreme reactions for the story he wrote. If so, it was a clever ploy for the author to write it in an accessible form, a form which would appeal to a far larger audience than his previous books. And, his appeal to the reader – don’t hate stories – gets through to the reader in this whimsical garb.

 

 Originally published on www.theseer.in