Its funny writing a review of a movie, nearly two years after it was released to much acclaim. It is a pity that HOFD took so much time to come to India. And it is an even bigger pity that it runs only for a couple of shows in Bangalore, the other slots being taken by an Indian Indiana Jones movie called “Naksha”.
HOFD has a gossamer storyline. It is the time of anarchy during the Tang dynasty, late ninth century. Various rebel groups are fighting the government and HOFD is one of the leading bunch of anarchists. A policeman, Jin, is sent to a brothel called Peony Pavilion in disguise to check out intelligence that a rebel is hiding there. There he runs into Mei, a blind courtesan, who is arrested after a dazzling dance sequence (the Echo Dance) on the presumption that she is the daughter of a leader of HOFD who was killed by the police. She is later helped to escape by Jin himself, who is acting as a mole to follow Mei to the HOFD. Jin and Mei are chased by soldiers and they fall in love after some elaborately staged fight (or dance) sequences across jungles, meadows, mountains and bamboo forests. Or are they just acting to be in love to meet their own motives. Some more surprises are in store and there is nicely spun tale of morality, love (there is even a love triangle) ending in a climax which is tragic and elemental. HOFD is a love story and please do not go expecting an action movie; the movie is not actually short of action sequences and indeed uses these to propel the love story forward.
Words like operatic and symphonic abound reviews of HOFD. For me personally, whose understanding of either operas or symphonies is next to zero, HOFD is a simply wonderful return to film making in its most pristine and unspoiled form. Films like “Crouching Tiger..”, “Hero” and now “HOFD” show the world and especially Hollywood a way of filmmaking which seem to have been forgotten. That cinema is primarily a visual (and aural) art form, in colour and texture. HOFD re-emphasises this in greater grandeur than ever before. The costumes are lavish and the art direction intricate (witness the floor design and the wall work in the Echo Dance. The action sequences are breathtaking and as (or more) wonderfully choreographed than the ones in Crouching Tiger or Hero (which to me was more mechanical than fluid). You are just dazzled by the way special effects have been integrated into the action.
Some of the sequences are truly memorable scene-of-the-decade ventures. ¬The Echo Dance in the beginning where Mei has to dance to the pat of a bean/ seed on a drum and the Bamboo Fight with its astonishing colours, sounds and movements are both sequences of unadulterated visceral glory. You want to tip your hat to the directors ability to imagine, leave aside execute, these scenes. Even some of the sensitive scenes are shot very well, like the scene were Jin gallops on a horse around a meadow sweeping flowers to give to the blind Mei and the panning shots of Mei and Jun in the meadows after a frantic love-making session. One can just go on.
The music and cinematography are the high points of the movie. Unlike the earlier named Chinese movies which had music by the brilliant Tan Dun, this has music by Shigeru Umebayashi who managed to reach the immense heights scaled by Tan Dun in both “Crouching” and “Hero”. Zhang Yimou, one of the greatest Chinese directors, has been called a “visual sensualist” by some. Movies of Zhang Yimou (himself a photographer) have always had brilliant composition and shot-taking. Colour for him is like dialogue to a Woody Allen movie. Here it is not as in-your-face as the colour- coded “Hero”, but simpler and still elegant and recalls all the visual splendour of Zhang’s earlier movies.
More interestingly, the career of director Zhang Yimou seem to echo the stage and growth of the Chinese economy. In his earlier classics like Red Sorghum, Raise the Red Lantern and Ju Dou made around the time of the student rebellion, he ran afoul of the government. However, the growing integration of Chine into the world economy seems to have made him return to more simple story-telling in movies like Hero and HOFD, though not in any way diluting his auteur status. I wonder what sociological conclusions to make from this, it is either mute indifference or an acceptance of the economic boom in China.
HOFD is “rich” in the way Hollywood movies were in the 50s when they were trying to battle television. The movie is a true feast to the senses, a riot of colour and music. I guess you may not catch it on the screen but a DVD rental is surely due. After seeing these movies, I wonder why we, with an equally strong mythology and folklore, don’t venture anywhere near what the Chinese have been doing.
By,
Guthikonda Vamshidhar
(http://guthikonda@blogspot.com)
Monday, September 18, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Sounds
When I was in 8th grade (1988), my mum and dad finally relented and got me what passed for a hi-fi back in the day. It was a breathtaking experience to finally hear music the way it was meant to be heard, off an Aiwa deck, with a signal-to-noise ratio >75 dB (which was the best you could get in those days without selling vital organs), a Cosmic amp (local brand, dunno what happened to them), and 3-way bookshelf speakers made by goodness knows who. The sound of Herb Alpert's "African Flame" playing on that system in the night, with the windows wide open (reduces echos), and the lights dimmed (makes the dancing LEDs more psychedelic) used to bring a smile to anyone used to a 2W Hitachi cassette player made in 1978 ( i.e., me).
Along with the purchase, I persuaded the dad-man to buy me a tape of AC/DC's "Blow Up Your Video" - he didn't know who AC/DC was, though I doubt he thought it was anything to do with electricity. And starting with that tape, I learned the meaning of generation-gap. My mum and dad did not get why I liked AC/DC, and later, Pink Floyd, U2, and name-your-mainstream-rock-band. Their idea of good western music was Kenny G, Connie Francis, Cliff Richard, and Abba, though if they really were given a choice, they'd go with silence.
In 1993, when I moved to IITB, I took with me ... the Hitachi casette player, which had been serviced back into shape. In 2003, 6 years after I left India, and 10 years after I moved to IITB, the hi-fi was a distant memory, having been left behind in India, where it had disintegrated and been sold to the local electronics shop, and replaced by my parents with a boombox which probably sounded good enough. In my grad-student apartment was an Aiwa boombox, I hardly ever played tapes (and I don't even know where that AC/DC tape is), and most of my music is on the computer. The occasional CD I purchased was quickly transferred to the computer so I could loop the songs into endless playlists.
When I started playing music to my first-born (who was a few months old in 2003), I started her off with Creedence Clearwater Revival, Scissor Sisters, Beastie Boys, and, of course, AC/DC. Occasionally, I'd put KL Saigal on, just to change the tempo (a lot). And Vishwa Mohan Bhatt. This way, I figured that as she grows up, she'll be used to having my music as background noise.
But now that Kid A has turned three, her musical tastes have started asserting themselves. CCR is out. Scissor Sisters and Beastie Boys are out because of the language, ditto AC/DC.
They Might Be Giants (and the album "No!") are in.
Randy Newman (and the Toy Story OST) is in.
The Jungle Book OST is in.
And there is a marked preference for Toy Story (1 and 2), which are played every other day on the DVD player, as is Winnie the Pooh.
She sings the Winnie the Pooh song, the Tigger Song, 'Fibber Island,' and 'You've Got a Friend in Me.'
All her songs are in my head, and I hum them at work.
When everyone is asleep, or when I have a free moment at work, I listen to some old favorites, or indie pop (my current favorites are the Southern Arts Society's 'Turbulent Heart' and the Sprites's George Romero. (The use of apostrophe-plus-s is correct because Sprites is a proper noun.) I enjoy the Kid A's talking, singing, dancing - she's growing up too fast for my liking.
But when I get it, I revel in the silence.
By,
Speck 42
Along with the purchase, I persuaded the dad-man to buy me a tape of AC/DC's "Blow Up Your Video" - he didn't know who AC/DC was, though I doubt he thought it was anything to do with electricity. And starting with that tape, I learned the meaning of generation-gap. My mum and dad did not get why I liked AC/DC, and later, Pink Floyd, U2, and name-your-mainstream-rock-band. Their idea of good western music was Kenny G, Connie Francis, Cliff Richard, and Abba, though if they really were given a choice, they'd go with silence.
In 1993, when I moved to IITB, I took with me ... the Hitachi casette player, which had been serviced back into shape. In 2003, 6 years after I left India, and 10 years after I moved to IITB, the hi-fi was a distant memory, having been left behind in India, where it had disintegrated and been sold to the local electronics shop, and replaced by my parents with a boombox which probably sounded good enough. In my grad-student apartment was an Aiwa boombox, I hardly ever played tapes (and I don't even know where that AC/DC tape is), and most of my music is on the computer. The occasional CD I purchased was quickly transferred to the computer so I could loop the songs into endless playlists.
When I started playing music to my first-born (who was a few months old in 2003), I started her off with Creedence Clearwater Revival, Scissor Sisters, Beastie Boys, and, of course, AC/DC. Occasionally, I'd put KL Saigal on, just to change the tempo (a lot). And Vishwa Mohan Bhatt. This way, I figured that as she grows up, she'll be used to having my music as background noise.
But now that Kid A has turned three, her musical tastes have started asserting themselves. CCR is out. Scissor Sisters and Beastie Boys are out because of the language, ditto AC/DC.
They Might Be Giants (and the album "No!") are in.
Randy Newman (and the Toy Story OST) is in.
The Jungle Book OST is in.
And there is a marked preference for Toy Story (1 and 2), which are played every other day on the DVD player, as is Winnie the Pooh.
She sings the Winnie the Pooh song, the Tigger Song, 'Fibber Island,' and 'You've Got a Friend in Me.'
All her songs are in my head, and I hum them at work.
When everyone is asleep, or when I have a free moment at work, I listen to some old favorites, or indie pop (my current favorites are the Southern Arts Society's 'Turbulent Heart' and the Sprites's George Romero. (The use of apostrophe-plus-s is correct because Sprites is a proper noun.) I enjoy the Kid A's talking, singing, dancing - she's growing up too fast for my liking.
But when I get it, I revel in the silence.
By,
Speck 42
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Review of 'Nine Queens'
This is a difficult film to analyze as it has many layers of deception built into it. The basic premise of the story is very simple – Marcos (Ricardo Darin) and Juan (Gaston Pauls) are two small time swindlers in Buenos Aires (it's a Spanish movie) who run into each other 'accidentally' and decide to team up for a day. In turn they run into a swindler trying to meet a guest in a hotel where Marcos' beautiful sister Valeria (Letecia Bredice) 'happens' to work. The latter is a con artist who has faked a set of valuable postage stamps of the Weimar era known as the 'Nine Queens'. The guest is no saint either, he is the infamous Gandolfo (Ignasi Abadal) - a multi millionaire – who is 'about' to be deported from Argentina the next day.
The plot runs into its predictable series of twists and turns. The main charm of the story, though, is the fact that throughout the course of the movie and indeed till the very end one is not really sure as to who is the lamb and who is the wolf. The circumstances are too pat, the boyish newbie Juan has to cough up 50 grand (very conveniently his entire wealth) as his contribution to pull of the caper. Will the roguish Marcos swindle Juan? Or will Valeria, who hates Marcos, but is crooked enough to sleep with Gandolfo walk away with all the money? And what about Gandolfo? He has seen many a swindle in his life and indeed is a big con artist himself. The movie unfolds gradually and keeps unfolding till the very end.
The pace of the movie is very relaxed. The story is simple, so the director (Fabian Bielinsky, who has also written the movie), has ample time to flesh out the characters and develop the plot with all the side stories. Juan comes across as a loveable rogue, a bewildered, hopeless, no-gooder who is being pushed by circumstances into a trade that he seems to loathe. His father is in prison and needs 70 grand to bribe a judge to set him free. The most delightful vignette of the movie is when Juan goes to meet his father in prison. They are sitting across a table playing cards wherein his father is rapidly moving the cards and Juan has to guess the position of the ace, which he unfailingly does so. At the same time his father is exhorting Juan not to do any work that will land him in prison. The shot ends with Juan not being able to identify the ace's position and turning up all three cards to find that the ace has disappeared. His father concludes the game by saying "You wouldn't survive." This seems to be the overarching message of the movie, only one has to keep guessing who the "it" is. The other characters, too, are brilliantly sketched out. Marcos as the world weary, battle hardened, take no prisoners conman, Valeria as the beautiful, hardworking sister who nevertheless seizes her crooked chance when she gets one and Gandolfo as the playboy businessman are played to perfection by the respective actors.
The end of the movie is where I have a quibble. As mentioned before, the movie keeps peeling of one layer after another. The most apt ending, in my opinion, was the penultimate layer. (Hint: being an economist I believe the Argentinean peso is the ultimate con artist.) Unfortunately the director peels off one layer too many and leads to what I feel is a very tame ending to a delightful journey.
PS – I hope the last paragraph is tantalizing and irritates my readers a wee bit. That is the intention. I hope it will motivate more people to watch this charming movie. J
By,
Sachin Desai.
The plot runs into its predictable series of twists and turns. The main charm of the story, though, is the fact that throughout the course of the movie and indeed till the very end one is not really sure as to who is the lamb and who is the wolf. The circumstances are too pat, the boyish newbie Juan has to cough up 50 grand (very conveniently his entire wealth) as his contribution to pull of the caper. Will the roguish Marcos swindle Juan? Or will Valeria, who hates Marcos, but is crooked enough to sleep with Gandolfo walk away with all the money? And what about Gandolfo? He has seen many a swindle in his life and indeed is a big con artist himself. The movie unfolds gradually and keeps unfolding till the very end.
The pace of the movie is very relaxed. The story is simple, so the director (Fabian Bielinsky, who has also written the movie), has ample time to flesh out the characters and develop the plot with all the side stories. Juan comes across as a loveable rogue, a bewildered, hopeless, no-gooder who is being pushed by circumstances into a trade that he seems to loathe. His father is in prison and needs 70 grand to bribe a judge to set him free. The most delightful vignette of the movie is when Juan goes to meet his father in prison. They are sitting across a table playing cards wherein his father is rapidly moving the cards and Juan has to guess the position of the ace, which he unfailingly does so. At the same time his father is exhorting Juan not to do any work that will land him in prison. The shot ends with Juan not being able to identify the ace's position and turning up all three cards to find that the ace has disappeared. His father concludes the game by saying "You wouldn't survive." This seems to be the overarching message of the movie, only one has to keep guessing who the "it" is. The other characters, too, are brilliantly sketched out. Marcos as the world weary, battle hardened, take no prisoners conman, Valeria as the beautiful, hardworking sister who nevertheless seizes her crooked chance when she gets one and Gandolfo as the playboy businessman are played to perfection by the respective actors.
The end of the movie is where I have a quibble. As mentioned before, the movie keeps peeling of one layer after another. The most apt ending, in my opinion, was the penultimate layer. (Hint: being an economist I believe the Argentinean peso is the ultimate con artist.) Unfortunately the director peels off one layer too many and leads to what I feel is a very tame ending to a delightful journey.
PS – I hope the last paragraph is tantalizing and irritates my readers a wee bit. That is the intention. I hope it will motivate more people to watch this charming movie. J
By,
Sachin Desai.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
about Books. and Reading.
Some of my earliest memories are of going with Mummy to the Higginbothams in Bangalore, greedily exploring the shelves and choosing the book I wanted. Then returning to my grandparent's house to curl up in a corner and lose myself in the exploits of Noddy, Big Ears, Mr. Plod, Tess, and of course, Noddy's red-and-yellow car (Praap ! Praap!).
A year – or maybe two later, I remember waking up early one cold, foggy morning in Ambala to find that Daddy had returned from an outstation trip with 'The O'Sullivan Twins' – my first foray into the St. Clare's series. In due course of time, I moved on to other series by Enid Blyton – MaloryTowers, The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, The Five Find Outers etc. (p.s. was 'Brer Rabbit' also an Enid Blyton invention ?) My most constant and cherished friends in my early years were those books; I think I learnt more about good manners, integrity and character from Ms. Theobald, Mrs. Jenks, Mrs. Cornwallis and Ms. Peters than I ever did from any teacher in school.
For reading material more rooted in Indianness, one depended on Tinkle and Amar Chitra Katha comics and Target magazine. At that time, there were hardly any children's books by Indian authors. A lot of one's early knowledge of Indian history came from Amar Chitra Katha comics, parts of epics such as the Ramayana and Mahabharata, also tales about the buildingof the Taj Mahal, about Birbal, Vikramaditya, Tipu Sultan, Sher Shah Suri etc. One's idea of feminine beauty was also largely based on Amar Chitra Katha heroines – graceful, curvaceous figure, lovely big eyes, heart shaped face and long, lustrous tresses. Tinkle with Suppandi and Shikari Shambhu was entertainment interspersed with some general knowledge. Target was my all time favourite then as it featured lots of stories about children like me and my friends and I could easily identify with their adventures.
Once all my relatives knew that little Zenobia (yes, I was little once, a long long looong time ago) preferred books to dolls, visits from or to relatives meant more books as presents. There exists a snap of my familywith my uncles in which I can be seen clutching tightly my present – an abridged version of 'War of the Worlds'. Does anyone remember those small pocket versions of classics – I had 'War of the Worlds', 'Time Machine' and ‘Last of the Mohicans’.
My happiest vacations were in my maternal grandparents house where the attic was full of bundles of books, wrapped in newspaper, bound with twine and covered in dust; and my normally stern grandfather had given me carte blanche to unwrap and read anything. It was like participating in a 'lucky dip' each time I picked up and unwrapped a new bundle, one never knew what one would end up with. There were tons of old issues of Readers Digest – Grandpa had been a subscriber from the very beginning. Then there were the stacks of Readers Digest Condensed Versions – big fat tomes solemnly trying to live up to the dignified dark green / brown binding and the majestic gold lettering on the spine. There were old classics – all of Jane Austen's work, Wuthering Heights, Moby Dick etc – these were the ones I read, the rest were too weighty for me to even attempt ! To satisfy one's need for zippy thrillers, there were lots of Erle Stanley Gardner (Perry Mason detective novels, does anyone remember who played Kitty to his Karamchand ? ) and Agatha Christie novels.
Days consisted of sipping fragrant hot tea in the morning and reading; chilled rasna lime / rasna mango in the afternoons and reading some more; while a steady stream of snacks and meals found it's way to my stomach. Until it got hot one sat in a rocking chair under a tree or on the swing in the porch, later one moved to a spot close to the fan. Longish spells of reading were broken only by intervals of playing cards with or chatting to grandparents. Evenings were reserved for visits to the sea-side, back home for dinner and TV watching, and then to bed with a book.
And Oh ! the book inspired adventures. Like finding an old abandoned decrepit temple in a forest near our house in Tambaram and exploring it carefully during the day with friends for hidden treasure or unknown ghosts. Or starting our own Secret Seven Club to find out who the bicycle thief on campus was. Having meetings to analyse clues and discuss the progress of our investigation – we would have done a parliamentary committee proud with our lengthy deliberations. Of course all meetings included juice and snacks thoughtfully provided by a club member's mother. Apart from going through enough snacks to feed an army and keeping us occupied throughout the holidays, our club didn't achieve much, though maybe it honed our 'analytical ability and reasoning skills'. ;-)
Books got me into trouble quite often too. Once, when I was about ten years old, some neighbours saw me reading a book while walking by the side of the main road. They decided to tell my father the next time they met him, which unfortunately was at a party. I got a solid firing from my father in front of 25-30 people, to add to my misery he also threatened to cancel my library card. Another time I left an Archies comic that belonged to my grandfather's friend on top of the flush tank in the loo, and due to some thoughtless person using the shower to bathe, it got wet. That was another time I came close to having my borrowing privileges curtailed, I also got a lecture on carelessness vs. responsibility and treating books properly that I will never forget.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
A year – or maybe two later, I remember waking up early one cold, foggy morning in Ambala to find that Daddy had returned from an outstation trip with 'The O'Sullivan Twins' – my first foray into the St. Clare's series. In due course of time, I moved on to other series by Enid Blyton – MaloryTowers, The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, The Five Find Outers etc. (p.s. was 'Brer Rabbit' also an Enid Blyton invention ?) My most constant and cherished friends in my early years were those books; I think I learnt more about good manners, integrity and character from Ms. Theobald, Mrs. Jenks, Mrs. Cornwallis and Ms. Peters than I ever did from any teacher in school.
For reading material more rooted in Indianness, one depended on Tinkle and Amar Chitra Katha comics and Target magazine. At that time, there were hardly any children's books by Indian authors. A lot of one's early knowledge of Indian history came from Amar Chitra Katha comics, parts of epics such as the Ramayana and Mahabharata, also tales about the buildingof the Taj Mahal, about Birbal, Vikramaditya, Tipu Sultan, Sher Shah Suri etc. One's idea of feminine beauty was also largely based on Amar Chitra Katha heroines – graceful, curvaceous figure, lovely big eyes, heart shaped face and long, lustrous tresses. Tinkle with Suppandi and Shikari Shambhu was entertainment interspersed with some general knowledge. Target was my all time favourite then as it featured lots of stories about children like me and my friends and I could easily identify with their adventures.
Once all my relatives knew that little Zenobia (yes, I was little once, a long long looong time ago) preferred books to dolls, visits from or to relatives meant more books as presents. There exists a snap of my familywith my uncles in which I can be seen clutching tightly my present – an abridged version of 'War of the Worlds'. Does anyone remember those small pocket versions of classics – I had 'War of the Worlds', 'Time Machine' and ‘Last of the Mohicans’.
My happiest vacations were in my maternal grandparents house where the attic was full of bundles of books, wrapped in newspaper, bound with twine and covered in dust; and my normally stern grandfather had given me carte blanche to unwrap and read anything. It was like participating in a 'lucky dip' each time I picked up and unwrapped a new bundle, one never knew what one would end up with. There were tons of old issues of Readers Digest – Grandpa had been a subscriber from the very beginning. Then there were the stacks of Readers Digest Condensed Versions – big fat tomes solemnly trying to live up to the dignified dark green / brown binding and the majestic gold lettering on the spine. There were old classics – all of Jane Austen's work, Wuthering Heights, Moby Dick etc – these were the ones I read, the rest were too weighty for me to even attempt ! To satisfy one's need for zippy thrillers, there were lots of Erle Stanley Gardner (Perry Mason detective novels, does anyone remember who played Kitty to his Karamchand ? ) and Agatha Christie novels.
Days consisted of sipping fragrant hot tea in the morning and reading; chilled rasna lime / rasna mango in the afternoons and reading some more; while a steady stream of snacks and meals found it's way to my stomach. Until it got hot one sat in a rocking chair under a tree or on the swing in the porch, later one moved to a spot close to the fan. Longish spells of reading were broken only by intervals of playing cards with or chatting to grandparents. Evenings were reserved for visits to the sea-side, back home for dinner and TV watching, and then to bed with a book.
And Oh ! the book inspired adventures. Like finding an old abandoned decrepit temple in a forest near our house in Tambaram and exploring it carefully during the day with friends for hidden treasure or unknown ghosts. Or starting our own Secret Seven Club to find out who the bicycle thief on campus was. Having meetings to analyse clues and discuss the progress of our investigation – we would have done a parliamentary committee proud with our lengthy deliberations. Of course all meetings included juice and snacks thoughtfully provided by a club member's mother. Apart from going through enough snacks to feed an army and keeping us occupied throughout the holidays, our club didn't achieve much, though maybe it honed our 'analytical ability and reasoning skills'. ;-)
Books got me into trouble quite often too. Once, when I was about ten years old, some neighbours saw me reading a book while walking by the side of the main road. They decided to tell my father the next time they met him, which unfortunately was at a party. I got a solid firing from my father in front of 25-30 people, to add to my misery he also threatened to cancel my library card. Another time I left an Archies comic that belonged to my grandfather's friend on top of the flush tank in the loo, and due to some thoughtless person using the shower to bathe, it got wet. That was another time I came close to having my borrowing privileges curtailed, I also got a lecture on carelessness vs. responsibility and treating books properly that I will never forget.
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Is ‘Resilient’ the new ‘Metrosexual’ ?
Every once in a while, a new word appears from nowhere, and before you know it, everybody is using it like it has been around forever. The hottest new cliche is ‘Resilient’. Which means ‘an ability to recover from misfortune’. Since Tuesday, it must have used by every Tom, Dick, and Harry; from news anchors to celebs to activists to politicians.
Bombay laid claim to this title many years ago, when it was serial bombed in response to the Babri Masjid demolition. Since then many a small incident, like the Mulund/Ghatko blasts, the Gateway blasts and now the Terrible Tuesday blasts, and the moniker is firmly Mumbai's.
Even before the pyres were lit, everybody had been falling over each other to congratulate themselves about their resilience, and how they are able to get back to work without skipping a beat. But did we really ?
Take a look at how Bombay reacted. First, the phone companies were blasted for networks getting clogged. When calls started getting through, people ensured that they and their near ones were safe, and promptly started bitching about when the trains would get working.
The fact is, bombings are very finite acts. Either you are hit, or you are safe. And once you are safe you aren't really concerned because it ain’t happening again. It is very easy to talk tough, when the enemy has already left. The much bandied 'you can't keep me down' spirit was missing just a couple of days before when the Sena held the city to ransom. Not knowing what to expect, everybody stayed indoors. Don't want to ding my car, do I ? Going for a drive on Sunday required more balls than getting on to a local train on Wednesday morning. 3 million people travel by the western railway daily. Probability of getting hit could have been the definition of zero. On Sunday night at 8:00 pm dadar wore a deserted look. There was no spirit to be seen, unless it was being consumed indoors.
In 2004 when the metro was bombed in Madrid 190 people were killed. You know what the city did ? 2 million people went on strike in Madrid (population of 3.2 million), 1.5 Million went on strike in Barcelona (population 1.6 million) saying they were not resilient. They said they wouldn't take it in their stride. Overall it is estimated that 28% of Spain's entire population protested on the streets. They wanted answers, and they wanted action. Three days later they voted the incumbent national govt. out of power, saying they wanted somebody to do something.
Here are samples of what our leaders said: In Mumbai, the top cop A.N."Pg3" Roy came out with a blinding pearl of wisdom, "These seem to be planned attacks"(source : ticker on NDTV). Planned as in not for fun? Not spontaneous? I bet the Mumbai police won't be able to set off 7 firecrackers in 7 different locations in a spread of 10 mins. The Chief Minister : "We want the world to know Mumbai is not worried about such events." Not worried ? He was right, we are resilient. When asked about intelligence failure, he said, "Let us not talk about such things today. We need time to conduct investigations." (source : front page article in Business Line, 13/07/06) Such things ? Yeah. When there are bar dancers to be hounded, why bother with terrorists.
So go on Bombay, go back to work. Pretend like nothing matters to you. After all what is 200 people out of 12 million getting blown to bits, as long as my 8:34 shows up on time the next day. Burning buses for a vandalising a statue is ok, but when it comes to bombing trains we don't mind, we need new ones anyway.
Tiger Memon is running businesses in Dubai. Miandad can track Dawood down to marry off his daughter. We don't care. The accused in the Ghatko/Mulund bombings were let off because of shoddy investigations. Does anybody remember? Or is resilience about amnesia as well? The Israelis are still arresting Nazis in Argentina, 60 years after the Holocaust. I guess they refuse to be resilient. Bloody morons. Learn to let go from Mumbai. A N Roy will get promoted. He is being praised. An enquiry will be launched. 500 muslims will be arrested. Then Medha Patkar, Shabana Azmi and Arundhati Roy will protest that minorities are being victimized.
So all my resilient Mumbaikars, I hope we get bombed again. So that we can again engage in self congratulatory forwarding of 'Dear Terrorist' emails.
By,
Nikhil Pednekar
Bombay laid claim to this title many years ago, when it was serial bombed in response to the Babri Masjid demolition. Since then many a small incident, like the Mulund/Ghatko blasts, the Gateway blasts and now the Terrible Tuesday blasts, and the moniker is firmly Mumbai's.
Even before the pyres were lit, everybody had been falling over each other to congratulate themselves about their resilience, and how they are able to get back to work without skipping a beat. But did we really ?
Take a look at how Bombay reacted. First, the phone companies were blasted for networks getting clogged. When calls started getting through, people ensured that they and their near ones were safe, and promptly started bitching about when the trains would get working.
The fact is, bombings are very finite acts. Either you are hit, or you are safe. And once you are safe you aren't really concerned because it ain’t happening again. It is very easy to talk tough, when the enemy has already left. The much bandied 'you can't keep me down' spirit was missing just a couple of days before when the Sena held the city to ransom. Not knowing what to expect, everybody stayed indoors. Don't want to ding my car, do I ? Going for a drive on Sunday required more balls than getting on to a local train on Wednesday morning. 3 million people travel by the western railway daily. Probability of getting hit could have been the definition of zero. On Sunday night at 8:00 pm dadar wore a deserted look. There was no spirit to be seen, unless it was being consumed indoors.
In 2004 when the metro was bombed in Madrid 190 people were killed. You know what the city did ? 2 million people went on strike in Madrid (population of 3.2 million), 1.5 Million went on strike in Barcelona (population 1.6 million) saying they were not resilient. They said they wouldn't take it in their stride. Overall it is estimated that 28% of Spain's entire population protested on the streets. They wanted answers, and they wanted action. Three days later they voted the incumbent national govt. out of power, saying they wanted somebody to do something.
Here are samples of what our leaders said: In Mumbai, the top cop A.N."Pg3" Roy came out with a blinding pearl of wisdom, "These seem to be planned attacks"(source : ticker on NDTV). Planned as in not for fun? Not spontaneous? I bet the Mumbai police won't be able to set off 7 firecrackers in 7 different locations in a spread of 10 mins. The Chief Minister : "We want the world to know Mumbai is not worried about such events." Not worried ? He was right, we are resilient. When asked about intelligence failure, he said, "Let us not talk about such things today. We need time to conduct investigations." (source : front page article in Business Line, 13/07/06) Such things ? Yeah. When there are bar dancers to be hounded, why bother with terrorists.
So go on Bombay, go back to work. Pretend like nothing matters to you. After all what is 200 people out of 12 million getting blown to bits, as long as my 8:34 shows up on time the next day. Burning buses for a vandalising a statue is ok, but when it comes to bombing trains we don't mind, we need new ones anyway.
Tiger Memon is running businesses in Dubai. Miandad can track Dawood down to marry off his daughter. We don't care. The accused in the Ghatko/Mulund bombings were let off because of shoddy investigations. Does anybody remember? Or is resilience about amnesia as well? The Israelis are still arresting Nazis in Argentina, 60 years after the Holocaust. I guess they refuse to be resilient. Bloody morons. Learn to let go from Mumbai. A N Roy will get promoted. He is being praised. An enquiry will be launched. 500 muslims will be arrested. Then Medha Patkar, Shabana Azmi and Arundhati Roy will protest that minorities are being victimized.
So all my resilient Mumbaikars, I hope we get bombed again. So that we can again engage in self congratulatory forwarding of 'Dear Terrorist' emails.
By,
Nikhil Pednekar
Friday, July 14, 2006
Too Close for Comfort
A few days ago, on July 11th, there were 7 bomb blasts in Mumbai – all on the local trains. They were all set to go off around the same time in the first class men’s compartment on different trains. The death toll is currently 190 and rising…
This is not the first time something like this has happened. Since I moved to Mumbai in 2000, there have been other such incidents as well. But this time, it felt more real than ever before…
To start with, Jai was on the train before the one that had the bomb. He caught the train that left Churchgate at 5.40 p.m and the bomb was on the 5.44 p.m. train. In fact, he considered waiting for the next train since the 5.40 was pretty crowded but he was late for a meeting with our architect so he decided to brave the crowds anyway. That was how close it was - especially since Jai travels by the men’s first class compartment. It really made me think of the blasts as more than just another terrorist attack. It made me think of the men who died yesterday. They left home yesterday morning as if it was just another day. Families said goodbye to their fathers, brothers and sons, not knowing that this would be the last time that they would see them. And we could have been one of those families… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
My maid’s daughter still hasn’t come home. She had gone to Borivili for work yesterday and that was the last they heard of her. The chances are that she is okay since the casualties are mostly male. But she does not have a mobile phone and they have not been able to contact her. They have gone to Borivili to look for her – I hope they find her safe and sound. I tried putting myself in her shoes and it was just too scary. The thought that I might have no idea where or how Ayaan was in a situation like this is just beyond thinking about… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We were away at the new house, but our current house is pretty close to the station. My mom and the maid actually heard the blasts. Ayaan and my mother were actually close enough to two of the blasts to hear them… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We are all fine (thankfully) – just a little shaken. But in true Mumbai spirit, we are not letting it get us down. The trains are up and working and Jai insisted on going by train today – he refused to be cowed down by these acts of terror. I made it to office too and the traffic on the roads was almost as jammed as it usually is. Never say die, life as usual and all of that.
By,
Rohini Haldea
This is not the first time something like this has happened. Since I moved to Mumbai in 2000, there have been other such incidents as well. But this time, it felt more real than ever before…
To start with, Jai was on the train before the one that had the bomb. He caught the train that left Churchgate at 5.40 p.m and the bomb was on the 5.44 p.m. train. In fact, he considered waiting for the next train since the 5.40 was pretty crowded but he was late for a meeting with our architect so he decided to brave the crowds anyway. That was how close it was - especially since Jai travels by the men’s first class compartment. It really made me think of the blasts as more than just another terrorist attack. It made me think of the men who died yesterday. They left home yesterday morning as if it was just another day. Families said goodbye to their fathers, brothers and sons, not knowing that this would be the last time that they would see them. And we could have been one of those families… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
My maid’s daughter still hasn’t come home. She had gone to Borivili for work yesterday and that was the last they heard of her. The chances are that she is okay since the casualties are mostly male. But she does not have a mobile phone and they have not been able to contact her. They have gone to Borivili to look for her – I hope they find her safe and sound. I tried putting myself in her shoes and it was just too scary. The thought that I might have no idea where or how Ayaan was in a situation like this is just beyond thinking about… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We were away at the new house, but our current house is pretty close to the station. My mom and the maid actually heard the blasts. Ayaan and my mother were actually close enough to two of the blasts to hear them… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.
We are all fine (thankfully) – just a little shaken. But in true Mumbai spirit, we are not letting it get us down. The trains are up and working and Jai insisted on going by train today – he refused to be cowed down by these acts of terror. I made it to office too and the traffic on the roads was almost as jammed as it usually is. Never say die, life as usual and all of that.
By,
Rohini Haldea
Friday, June 30, 2006
Review of 'Zero Effect'
With the World Cup taking a pause, before the quarter-finals, I suddenly found that I had a whole evening on my hands and nothing worthwhile on tv. So I decided to borrow a whodunit from the local library. The plot of ‘Zero Effect’ shows a lot of promise in the initial half an hour, but ultimately turns out to be fairly straightforward. However the charm of the movie lies in its characterization and the delightful narration.
The story has Holmesian shades with a brilliant but eccentric detective Daryl Zero (brilliantly essayed by Bill Pullman of Independence Day and While you were sleeping fame) as a protagonist and his doting “Watson” Steve Arlo (Ben Stiller in a competent performance). Daryl is a social misfit, a person who seldom leaves his apartment that resembles a safety vault. Daryl is eccentric to a fault and never interacts with his clients face to face. Its only when Daryl is on a case that he comes into his own and displays his superhuman powers of observation and objectivity. Steve is his representative and the voice and face of the firm. Steve both idolizes and loathes his employer. He seems to take vicarious pride in the sleuth’s skills and brilliance but hates the fact that he is ill treated by Daryl. The two are called upon to solve a case by a wealthy Mr Gregory Stark (Ryan O’Neal) who has lost the keys to his safe deposit box and is consequently being blackmailed due to the dubious nature of its contents. The case seems straightforward enough, find the keys and stop the blackmailer. It starts getting murkier when Daryl starts investigations and links it to dark events (notably a murder) that occurred more than two decades ago. His personal life gets complicated when a mysterious spunky woman Gloria Sullivan (Kim Dickens) arrives on the scene and they start dating. He has always prided himself on being able to read other people’s minds but with Gloria he seems to hit a stone wall.
The final denouement is delightful but by no means unpredictable. The lesson here is that one cannot change one’s basic nature. Your nature (both the good and evil aspects) may at times be dormant but at some point in time it will blossom and burst forth. I think writer director Jake Kasdan deliberately kept the plot predictable as he wanted the viewers to concentrate on the protagonists, their interactions and the human follies and tragedies that visit us all in our daily life.
The movie has a lot of comic moments and the stars especially Ben Stiller and Bill Pullman share a great rapport. The movie also rakes up the perennial ethical question that faces most of us working professionals. What is important the letter or the spirit of the law? Its obviously exacerbated by the nature of work of private investigators. The question is kept unanswered as there is probably no clear solution to it. The movie ends in a realistic fashion, no fairy tale endings with all loose ends neatly tied up. It seems and feels like the only solution.
By,
Sachin Desai
The story has Holmesian shades with a brilliant but eccentric detective Daryl Zero (brilliantly essayed by Bill Pullman of Independence Day and While you were sleeping fame) as a protagonist and his doting “Watson” Steve Arlo (Ben Stiller in a competent performance). Daryl is a social misfit, a person who seldom leaves his apartment that resembles a safety vault. Daryl is eccentric to a fault and never interacts with his clients face to face. Its only when Daryl is on a case that he comes into his own and displays his superhuman powers of observation and objectivity. Steve is his representative and the voice and face of the firm. Steve both idolizes and loathes his employer. He seems to take vicarious pride in the sleuth’s skills and brilliance but hates the fact that he is ill treated by Daryl. The two are called upon to solve a case by a wealthy Mr Gregory Stark (Ryan O’Neal) who has lost the keys to his safe deposit box and is consequently being blackmailed due to the dubious nature of its contents. The case seems straightforward enough, find the keys and stop the blackmailer. It starts getting murkier when Daryl starts investigations and links it to dark events (notably a murder) that occurred more than two decades ago. His personal life gets complicated when a mysterious spunky woman Gloria Sullivan (Kim Dickens) arrives on the scene and they start dating. He has always prided himself on being able to read other people’s minds but with Gloria he seems to hit a stone wall.
The final denouement is delightful but by no means unpredictable. The lesson here is that one cannot change one’s basic nature. Your nature (both the good and evil aspects) may at times be dormant but at some point in time it will blossom and burst forth. I think writer director Jake Kasdan deliberately kept the plot predictable as he wanted the viewers to concentrate on the protagonists, their interactions and the human follies and tragedies that visit us all in our daily life.
The movie has a lot of comic moments and the stars especially Ben Stiller and Bill Pullman share a great rapport. The movie also rakes up the perennial ethical question that faces most of us working professionals. What is important the letter or the spirit of the law? Its obviously exacerbated by the nature of work of private investigators. The question is kept unanswered as there is probably no clear solution to it. The movie ends in a realistic fashion, no fairy tale endings with all loose ends neatly tied up. It seems and feels like the only solution.
By,
Sachin Desai
Monday, June 12, 2006
"Tell me your biggest weakness."
"I dig my nose all the time and have a tendency to lob great gobs of spit at whoever i am speaking to."
"I hate other humans and scream at them for the slightest mistake, three of my colleagues recently had a nervous breakdown."
"I set very high standards for my whole team; after eight months working with me, my boss took a three month sabbatical to figure out clear goals and objectives for his life and work."
"My nickname is 'Terminator', the last four companies I headed went bankrupt."
"I believe that eight hours in office are best spent in tea/coffee/chat sessions interspersed with email checking and Tetris playing."
"I am hypercritical, negative, cribby and come to office only to disperse venom over a larger population."
Does anyone ever, ever admit to genuine weaknesses in an interview ? Granted, those listed above are exaggerations, but I wonder how an interviewer would react if someone came close to admitting to being antisocial, bad - tempered, lazy, impatient, irresponsible, stupid etc. When the answer is so obviously a work of fiction, why do interviewers persist in the farce ? Does asking this question not reflect on their lack of perspicacity ?
I have decided that my decision to join a company shall henceforth be based on the quality of questions asked by the interviewer. Those that keep silly, unnecessary questions to a minimum shall stand a greater chance of having me grace their office with my presence on a daily basis. In fact, I shall make a marksheet and rank companies I interview with in order to make an unbiased, balanced, sensible decision. In case anyone who reads this ever ends up interviewing me, here is how you will be graded :
Silly question with no hope of being answered honestly - (-50)
Question that may be answered honestly, but probably not - (-20)
Good sensible question - (+20)
Previous answer logically led to this Question, interviewer displays reasoning ability and analytical skills - (+50)
Doesn't ask too many questions but tells me all about his company and the industry - (+100)
Looks like Abhishek Bachhan/John Abraham/Milind Soman and may be my boss - (+1000)
(Yes, the last seems rather unlikely, but one never stops hoping....and just in case it happens, have ensured that marking system takes care of assigning this factor highest priority.)
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
"I hate other humans and scream at them for the slightest mistake, three of my colleagues recently had a nervous breakdown."
"I set very high standards for my whole team; after eight months working with me, my boss took a three month sabbatical to figure out clear goals and objectives for his life and work."
"My nickname is 'Terminator', the last four companies I headed went bankrupt."
"I believe that eight hours in office are best spent in tea/coffee/chat sessions interspersed with email checking and Tetris playing."
"I am hypercritical, negative, cribby and come to office only to disperse venom over a larger population."
Does anyone ever, ever admit to genuine weaknesses in an interview ? Granted, those listed above are exaggerations, but I wonder how an interviewer would react if someone came close to admitting to being antisocial, bad - tempered, lazy, impatient, irresponsible, stupid etc. When the answer is so obviously a work of fiction, why do interviewers persist in the farce ? Does asking this question not reflect on their lack of perspicacity ?
I have decided that my decision to join a company shall henceforth be based on the quality of questions asked by the interviewer. Those that keep silly, unnecessary questions to a minimum shall stand a greater chance of having me grace their office with my presence on a daily basis. In fact, I shall make a marksheet and rank companies I interview with in order to make an unbiased, balanced, sensible decision. In case anyone who reads this ever ends up interviewing me, here is how you will be graded :
Silly question with no hope of being answered honestly - (-50)
Question that may be answered honestly, but probably not - (-20)
Good sensible question - (+20)
Previous answer logically led to this Question, interviewer displays reasoning ability and analytical skills - (+50)
Doesn't ask too many questions but tells me all about his company and the industry - (+100)
Looks like Abhishek Bachhan/John Abraham/Milind Soman and may be my boss - (+1000)
(Yes, the last seems rather unlikely, but one never stops hoping....and just in case it happens, have ensured that marking system takes care of assigning this factor highest priority.)
By,
Zenobia D. Driver
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Boromaima (Eldest Paternal Uncle's Wife)
She sat on the sofa, propped up with some cushions. She had been sitting on the same spot for so many years that there was a depression in that spot. Everyone had noticed this dent, except boudi(elder cousin brother's wife). Or was it because she preferred not to notice, boudi never noticed anything that involved an expense or made others lives easier, without exception of her own children. Boudi was a character; she walked with a strange limp and a walking stick; she stashed away the cash in the newspaper folds in the cupboard, firmly, as if she could take all of it with her after life. Money was not the only thing she stashed; she stashed away gifts that people had given her jamai (daughter's husband)–during her daughter's wedding, 20 long years ago. She still took these gifts out and gave them to her jamai on each jamai sasti. (The festival that Bengalis celebrate to honor their son-in-laws, once a year). Banyans and t-shirts came out of the various cupboards all over the sprawling 3-storied house.
She also stacked away the day's unsold fruit and vegetables the fruit –seller sold to her at dusk at discounted prices; after he finished his rounds of the neighborhood and sold all he could. These spare vegetables were neatly put into the fridge, for Pushpa to take out and cook from time to time. Pushpa was the mad maid, who was deaf and looked very strange, wearing her sari in an adaptation of the Bengali way, though not quite the typical Bengali way. Shakespeare had clearly met someone like her when he wrote about 'the method in the madness'. Seemingly mad Pushpa accompanied boudi on her customary walks every evening to the neighborhood temple. Boudi was extremely ritualistic – fasting on the appropriate days, following all the customs to the t, and making sure she visited the temple everyday. Somehow she felt it absolved her of all her sins, as she cowered in front of Shiva or Ram. In her spare time, or just after she had sparked off a controversy she would disappear into her puja room, pretending to be immersed in prayer. Here, she hid all her choicest snacks and treasures. These were put away in the trunks under the murtis beside the lamp. This ensured that no one else had access to her objects of desire; also while the world thought she was lost in devotion, she could always steal a bite of misti (Bengali sweetmeats) that Pushpa had quietly purchased for her from the Ganguram shop nearby. She lived like a thief in her own house. Or perhaps it was because it wasn't her own house - that kept her in a perpetual state of fear. It had been built by boromama and cleverly appropriated by her from her bhashur( her husband's elder brother and my boromama), with active support from her wily father, through a stellar emotional performance at the time of her husband's death.
Sumi heard the clanging of the degchi (cooking vessel) in the dismal kitchen next to boromaima's room. It was Pushpa's way of sounding the dinner/lunch gong. Alpana, boromaima's young maid breezed in with boromaima's lunch plate – on it was placed some boiled vegetables – a combination of ladies fingers, potatoes and pumkin, rice and a piece of fish cooked in the Bengali macher jhol style (fish in a light gravy of turmeric and other spices) . Boromaima's lunch was served. Sumi thought of the past – how boromama and maima lived in 8, Ballygunge Place in beautiful I.C.S. quarters with Bahadur sounding the dinner gong to announce that he had served a 3-course English meal. Such had been boromaima's training.
Now, Boromaima lived in one room of the 3-storied house, where she lay down on a 4-poster bed, sat up on the dented sofa and ate her lunch at a small wooden table. How ironical that she was relegated to a solitary room, given that boromama (boromaima's husband) had actually built this house. Boromama was an I.C.S. officer and boromaima had lived in great style during his lifetime. She had been the perfect wife of the I.C.S. officer – well bred, extremely intelligent, beautiful, convent educated and an avid social worker. She could drive, play tennis and go ballroom dancing with equal ease; for a woman brought up in the 1920s, it was no mean achievement. What was even more fascinating about boromaima was that she was a prolific reader – Shakespeare and politics, Marxism and feminism attracted her equally. She could converse with almost anyone, leaving her grand-daughters' friends impressed with her pleasing personality and her wealth of knowledge. The only thing that Sumi had never seen boromaima revel in was cooking. She ate very little and was so measured in her eating habits. The most fascinating thing about boromaima however was that she never complained – and I mean never. No matter how unwell she felt, how rotten the fish tasted, how often the maid bunked or how cruelly boudi behaved with her. This was especially commendable because she had lived through 4 deaths –boromama's, her son-in –law's, her only son's and finally her only daughter's. In spite of that she never complained. This was what impressed Sumi about her boromaima the most. How could anyone be like that; in the 38yrs of her own life, Sumi had found so much to complain about – demanding parents, an asshole of a boyfriend, a thankless job, irritating maidservants, the weather, her friends who had drifted away, the slow bank manager and so much else.
Sumi sat on the chair in front of boromaima. She was Sumi's boromaima. As Alpana placed the plate on the table, Sumi lent a helping hand for boromaima to get up from the sofa and go and sit at the table. The table was a wooden one, from dadu's time; the chair seemed to belong to the table – Sumi thought, it had been a set forever. A few leaves from the aam tree that grew outside the window, had been stuck into a used medicine bottle for decoration. A calendar bedecked the wall, though not turned to the right month – in nineteen days no one had bothered to flip the calendar, in a house full of people who had nothing to do. This made Sumi furious and she tried counting till ten to calm herself, a tip boromaima had given her ages ago. A bottle of water was placed on the windowsill, next to a jar of horlicks and a steel glass. This was the sum total of boromaima's minimal needs.
Sumi got up to change the page of the calendar and patches of dust got transferred from the calendar pages to her manicured fingers. Several thoughts were going through her mind. She wondered about the future and about the past. She thought of her days at 33, Shakespeare Sarani, where boromaima would religiously come to spend the day every Thursday and regale Sumi with age old stories and anecdotes , so much so that Sumi would beg boromaima not to return home. During the monsoon, sometimes her wish would be granted- when she would have to stay back due to the quick water logging in the building. She would spend hours with boromaima – not getting pampered; but learning. Boromaima was always active – stitching, mending all the torn clothes- the buttons that had come off from the school uniform; the pocket of baba's shirt and even the strap of ma's bra. Sumi was fascinated that it was even possible to mend a bra strap!!!
Boromaima taught Sumi one lesson –The objective of education my dear, she would say; is about how well you can adapt to any given situation that you find yourself in. Sumi never understood quite what this meant till many, many years later. Sumi was now a busy executive, working in a multinational company outside Kolkata. She earned a good salary, went out to eat often, watched Hindi and English movies for entertainment and often indulged in retail therapy. However, she was awfully lonely, and it was at times like this when she came and sat by boromaima's side in Kolkata that she felt secure, felt there was a life beyond Crossroads and Lifestyle, beyond Under- the-Over and ShahRukh Khan and plays at NCPA and Irish coffee at Prithvi. She understood how important it was to have a person in your life that you could look up to and love simultaneously, she understood how you could be the most generous to yourself when you actually helped others out- by volunteering work at a social service center, teaching orphans or sponsoring some students to study further. She had only begun to understand………
She had only begun to understand the life that boromaima had lived. She understood how someone who was a double M.A., blessed with a handsome and gifted husband, a son and a daughter, someone who had contributed so much to the society she lived in; could be like this. What Sumi could not fathom was how someone who had lost everything – glamour of her husband's position, coupled with the loss of both her children in sudden and uncertain circumstances - could be so pleasant, so disciplined and above all have no bitterness. This is what fascinated Sumi. Sumi experienced an invigoration that she had never felt before; she continued feeling this as she boarded the flight back to Mumbai. Her mind was elsewhere… she landed in Mumbai and took a taxi home. As soon as she reached home, she switched on the lights, poured herself a glass of iced water, switched on the A.C., a comfort she had suddenly gotten used to; the heat in Mumbai had not reduced one bit, she thought to herself. She washed her face with the soap - free cleanser her beautician had recommended and she took a deep breath. She dialed Palash's no. from her landline. Somehow whenever she needed to make an important call she used the landline instead of the cordless phone, somewhat like looking for security. Someone answered the phone from the other end – she could sense it was his mother who had come to visit him in Mumbai. She asked for Palash – in a manner that was matter of fact, without exchanging any pleasantries with his mother. He was in the loo, she would hold she said; she could hear the flush and the bathroom door open, he came onto the phone. 'Palash?', she said in a flat tone, expressionless and bereft of any feeling, 'Hi Sumi- welcome back to Mumbai', he said with feigned enthusiasm; 'Palash' she said again; 'I am leaving, I am setting you free and setting myself free from you as well'. The rest of the conversation continued as expected, Sumi thought as she smiled to her self a month later as she boarded the flight to Chennai.
It had been surprisingly easy – easier than she had imagined. She knew that she was never really meant for boyfriends, husband and marriage. There were enough and more girls in society ready to do that. She was made for better and bigger or let's say different things in life…she had been scared to admit this to herself, she had been convincing herself that she needed a man, she needed security, she needed love from a family, having lost her parents when she was very young.
But on meeting boromaima this time, she realized that she needed none of these. She wanted much, she wanted all those things that regular people don't; she wanted to make a difference, she wanted to be a vagabond, working on projects and teaching street children, feeling the wind in her hair and seeing the smile of a thousand children. It was surprisingly easy to pursue her dream, the words resounded in her mind 'education is about adapting to any situation'. She didn't want to empathize with Palash's mother's grief about her arthritis problem, or Palash's concern about where to store his family's black money. It was surprising how she had put up with all of this; she had almost succumbed to marrying someone who was alarmingly different from her, not just in family background, but in the basic values of how to live life. She wondered what she had been looking for, what she had been getting – one free dinner in a plush hotel once in a while and some necking in the taxi. Surely this wasn't what her life was meant to be. Surely there was a 'big picture' a bright picture that she was missing out on. Surely in her years at Presidency College, over cups of tea in the college canteen, when she debated about fallacies dialectical materialism; this was not what she envisioned her life to be? Surely, surely, not. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked- she was wearing a mauve and pink designer kurti, with polished nails and a Shieshedo face mask- ugh!
For the last 30 yrs she met boromaima, boromaima had been such an integral part of her life, that she had never noticed boromaima. It had taken physical distance from boromaima and the disenchantment of her current life to notice boromaima. Boromaima in her white starched sari, with short cropped hair, trimmed nails, flawless skin and her non-complaining 90 yr. old attitude sitting in a dreary house in Kolkata. Sumi changed into her freshly washed shorts and torn t-shirt, showered and slipped on her rubber chappals. She switched off the tube lights, switched on the red lamp and sat down at the piano that she had rented from Furtado's. Sumi started playing Mozart's 40 th Symphony in G Minor. In spite of the untuned keys of the piano, the staccato music reverberated in her dimly lit living room and in her now not so dimly lit inner spaces. Sumi's education at the late age of 38 yrs had just begun.
By,
Anonymous.
She also stacked away the day's unsold fruit and vegetables the fruit –seller sold to her at dusk at discounted prices; after he finished his rounds of the neighborhood and sold all he could. These spare vegetables were neatly put into the fridge, for Pushpa to take out and cook from time to time. Pushpa was the mad maid, who was deaf and looked very strange, wearing her sari in an adaptation of the Bengali way, though not quite the typical Bengali way. Shakespeare had clearly met someone like her when he wrote about 'the method in the madness'. Seemingly mad Pushpa accompanied boudi on her customary walks every evening to the neighborhood temple. Boudi was extremely ritualistic – fasting on the appropriate days, following all the customs to the t, and making sure she visited the temple everyday. Somehow she felt it absolved her of all her sins, as she cowered in front of Shiva or Ram. In her spare time, or just after she had sparked off a controversy she would disappear into her puja room, pretending to be immersed in prayer. Here, she hid all her choicest snacks and treasures. These were put away in the trunks under the murtis beside the lamp. This ensured that no one else had access to her objects of desire; also while the world thought she was lost in devotion, she could always steal a bite of misti (Bengali sweetmeats) that Pushpa had quietly purchased for her from the Ganguram shop nearby. She lived like a thief in her own house. Or perhaps it was because it wasn't her own house - that kept her in a perpetual state of fear. It had been built by boromama and cleverly appropriated by her from her bhashur( her husband's elder brother and my boromama), with active support from her wily father, through a stellar emotional performance at the time of her husband's death.
Sumi heard the clanging of the degchi (cooking vessel) in the dismal kitchen next to boromaima's room. It was Pushpa's way of sounding the dinner/lunch gong. Alpana, boromaima's young maid breezed in with boromaima's lunch plate – on it was placed some boiled vegetables – a combination of ladies fingers, potatoes and pumkin, rice and a piece of fish cooked in the Bengali macher jhol style (fish in a light gravy of turmeric and other spices) . Boromaima's lunch was served. Sumi thought of the past – how boromama and maima lived in 8, Ballygunge Place in beautiful I.C.S. quarters with Bahadur sounding the dinner gong to announce that he had served a 3-course English meal. Such had been boromaima's training.
Now, Boromaima lived in one room of the 3-storied house, where she lay down on a 4-poster bed, sat up on the dented sofa and ate her lunch at a small wooden table. How ironical that she was relegated to a solitary room, given that boromama (boromaima's husband) had actually built this house. Boromama was an I.C.S. officer and boromaima had lived in great style during his lifetime. She had been the perfect wife of the I.C.S. officer – well bred, extremely intelligent, beautiful, convent educated and an avid social worker. She could drive, play tennis and go ballroom dancing with equal ease; for a woman brought up in the 1920s, it was no mean achievement. What was even more fascinating about boromaima was that she was a prolific reader – Shakespeare and politics, Marxism and feminism attracted her equally. She could converse with almost anyone, leaving her grand-daughters' friends impressed with her pleasing personality and her wealth of knowledge. The only thing that Sumi had never seen boromaima revel in was cooking. She ate very little and was so measured in her eating habits. The most fascinating thing about boromaima however was that she never complained – and I mean never. No matter how unwell she felt, how rotten the fish tasted, how often the maid bunked or how cruelly boudi behaved with her. This was especially commendable because she had lived through 4 deaths –boromama's, her son-in –law's, her only son's and finally her only daughter's. In spite of that she never complained. This was what impressed Sumi about her boromaima the most. How could anyone be like that; in the 38yrs of her own life, Sumi had found so much to complain about – demanding parents, an asshole of a boyfriend, a thankless job, irritating maidservants, the weather, her friends who had drifted away, the slow bank manager and so much else.
Sumi sat on the chair in front of boromaima. She was Sumi's boromaima. As Alpana placed the plate on the table, Sumi lent a helping hand for boromaima to get up from the sofa and go and sit at the table. The table was a wooden one, from dadu's time; the chair seemed to belong to the table – Sumi thought, it had been a set forever. A few leaves from the aam tree that grew outside the window, had been stuck into a used medicine bottle for decoration. A calendar bedecked the wall, though not turned to the right month – in nineteen days no one had bothered to flip the calendar, in a house full of people who had nothing to do. This made Sumi furious and she tried counting till ten to calm herself, a tip boromaima had given her ages ago. A bottle of water was placed on the windowsill, next to a jar of horlicks and a steel glass. This was the sum total of boromaima's minimal needs.
Sumi got up to change the page of the calendar and patches of dust got transferred from the calendar pages to her manicured fingers. Several thoughts were going through her mind. She wondered about the future and about the past. She thought of her days at 33, Shakespeare Sarani, where boromaima would religiously come to spend the day every Thursday and regale Sumi with age old stories and anecdotes , so much so that Sumi would beg boromaima not to return home. During the monsoon, sometimes her wish would be granted- when she would have to stay back due to the quick water logging in the building. She would spend hours with boromaima – not getting pampered; but learning. Boromaima was always active – stitching, mending all the torn clothes- the buttons that had come off from the school uniform; the pocket of baba's shirt and even the strap of ma's bra. Sumi was fascinated that it was even possible to mend a bra strap!!!
Boromaima taught Sumi one lesson –The objective of education my dear, she would say; is about how well you can adapt to any given situation that you find yourself in. Sumi never understood quite what this meant till many, many years later. Sumi was now a busy executive, working in a multinational company outside Kolkata. She earned a good salary, went out to eat often, watched Hindi and English movies for entertainment and often indulged in retail therapy. However, she was awfully lonely, and it was at times like this when she came and sat by boromaima's side in Kolkata that she felt secure, felt there was a life beyond Crossroads and Lifestyle, beyond Under- the-Over and ShahRukh Khan and plays at NCPA and Irish coffee at Prithvi. She understood how important it was to have a person in your life that you could look up to and love simultaneously, she understood how you could be the most generous to yourself when you actually helped others out- by volunteering work at a social service center, teaching orphans or sponsoring some students to study further. She had only begun to understand………
She had only begun to understand the life that boromaima had lived. She understood how someone who was a double M.A., blessed with a handsome and gifted husband, a son and a daughter, someone who had contributed so much to the society she lived in; could be like this. What Sumi could not fathom was how someone who had lost everything – glamour of her husband's position, coupled with the loss of both her children in sudden and uncertain circumstances - could be so pleasant, so disciplined and above all have no bitterness. This is what fascinated Sumi. Sumi experienced an invigoration that she had never felt before; she continued feeling this as she boarded the flight back to Mumbai. Her mind was elsewhere… she landed in Mumbai and took a taxi home. As soon as she reached home, she switched on the lights, poured herself a glass of iced water, switched on the A.C., a comfort she had suddenly gotten used to; the heat in Mumbai had not reduced one bit, she thought to herself. She washed her face with the soap - free cleanser her beautician had recommended and she took a deep breath. She dialed Palash's no. from her landline. Somehow whenever she needed to make an important call she used the landline instead of the cordless phone, somewhat like looking for security. Someone answered the phone from the other end – she could sense it was his mother who had come to visit him in Mumbai. She asked for Palash – in a manner that was matter of fact, without exchanging any pleasantries with his mother. He was in the loo, she would hold she said; she could hear the flush and the bathroom door open, he came onto the phone. 'Palash?', she said in a flat tone, expressionless and bereft of any feeling, 'Hi Sumi- welcome back to Mumbai', he said with feigned enthusiasm; 'Palash' she said again; 'I am leaving, I am setting you free and setting myself free from you as well'. The rest of the conversation continued as expected, Sumi thought as she smiled to her self a month later as she boarded the flight to Chennai.
It had been surprisingly easy – easier than she had imagined. She knew that she was never really meant for boyfriends, husband and marriage. There were enough and more girls in society ready to do that. She was made for better and bigger or let's say different things in life…she had been scared to admit this to herself, she had been convincing herself that she needed a man, she needed security, she needed love from a family, having lost her parents when she was very young.
But on meeting boromaima this time, she realized that she needed none of these. She wanted much, she wanted all those things that regular people don't; she wanted to make a difference, she wanted to be a vagabond, working on projects and teaching street children, feeling the wind in her hair and seeing the smile of a thousand children. It was surprisingly easy to pursue her dream, the words resounded in her mind 'education is about adapting to any situation'. She didn't want to empathize with Palash's mother's grief about her arthritis problem, or Palash's concern about where to store his family's black money. It was surprising how she had put up with all of this; she had almost succumbed to marrying someone who was alarmingly different from her, not just in family background, but in the basic values of how to live life. She wondered what she had been looking for, what she had been getting – one free dinner in a plush hotel once in a while and some necking in the taxi. Surely this wasn't what her life was meant to be. Surely there was a 'big picture' a bright picture that she was missing out on. Surely in her years at Presidency College, over cups of tea in the college canteen, when she debated about fallacies dialectical materialism; this was not what she envisioned her life to be? Surely, surely, not. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked- she was wearing a mauve and pink designer kurti, with polished nails and a Shieshedo face mask- ugh!
For the last 30 yrs she met boromaima, boromaima had been such an integral part of her life, that she had never noticed boromaima. It had taken physical distance from boromaima and the disenchantment of her current life to notice boromaima. Boromaima in her white starched sari, with short cropped hair, trimmed nails, flawless skin and her non-complaining 90 yr. old attitude sitting in a dreary house in Kolkata. Sumi changed into her freshly washed shorts and torn t-shirt, showered and slipped on her rubber chappals. She switched off the tube lights, switched on the red lamp and sat down at the piano that she had rented from Furtado's. Sumi started playing Mozart's 40 th Symphony in G Minor. In spite of the untuned keys of the piano, the staccato music reverberated in her dimly lit living room and in her now not so dimly lit inner spaces. Sumi's education at the late age of 38 yrs had just begun.
By,
Anonymous.
Monday, June 05, 2006
New Pinch
Yesterday, as I drove into the parking lot of the community recreation center (CRC) where my fitness class is located, I saw that it was rather crowded. The reason became apparent when I noticed a whole bunch of costumed kids. Some performance had just gotten over at the theatre in the CRC. The kids were mostly little girls - probably between ages five and eight. Most were dressed in cute costumes of various colors.
My eyes fell upon one little girl wearing an extremely frilly, pink- colored short frock which flared below the waist. As she hopped and skipped her way over to her friend, I could see her looking down checking out her cute frock every so often. And everytime she looked at the frock, her face would light up with happiness and pride.
I could SO totally empathise with what she was feeling. I was once there. One of my all-time favorite snaps was taken in Nainital. My sis and I were about 8 and 6 years old then. We both are sitting on a stone parapet at the edge of the road with mom and dad seated on either side of us. Behind us is a stunning backdrop of mountains and just below the parapet, on the other side, a lush green valley is falling away from the edge. But neither me nor my sister are looking at the scenery. We are not looking at the camera either. Instead, our attention is completely, entirely, focussed on our feet. You see, we both were wearing new slippers bought especially for the vacation. And our favorite activity then was admiring our new footwear :-)!
Getting new clothes/new footwear used to be quite an event when I was small. There had to be some occassion for new clothes - typically, birthday, diwali, pongal (if we got lucky), a close relative's wedding (if we got luckier) and a summer dress or two. Footwear typically got replaced only when the older ones got completely worn out.
So, whenever I wore new clothes, it was an occassion. The clothes would invariably have been chosen by me with lots of care. Before getting to actually wear the dress, I would have admired it in the cupboard several times. As the day to actually wear the dress approached, anticipation would build up and the excitement would be almost too much to bear.
When D-day finally arrived, it was time to go and flaunt the new clothes before everyone. Also get "new pinch" from peers. And of course, cast stealthy looks at the clothes myself from time to time and sigh in satisfaction. Oh yes, I know what exactly the little girl in the pink frock was thinking last evening.
Nowadays, of course, wearing new clothes or new footwear is no longer a special event. I don't restrict myself to buying new clothes only for some specific occassion. I buy clothes when, hmm, let me see: there is a sale or I am bored or I am happy or as a cheer-me-up or for no reason whatsoever or oh, because summer/winter/spring/fall is here. So wearing new clothes has almost completely lost its charm. Only very rarely do I even notice the new footwear or the wearing-it-for-the-first-time top. While it is very nice to have a big closet filled with clothes and shoes, I think I have lost something in the process.
Isn't it true - we appreciate nice events which happen ocassionally a lot more than nice events which happen all the time?
By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com)
My eyes fell upon one little girl wearing an extremely frilly, pink- colored short frock which flared below the waist. As she hopped and skipped her way over to her friend, I could see her looking down checking out her cute frock every so often. And everytime she looked at the frock, her face would light up with happiness and pride.
I could SO totally empathise with what she was feeling. I was once there. One of my all-time favorite snaps was taken in Nainital. My sis and I were about 8 and 6 years old then. We both are sitting on a stone parapet at the edge of the road with mom and dad seated on either side of us. Behind us is a stunning backdrop of mountains and just below the parapet, on the other side, a lush green valley is falling away from the edge. But neither me nor my sister are looking at the scenery. We are not looking at the camera either. Instead, our attention is completely, entirely, focussed on our feet. You see, we both were wearing new slippers bought especially for the vacation. And our favorite activity then was admiring our new footwear :-)!
Getting new clothes/new footwear used to be quite an event when I was small. There had to be some occassion for new clothes - typically, birthday, diwali, pongal (if we got lucky), a close relative's wedding (if we got luckier) and a summer dress or two. Footwear typically got replaced only when the older ones got completely worn out.
So, whenever I wore new clothes, it was an occassion. The clothes would invariably have been chosen by me with lots of care. Before getting to actually wear the dress, I would have admired it in the cupboard several times. As the day to actually wear the dress approached, anticipation would build up and the excitement would be almost too much to bear.
When D-day finally arrived, it was time to go and flaunt the new clothes before everyone. Also get "new pinch" from peers. And of course, cast stealthy looks at the clothes myself from time to time and sigh in satisfaction. Oh yes, I know what exactly the little girl in the pink frock was thinking last evening.
Nowadays, of course, wearing new clothes or new footwear is no longer a special event. I don't restrict myself to buying new clothes only for some specific occassion. I buy clothes when, hmm, let me see: there is a sale or I am bored or I am happy or as a cheer-me-up or for no reason whatsoever or oh, because summer/winter/spring/fall is here. So wearing new clothes has almost completely lost its charm. Only very rarely do I even notice the new footwear or the wearing-it-for-the-first-time top. While it is very nice to have a big closet filled with clothes and shoes, I think I have lost something in the process.
Isn't it true - we appreciate nice events which happen ocassionally a lot more than nice events which happen all the time?
By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com)
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