Review of 'Wedding Album' - a play by Girish Karnad

I have seen three plays written by Girish Karnad. The first play I saw, which was the second play written by Girish Karnad - 'A heap of broken Images' ('Odakallu Bimba' in the Kannada original and 'Bikhre Bimb' in the Hindi version), was refreshing and different - both in terms of content and the audio-visual props used to take the story forward. It kept one engaged throughout, and each of the themes explored gave one food for though, nay, provoked thought and discussion. ‘ A Heap of Broken Images’ was followed by 'Flowers' which also had a theme that was different (almost weird, actually), yet it failed to keep one as engrossed as 'Heap of Broken Images' did - in spite of an innovative set arrangement and Rajat Kapoor.

Hence I went to watch ‘Wedding Album’ with the expectation that it would be something different - if nothing else, at least the theme would be handled in a different, innovative manner. Which I think is the root cause of my disappointment with the play. The play seemed quite mundane - there were some moments of humour and irony, but barring those the play just seemed like a slightly-more-realistic version of a soap on TV. The biting social commentary of 'Heap of Broken Images' or the introspection of 'Flowers' were both absent in 'Wedding Album'.

The beginning - the video made by the young girl’s family for her groom in America to view – seemed promising, but the rest of the play did not live up to it. Part of the reason may be that some nuances of dialogue were lost in translation from the original written in Konkani. Another was that the acting did not measure up to that in ‘A Heap of Broken Images’ or ‘Flowers’. But the main reason was that the play just did not hang together.

Some of the characters were stereotypes, but it wasn’t very clear whether their depiction was intended to mirror reality or to mock it. There weren’t insights into a character’s behaviour, their decision-making process etc, yet there were plenty of situations which required explanations. In a way, I guess, the play faltered under the burden of too many issues being focused on, too many questions raised. There were just too many disparate strands which faltered midway, were abandoned thereafter and did not merge into one fluid plot-line – for instance, the elder sister ignoring her daughter, or the irony of the young man in America wanting a traditional Indian wife and selecting one who seems traditional but actually is not.

In conclusion, a play I would not recommend, especially to anyone who has already seen ‘A Heap of Broken Images’. Wait for Girish Karnad’s next one instead.

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

Happiness

A tree he cannot name in a stranger's yard.

His happiness in leaf at last, boughs that dance
seasonal and spontaneous, the tree shaking light
like a drenched dog.

He has just time to pluck a sprig from the lowest branch before the bus arrives.

By,
Falstaff
(http://2x3x7.blogspot.com/2008/04/happiness.html)

Stuck in Traffic and Bored ?!!

I recently discovered the perfect solution for whiling away time during the hour long journey to and from office everyday – this would work for anyone traveling to office by bus, car (except for those driving, of course), or cab. The antidote to boredom, irritation and mind-numbing frustration is to read from a book of poetry during the trip – mind you, to avoid a headache/nausea, it is essential that the poems are printed in a large font size.

Unlike a newspaper, a book, or (horror of horrors) printouts from work, poetry does not demand continuous reading – in fact, discrete intervals of reading enable one to savour the poem far more. Thus it is prefect reading material for someone stuck in start-stop-start-stop peak hour traffic. Every time the vehicle is a rest at a traffic light or in a jam, one can read a few lines of poetry; once the vehicle starts moving, one can soak in the lines, relish the imagery and the ideas and give one’s imagination free rein.

For a start, choose to drive away the Monday morning blues with some Ogden Nash, Shel Silverstein, Wendy Cope or Piet Hein and arrive in office with a grin plastered all over your face. Trust me, you will notice the traffic and travel time far less then you do currently if you try out this solution.

Note :
I discovered this solution by chance while trying to quickly finish an anthology of poems borrowed from a friend. Apart from the discovery of a solution to peak-hour-travel-blues, this anthology also enabled the discovery of a marvelous poet called Billy Collins. I found his poems remarkably fresh, witty, ironic, endearing and always an interesting read. Given here are links to some of his poems : Flock, Special Glasses, You, Reader
(Go ahead – print these out and enjoy them on your way home from work)

For poems by Ogden Nash, Piet Hein, Wendy Cope and Shel Silverstein, you can check the wondering minstrels, the poems are sorted by poets and have interesting commentary by the minstrels owners and readers too – the commentary really adds to the pleasure of reading the poems.

Zenobia D. Driver

Girl with the Maazaa Coloured Shoes

Recently, after a long and tiring vacation, I was transiting through Kolkata airport on my way back to Aamchi Mumbai. My friends and I landed at Kolkata airport in the afternoon, and we had a few hours to kill before catching the flight back home. We collected our luggage, found somewhere to sit and settled down to wait. All the excitement that we felt while waiting at the airport during our onward journey to Bagdogra airport was absent and in its place was lethargy and a blankness of mind in which the minutes sank slushily. To kill time, I sampled some ‘sandesh’ from the Bengali sweet shop; on our onward journey 10 days ago, it had been fresh, soft and sweet, now it was flat and a bit stale – mirroring the change in our mood.

After reading a few pages of the novel I was carrying with me, I got up to get myself a cup of coffee. When I returned, I found my place occupied by an airport employee - my friends were either too sleepy to notice or too tired to object to his presence. Being too tired to endure a lengthy argument myself, I just sighed and squeezed myself into the tiny wedge of space between this man and the girl seated next to him, thus cutting myself off from even the occasional spurt of conversation between my friends.

As I lazily sipped my coffee, I glanced around at those seated next to me. To my right sat the airport employee in a blue uniform, scruffy shoes and scaly hands that could use dollops of moisturiser. To my left, sat a young girl attired in jeans, blue-green printed blouse and Maazaa coloured open-toed sandals. She had a slender build, wheatish complexion, long straight hair and an oval face with smooth, blemish-free skin. To her left sat a young burly man earnestly typing away at his laptop.

As if my observation disturbed her somehow (the act of observation changes either the position or the momentum of the object being observed, intoned the Ghost of Uncle Heisenberg), she got up abruptly from her seat. She half-smiled at me, glanced towards a luggage trolley kept nearby, muttered something that I assumed was a request to mind that no one steals anything and then left. To the snack counter, I assumed initially, but she walked right past it. Hmm, must be headed towards the loo, she’ll be back soon and I’ll be relieved of this boring chowkidari. But more than a few minutes ticked by and there was no sign of her. I wondered where she could be – hoping that she was not unwell in the loo and I wouldn’t have to play the Good Samaritan rescuing her. I hopefully scanned the row of phone booths nearby in case she was inside one, but drew a blank there.

A few more minutes slowly passed and then a new worry entered my head. What if she was a terrorist and one of the suitcases had a bomb inside ? Her trolley was piled high with luggage - two big suitcases and a few smaller bags, any of which might conceal a bomb. I was the closest to her luggage; I would definitely be blown to smithereens. I wondered how a bomb kills one – whether it is the shrapnel piercing one’s vital organs that is fatal or the heat wave, but figured the latter would be applicable only in the case of an atom bomb. Having established the process to my satisfaction, I then wondered if, after ripping through me, the shrapnel would have enough momentum to continue and rip through the person sitting next to me ? What would the radius of destruction be – both for direct hits by shrapnel and for indirect hits ? With this morbid line of thought, I swiveled my eyes to make a note of all those within a radius of a few metres from the luggage trolley and mentally sympathized with them about their impending doom.

Among these I noticed a trio of aged comrades – easily recognizable from being regularly featured in the news - slowly shuffling towards the Reserved Lounge. The trolley lay almost directly in their path to the lounge. The bomb must have been meant for them – just my bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. As the comrades slowly shuffled closer, I noticed that they had no retinue flocking about them, no garlands around their necks etc. And I remembered a news article that I had read a few years ago which listed all the candidates contesting elections and their declared assets, the comrades’ in general had the lowest wealth and assets compared to other politicians. My respect for them increased as I watched their no-airs, quiet walk to the reserved lounge. A few minutes after they entered the reserved lounge, one of them shuffled out again, stood in queue at the snacks counter and waited his turn patiently before buying the sandwiches he wanted – no flunk sent running to get what sahib wanted, no elbowing aside others in the queue on grounds of self-importance. Rather impressive behaviour – pity about Nandigram though.

Watching the comrades and wondering about the contrast between their behaviour in small trios and large groups (mobs?) distracted me sufficiently that I did not notice time slipping by. With a start, I noticed that the girl had returned bearing soft drink and snacks and was giving the same to the burly young man sitting next to her. He in turn, was passing the laptop to her so that she could check her mail.

Is it just me or are we all in a heightened sense of awareness regarding security ? So much so that at times the most mundane happenings give rise to fear and paranoia ?

By,

Zenobia D. Driver

Reader's Digest

My earliest memories of Reader's Digest date back to the time I was in kindergarten. Contrary to what you may have concluded, I was not a child prodigy, able to read the magazine from cover to cover at the ripe old age of 3. Rather, I used to find in the magazine's pages, a pretty convenient place to write "check" marks with a red pen, finally giving "scores" at the end of each article with flourish, just like Sandhya miss in my LKG class did in my notebooks. Of course, as soon my parents discovered this new hobby, it died a premature death.

Reader's Digest(RD) has been a part of my household for as long as I remember. Dad started subscribing to it from the time he started working, much to my mom's delight. It meant that she would not have to give up reading RD (which my grandfather used to subscribe to) after marriage. Little wonder then, when sis and me came into existence, this family interest got passed on to us too.

Starting around age 7, I was able to read the simpler page fillers and the simpler jokes in the various features like "Life is like that", "Laughter the best medicine" and so on. As I grew older, I started reading pretty much the entire magazine. I also had fun reading interesting old RD article collections (which mom had patiently clipped out and bound) as well as the collections published by RD itself (I still have fond memories of a book of short stories which had stories like "Lamb to the slaughter", "The selfish giant" and "The wedding gift").

Irrespective of the number of transfers my dad went through, RD subscriptions always followed. When a new issue of RD arrived, there would be a tussle as to who would read it first. Mom was soon relegated to late mornings and noon as the only time when she could get her hands on it (when the rest of us were at work/school). Sis and me would fight over it when we got back from school - soon, a reading schedule was brought into existence to restore peace in the household. Dad of course, could choose anytime he wanted (ah, the perks of being head of household :-)).

During exam time, while cable TV connection got disconnected at friends' and cousins' houses, it stayed untouched in my house. Instead, mom would hide new issues of RD! Of course, we subscribed to other magazines too but somehow RD had a special pride of place.

To my dismay, around the time I was finishing my undergraduate education, I started noticing a deterioration in the quality of the RD articles. But hey, it was by no means poor quality and besides, it was still The Reader's Digest!

Once I got to the US, RD was sporadically subscribed to by roomies. But it was no longer a constant, unchanging part of my life. Then, a couple of years ago, my manager gifted me a with subscription to RD. Yippee!

I started receiving RD regularly and continued subscribing to it. Good or bad, RD was a source of comfort, a sign of being at "home" - home being defined by as a place always having the latest issue of RD. Of course, I enjoyed reading it too. And so it has been since then.

Last week, I got into a fever of house-cleaning. I found that, true to my hoarding tendencies, I had stored *every* issue of RD I had ever got from the time I started subscription. In a way, I guess this was a legacy from my childhood days when RD magazines alone were not thrown away easily (you really did not think that I would miss an opportunity to squarely place the hoarding blame elsewhere, did you).

Anyway, hardening my heart, I gathered them all into a big plastic bag, to be taken to the dumpster. Then, I felt bad. Nice magazines - why throw them away? Maybe I could donate them to someone who wanted them. The local library seemed like a bad option. Google to the rescue! I discovered that apparently there were places to give away stuff. Then it struck me, Craigslist!

Late on Friday night, I placed an ad on Craigslist - "Free old issues of Reader's Digest magazine", it proclaimed - with little hope of response. My main aim was to assuage my guilty conscience by proving to myself that I had tried *not* throwing those magazines away.

To my pleasant surprise, within the next 10 minutes, I had a response from a lady saying that she wanted to pick them up the very next day. Before morning came, I had two more positive responses. The next day noon, the lady stopped by my house and picked up the RDs. Resolutely shaking off my last bit of possessiveness I handed over the bag of old RDs to her, just managing to not add in a choked voice, "Please take good care of them".

Vive la Reader's Digest!

By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com)

Peeping Tom, not I

During a recent trip to Sikkim, I fell ill halfway through a trek and descended to a village called Tsokha with a friend while the rest of our group went on. My friend and I spent three days in Tsokha whilst waiting for the others to return. Tsokha is a village that exists only for the purpose of adventure tourism - located at a height of 9000-10,000 ft, it is one of the halts on the popular Dzongri – Goecha La treks. All Tsokha has is a few houses, a camp-site, three shacks that call themselves ‘cafes’ and sell trinkets and snacks to trekkers, a lot of itinerant trekkers – most of them firangs, and a small monastery.

In Tsokha, we rented a room from a villager; it was big enough for us to empty our backpacks and spread out our stuff untidily rather than do the daily drill of unpack sleeping bag – sleep – wake up – unpack new set of clothes – pack used clothes – pack sleeping bag. As I was unwell, one of our porters had descended with us and he ensured that we had a pampered existence. He would bring us tea at 7:30 a.m. and breakfast at 8:30 a.m. After breakfast, my friend would go off on a long hike while I lazily strolled around Tsokha – visiting the monastery, sitting at the chai shops and chatting endlessly with total strangers etc. My friend would return around one, and we would have lunch together and chat a bit. Each day, by 2 in the afternoon, a mist would roll in accompanied by a sharp, biting wind that encouraged all but the most adventurous to stay in – either in tents or in their rooms. By half past two, we would be huddled in our sleeping bags in the rooms. Once more, we would depend on our porter to brave the cold and bring us evening tea as well as dinner.

Unfortunately, this was one trip on which I had forgotten to bring a book to read and I found myself at a loss for things to do to keep myself occupied once we were cooped up in the room. Then, on the second such afternoon, I remembered the number of birds I had seen in the thicket near the common toilet, which was behind the block of rooms we were staying in. It was quite a pretty location for a loo – mountains all around, a valley below, and in the adjacent thicket there were rhododendron bushes, magnolia trees, some bamboo and lots of bushes; the richness of the flora accounting for both a large number of birds that twittered and chirped away the day and an interminable procession of bees/wasps that droned on in a threatening manner and encouraged one to hurry up with one’s business lest they decide to attack.

Luckily, one of the windows of my room faced the thicket and I settled down at the window that afternoon to see whatever birds I could before the mist became too thick. Aah, I thought, the luxury of seeing birds without being exposed to the cold mist and the wind. I saw a magpie or two, and some unidentified small birds. Mostly though, I saw crows flying to and fro in a most frazzled manner, as if searching for something they had lost. I could chart the approach of the mist by looking at the flowers on the magnolia tree nearby. As the first tendrils of the mist crept over the tree, they only served to highlight its vibrancy – bursting-with-life, voluptuous, bright white magnolia flowers contrasted against a background of dull, grayish-white, amorphous mist. Slowly the jealous mist called up reinforcements and grew thicker, fewer and fewer of the lively magnolia flowers were visible; until finally the curdled-with-jealousy thick mist hid them altogether.

At this point I turned away from the window to describe the change in scenery to my friend. I turned back to the window a minute later, only to view the not-so-appealing sight of the ample rear end of some man lowering his trousers. My initial response was irritation with the man for intruding on a scene of such beauty; for a moment I toyed with the idea of scaring him by tapping eerily on the window pane, or of embarrassing him by opening the window and asking him the time.

Then I realized that to any external observer I was the intruder, sitting with my nose pressed against the window-pane, at a window that overlooked the path to the loo - probably one of those weird kinky psychos, the type who get their thrills by trekking 10,000 ft high to secretly observe other people answering the call of nature. Given where I was sitting and what I seemed to be doing, I could hardly accuse the man with his pants down of being uncouth or boorish, so what if he preferred watering the trees to using a man-made facility !

I wondered then whether other people approaching the loo had been embarrassed / shocked into abandoning plan when they saw a face wearing an earnest, keenly observant expression in the window-pane. Did they scuttle back to their rooms to report in shocked tones the weird behaviour being exhibited by the lady (??) in room no. 3 ? In case they did, and you heard about it too, this is the true and accurate version of events – I’m not a despo Peeping Tom, it’s all a simple misunderstanding.

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

About a Monastery

The quaintest Buddhist monastery I have seen is tucked away in a corner of a tiny village called Tsokha in the picturesque state of Sikkim. Tsokha is a village that exists only for the purpose of adventure tourism - located at a height of 9000-10,000 ft, it is one of the halts on the popular Dzongri – Goecha La treks. All Tsokha has is a few houses, a camp-site, three shacks that call themselves ‘cafes’ and sell trinkets and snacks to trekkers, a lot of itinerant trekkers – most of them firangs, and the aforementioned monastery.

The monastery is situated on top of a hillock that is adjacent to a small lake. In order to reach the monastery, one has to walk across the lake on a makeshift bridge made of rickety wooden logs stretched out over blocks of stone placed in the water – this minor adventure adds to the overall charm of the visit.

Tied to the trees bordering the lake, stretching out across and around it, are strings of prayer flags in the usual five colours – yellow, green, red, white, blue; the bright colours a vivid contrast against both the blue-white cotton-cloud sky and the dull green waters of the lake in which they are reflected.

Near the lake is a small meadow that has horses grazing on it. Occasionally a horse strays into the monastery grounds and nibbles on the grass there – the doors to the monastery are closed and barred in order to prevent the horses from entering the building. The only sounds to be heard at the monastery are the gentle tinkle of the bells around the horses’ necks and the fluttering of the prayer flags in the wind. Occasionally one hears the reluctant rumble of the row of rusty prayer wheels along the monastery’s walls as they are rotated by a visitor.

To the right of the monastery is a small path which curves around it, and which if followed, leads one to a hillside covered with trees bearing red rhododendron flowers and white magnolias. Amongst the trees and bushes dart a multitude of birds, chirruping and tweeting softly. The only other sound is the muted roar of a waterfall, visible in the distance on another hill.

While I was there, I did consider taking a few photographs of the monastery and its surroundings, but finally decided against it as no photograph could do justice to the beauty, tranquility and serenity of the place.

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

Queej Tayme

Hello All,
To cover up for a total drought of ideas and lack of creativity on my part, have decided to run a quiz on the blog this time. Please try to answer the following questions without using google. Answers in the comments section. Ready..Steady...Go!

1) Name the stars who gave the voice-over for the characters of Shrek and Princess Fiona in the movie ‘Shrek’ ? (No, I don’t want to know who was the voice of the donkey; the first question should be easy, but not that easy)
2) What species of Fish was ‘Nemo’ from ‘Finding Nemo’ ?
3) Name the original founder of Pixar Animation Studios ?
4) Which was the first full-length feature film to be entirely computer animated ?
5) Name the first Disney movie to feature a non-white heroine ?
6) Name the duo that befriend the cub Simba after he runs away from the Pride Lands in ‘Lion King’ – their names in the movie and the name of the species they belonged to, both are required to get this one right.
7) Which was the first (and only) animation film to be nominated for ‘Best Picture’ at the Oscars ?
8) The ‘best animated feature’ is a category only added to the Oscars in this decade. Name the first movie to win an Oscar for ‘Best Animated Film’
9) ‘Persepolis’, a unique story about growing up in Iran, is one of the nominees for this year’s Oscar for best animated film. Name the author of the original graphic novel by the same name ?

Another Review of 'Khoya Khoya Chand'

The settings and the mood were brilliant. The clothes, the hairstyles, the songs, the music composing sessions so different from today’s technologically superior studios, the same casting couch problems, the Bengali director high on artistic integrity and liquor, the Punjabi producer shamelessly spouting commercialism and neither character coming across as stereotypes. Alas, the principal character is the victim of this attention to detail on everything else.

Nikhat (Soha Ali Khan) is supposed to be an actress who is exploited by everyone, manages to make it as a success in Bollywood and then takes up drinking as her career and personal life nosedive. Sadly it is a rare moment when you can understand or empathise with Nikhat. She looks the same whether it is confessing her first casting couch experience at 14, or discovering that her memories of a loving father are not true or buying liquor surreptitiously from a bootlegger. In a scale of ‘how much I empathized with the character’, if Mr Bean scored a 3, Nikhat would score 1. Especially considering that I was pre disposed to weep for her as she is supposed to be based on real life heroines like Waheeda Rehman who did suffer a lot of trauma.

Rajat Kapoor as the aging hero, Premkumar, has a great role and does it well. Shiney Ahuja as the self-involved writer Zafar again vacillates from realistic to uni-dimensional. Peripheral support characters like Vinay Pathak, Saurabh Shukla, Sonya Jehan shine.

The movie reminded me of some of the dinners I have been to. The table is set right, complete with excellent chinaware and filled with well-garnished, delectable looking items, but the actual food usually tastes average. Looks great for a photo shoot but you can never forget yourself in it.

By,
Anita B.
(Read other posts by Anita B. at http://royalvilla.blogspot.com)

Review of 'Khoya Khoya Chand'

'Khoya Khoya Chand' attempts to recreate the magical world of Hindi cinema as it existed during the Guru Dutt era. I am tempted to say that it is a 'different' film, except there have been so many different films lately that the word can no longer be applied to most movies. It is an interesting story, and well told, though the second half could have done with crisper editing.

It is the story of the aspiring young star Nikhat, her journey from obscurity to fame and then her growing dependence on alcohol as her stardom lessens; of the men who accompany her / exploit her at various phases during this journey. According to news reports, the screenplay is loosely based on the story of Guru Dutt and Waheeda Rehman, sprinkled with excerpts from Meena Kumari and Madhubala's lives.*

The sets, costumes and music recreate the look and feel of an era. Apart from three absolutely delightful new songs - 'Khoya Khoya Chand', 'Yeh Nigahein' and 'Thirak Thirak', there are popular songs from old Hindi movies constantly playing in the background. There are references to stars of that time, and scenes that are respectful nods to classic movies of that era.

Each individual in the ensemble cast holds his own - Rajat Kapur, Vinay Pathak, Shiney Ahuja, Soha Ali Khan etc. Though Soha's acting has been panned by many reviewers, I thought she suited the role and was quite natural as Nikhat. The movie has some lovely dialogues - most of them delivered either by Saurabh Shukla essaying the role of a Punjabbi producerr, or by Shiney Ahuja as the writer Zafar. Soha Ali Khan, by contrast, has many overdramatised filmi dialogues, though she manages to make you believe in Nikhat in spite of them.

All in all, definitely worth a watch.

* (Note: Wonder why they left out Nutan ? Moral of the story : Good girls have no fun in their youth and no movies are made about them once they pass away.)

By,
Zenobia D. Driver