The Great Indian Poster-child

If you come to think of it, there are  a lot of elements that are unique to India alone, things that a foreigner from other parts of the world wouldn’t recognize the essence of or connect with unless they have lived in our culture for a few years and grown to despise and love them. From sitting in dingy by- lanes drinking tea out of earthen cups or cooking entire meals in mustard and coconut oil, to the kids trying to dupe you into buying unusually  bright strawberries in cheap plastic boxes while you wait in a traffic jam. The list goes on, and can perhaps be continued in a different post, the discussion here is about how the auto-rickshaw is the most all-encompassing symbol of India. Yes, the auto-rickshaw that you will find in almost all cities in our country, that very public transport that you share a love-hate relationship with. Of course, the bigger question here is how did we all ever become friends with them? Maybe because it is a microcosm of all Indian energy.

1.       Too many people can fit into a disproportionate space. 3 kind hearted souls in the back with 2 people boasting of a high metabolic rate on their laps + at least 1 braveheart in the front= 1 entire Indian family and a stingy neighbour. (Our country’s population in relation to its geographic capacity, if it were a person, would not have a right to judge an auto rickshaw. Yes, we could do with some family planning to say the least)

2.       No auto-wala has ever obeyed traffic rules. But. Must. Pick a fight with other vehicles. How many times have you nervously waited inside while the guy dives out of the rick and looks for bricks and damaging substances to throw at car windshields because it happened to cut past it? (Of course it is never India’s fault, it is always Pakistan who fired first, or China who sold us cheap phones and let’s not forget Sri Lanka who cheated in the Test Match; and our forever-favourite USA who sends its skimpily clad tourists to our beaches, they were literally asking to be raped.)

3.       As the list is in no particular order, I would like to mention here the ever-refusing auto walas. Kings of the road, the auto rickshaw gets to decide whether it would oblige you enough to give you a lift. You can curse whoever and as much as you like, but you ain’t getting on till you get a side/backward approving tilt of the head. (India, much like the auto rickshaw, will also do as it pleases. Wish to get work done? No, you wait. Or bribe someone. Or you just wait. Switzerland wants to invest? Hold on for a while till all the political riots kill each other out.)

4.       Of course, the pollution. Ever noticed how all auto-rickshaws make the darnest of loud noises as they seem to “cruise” past by you? They are loud, crass and the smoke they emit would have been Hitler’s god-sent. However, those inside the rick remain blissfully oblivious. (This connection isn’t difficult to get; it is indeed a long standing Indian tradition being faithfully passed through generations – keep your home clean and your neighbour’s entrance dirtier).

Concept credits – Salik and Disha

Why artists go crazy and cut off body parts

For moment after moment

While she lay on that place

He tried to assess how

The light fell on her face

He was studying the measures

Of depth, space and layer

And how they would match

The colours of her hair

During this process

of waiting, in progression,

The elegant lady

tried many an expression

Seriously arrogant

then wickedly furious

Impish and naughty

Then somehow mysterious

After some hours

Of playing with her chin

He decided to paint her

With her evil grin

He stroked and he dabbed

With oils and dyes

And painstakingly the painting

Materialized

The painting brimmed

With subtle lovely motif

He himself was surprised

And stared with disbelief

It had an oyster

Of mother of pearl

She lay inside it

This essence of a girl

She was a reincarnation

Of the Goddess Isis

Barely attired

And left to her own devices

Her beauty was captured

And frozen sublime

No matter the relentless

Passage of time

Those pale features drawn

So delicate to the eye

Long thin fingers

Placed on a quivering thigh

They came from far and wide

To the most talked about party

Van Gogh, Self Portrait with a bandaged ear

The glittering names

Of the French Literati

Everyone was anxious to see

The art most awaited

After a scrupulous year

The Master had painted

And in the midst of the multitude

Stood the elegant lady

The crowd wasn’t interesting

To her, just maybe

Indifferent she stood

To the gasping and the awe

Nothing extraordinary in

The painting she saw

So they had to ask her

Don’t you like what you see?

She said “This isn’t quite frankly

A good one of me”

So he simply went home

He laughed at his career

And grabbed the closest knife

And cut off his ear

Our life, a beach, in a tea kettle

It’s all a matter of the mind, time is irrelevant, moments are timeless. No matter that, because one year has taught me to jump into a lake of ice cold water, come out of it shivering and count the goose bumps on my skin.

                                   

I had a dream of us a year ago, when you were shy and I was violent. In the dream you looked just like you do today and I looked beautiful. A polka dotted dress and a bright pink umbrella and margaritas on the beach, a dog played in the sand near us and the sea looked edible and aquamarine. The sun was scorching down on us but we remained unblemished. We talked about global warming and saving the polar bears, and of Tolkien at length and I played with the sand with my feet. You told me I am an exhibitionist and I confessed you crack silly jokes, and we laughed. We spent a day and a half by the beach in bright daylight and we never looked at our watches, it was poetry.

It has been a year, but I still see that dream sometimes and it seems more believable than it did the first time I saw it. You’re less shy now, and I’m more violent, but it’s still poetry, we still hold hands, I still play with the sand, we still talk at length and you still laugh at your own jokes. Our life is a beach together and we keep pouring ourselves out of a kettle, a small little kettle, but it is pretty.

“You know I’m such a fool for you, you’ve got me wrapped around your fingers”

Lost in Transit

So I hadn’t been home in a few months and when I did manage some free time, I dumped some clothes in a suitcase, filled it with a lot of gifts for family and friends and with big plans of taking a lot of lovely photographs in a city that will always be home, I found myself standing with my heart in my hand by the luggage belt of the Kolkata Domestic Airport. It had been at least half an hour, and one by one all my fellow Jet Airways passengers collected their bags and “fragiles” while I stood there hoping against hope that mine would be just around the corner. But it never came and I slowly became convinced that it was time I screamed at someone. My baby, my camera was in there! If this should ever happen to you, do not do what I did instantly, hurl abuses at the ground crew or throw things at them (it’s a bad idea especially if you have sharp objects in your hand) and you might also want to refrain from peeing in your pants (use the nearest washroom instead, it’s less embarrassing). Try skipping these natural human reactions to save yourself the time and the adrenaline and simply move ahead with the next steps.

1.       Stalk the baggage office for a while, try listening in on their hushed conversations and see if they sound nervous about lost baggage. This way you’ll get a clearer idea of the real situation at hand instead of buying all the diabetic encouragements that they might feed you with when you confront them.

2.       Storm into the office and demand an explanation, don’t threaten to sue just yet.

3.       You might have to spend some time while the nice lady makes phone calls trying to locate your baggage, feel free to make a few comments about your super-precious suitcase and its contents while she makes the calls.

4.       If they are unable to trace it still, you will be required to fill up a form

5.       Remember to jot down the make and colour of your bag and any identification marks that there might be on it. You will also need to recall as many things as you can remember of its contents. They might not be willing to note down something expensive (for instance my camera) for some apparent security reason; which could mean that it could get stolen or could be used by a suicide bomber (I’m guessing).

6.       Have an address handy that they could deliver it to, when and if found.

7.       Walk out in a huff and act angry, in fact try coming up with a few harsh comments while filling up the form (better chances of them remembering you). Don’t forget to take with you their toll-free helpline number and your reference id.

According to procedure, your baggage will not be declared lost (after which you are eligible for compensation) till two weeks of them making an effort to look for it since the day you, no, they lost it. Mine was a happy ending, that is to say that they found my suitcase (it had never even gotten loaded into the plane when it took off from Bombay) and it was delivered to my home in four days, after four days of 25 phone calls made to the helpline (eventually from a few different phone numbers).

Moral of the story:

1.       Take the extra effort to attach a large tag to your bags with the origin and destination places, lest they assume that the bag had taken a walk to the airport on its own, I’m assuming they thought my suitcase had come to chill.

2.       Also, make some kind of identification mark for easy recognition (however throwing it in front of a moving truck will make it unique but might render it useless).

Nonetheless, I shouldn’t be complaining; I got my bag back with nothing missing. But I am. 

Short note on Us and Inspiration

It is obvious; a person who creates, needs inspiration. There is no formula to creativity or math or even errors. Much like a tan, if you live out in the sun and out of the shade, very soon your skin gives way, it wrinkles, hardens and tans. Creativity thus is not for the fair skinned and the delicate to touch. Air conditioning cannot be an artist’s way of life.

I struggle. Yes I do. Unfortunately for me, I am born into a family of air conditioning, carpeted floors and scotch. The struggle has been to find inspiration, to have some sun beat down on me and darken my skin, to rough it out in the wilderness in the midst of plague and war. I grew up wishing I had a sad story to tell, wishing there was a secret in my life that I was yet to uncover, that my home would suddenly be struck by disarray or that I would be kidnapped by aliens…as you can see, I grew desperate. There was no poetic injustice that offended me.

Would this big bad world deprive me of my true inspiration by giving me a content life? The questions burnt my brain as I would imagine sweet unhappiness strike me down and how the words would then flow over the blank pages that sat before me. Oh, mischievous discontent, how you escape me!

Imagine a room in the middle of a hurricane. That is what it would have looked like inside my head. Papers flying, ink pots smashing against the wall, a flickering bulb from the ceiling swaying first and then tearing off of its wire and cracking on the floor, chairs flinging themselves against the brittle window. Me, standing in the middle of it all; with sweaty palms, desperate for one of the objects to knock me out so that I could wake up from my unconsciousness in a different life with a different story. But the hurricane always left me untouched, my brain would tire and I would sleep, completely conscious of my unpoetic life.

That suddenly one day turned to poetry.

I woke up from the hurricane one day and realized that I’m in love with a unicorn. I can write my poetry with his silver ink.

My Folk heroes

 Selfless wanderers, minstrels in brightly coloured clothes carrying with them, only the soul of Bengal. The Bauls, as their name suggests, appear restless as though they have been possessed by the wind, having forsaken for centuries the binds of social traditions, they are the hippies of Bengal who sing about nature, intoxication and beautiful women.

Paban Das Baul

The Bauls, do not believe in religion, in fact their cult is based on music and the search for God that everyone must carry out for their own selves. Much like the patchworked robes that a lot of them wear (as captivating as a psychedelic wallpaper), the roots of their belief is a fusion of Buddhism, Shakti-ism (believers of Kali) and Sufi Islam. The expression of one’s body is an integral part of what they believe in, of finding one’s soul mate, not a marriage partner, but one whose physicality will forever be in tune with your own. Their heritage preaches mysticism and the force of “Prakriti” (nature), never having bothered to write their songs down.

Parvathy Baul

Dressed in beads with a shock of unkempt hair and an ektara in his arms (a one stringed instrument), a Baul sits alone or surrounded by a group of those enchanted by him and sings from his heart, he booms out his voice, you might not follow his language but the very rhythm and tune might remind you of a past life, or take you on a journey of ecstasy.

I suggest you take a train to Shantinektan, find a quiet spot under a tree by yourself and listen to a Baul sing in the distance, it would be a lifetime’s worth of soul-searching. 

What are you reading today?

Flashy bookstores with long aisles of colourful reading material can only make one wonder, how many of these books got sold today? If you happen to stroll into one such store recently, you will notice how the entrance greets you with a heap of recommendations and current bestsellers.  If you have been noticing the recent trends, you can easily guess that this bestsellers’ heap will have at least a few Self Help books, a few “budget books” by Indian authors and not to forget, the latest alien/dragon killing super hero novel for the young adult. In short, the trend of publication shows a tendency of following the path of “what sells”; which is in reality, a given. But perhaps we also need to look into what it is that sells today and how it is different from what sold before.

In fact, it is very hard to believe today, that what we call "Classic Literature" today were current bestsellers once upon a time. Novels in themselves were a new genre in the 18^th century England and they were printed in small numbers, circulated within a small community. These were considered to be un-important as compared to other texts of poetry, drama, history and religion. Those who did read novels did so in hiding or at the risk of being ostracized by the rest of the community. The novel of course slowly developed and became a major influence on reading trends. The 19^th century saw, with the help of authors such as Oscar Wilde and G B Shaw, the popularization of novels on social commentary.

The first problem that will strike anybody who cares to look into the matter, is that classic literature is being “taught” extensively, and hardly being read. Readers today seem to shy away from such books in self-doubt. The audience barely ever reads about the great novelists of yesterday in magazines anymore nor are these advertised in book stores to attract readers. The only exposure that new readers have to such literature is through the academia and they probably thus decide that the language is too old fashioned and “difficult” for them to derive any pleasure from.

These “readers” of today, the audience to authors, have different needs from readers of past ages. Everyone is a working individual leading busy lives and students live in too competitive an environment to dedicate enough time to heavy literature.  They seem to require and demand a “light” and easy, on-the-go read, which they can connect to and be entertained by. For instance, Stephenie Meyer’s ‘Twilight’, has become a cult series for the teen of today. A sexy and young take on vampires, is generations apart from the masterpiece ‘Dracula’ by Bram Stoker which he wrote in 1897.

There is no doubt therefore that writing and reading evolve with the change in times and cultural conditions. The cultural scenario of today, with an increase in working and professional women for instance has given rise to the popular ‘Chick-Lits’. Industrialization and urbanization has led to the complete lack of nature-influence in literature, or even if there is such a presence, it happens to be a novel based on nature-nostalgia rather than a portrayal of current lives, for example Amitav Ghosh’s ‘Sea of Poppies’. With a large publication of war/crime/terrorism books such as ‘The New Pearl Harbor’, ‘In the Shadow of no Towers’, one can only guess what is on everyone’s mind.

The real question here is whether there is a need for change. Are they right to conclude that current reading trends are frivolous and without depth? “They” being literature enthusiasts and educators who believe that the present scenario of books being published, reflect on the bad reading habits of today. Aren’t these particular questions being raised, the same as when the first novel was circulated in manuscript form? The demands of the reader today are different, we live in an altered world, circumstances have changed, shouldn’t the reading public opinion as well? Of course that brings us to the key side-effect of such a change, what happens to classic literature? Are they left to be forgotten? Are the literary genius’ of old, their masterfully strung together words of brilliance in prose to be admired by a miniscule group of academia in the years to come? Hopefully, sometime in the near future, a casual reader will pick up ‘You were my crush…till you said you loved me’ from the same section as ‘Jane Eyre’ and not be judged. In a world where Chetan Bhagat and P.G.Wodehouse can live in the same bookstore in peace. 

A Lion's Heart

If you thought the 60s were a little insane, you’ll think they were stark raving mad. Who buys a lion cub from a store down the road? But it did happen and John Rendell and Anthony Bourke, brought home their new pet to their King’s Road apartment in London, after they found the him up for sale at Harrods Departmental Store (1969).

Their story with Christian, the Lion, doesn’t end only with taking him for drives in the backseat of their car or playing in a Church graveyard or perhaps even going out for some ice cream together; the truly touching part of the story begins when the two men realise within a year that London was too small and too concrete to live happily with a growing Lion. With the help of George Adamson (if you’ve seen Born Free, it was based on him), a wildlife conservationist in Kenya, they were able to reintroduce Christian into the wild. He was flown there, across continents and John and Anthony were separated from him for a year before they decided to pay him a visit. Over that year, Christian had grown into an adult beautiful Lion, and his proud human parents were overjoyed to hear that Christian had become the leader of his Pride.

One needs to watch the documentary to see how beautiful their reunion was. Without paying heed to warnings that a year apart meant that things would change, John and Anthony went ahead to the Reserve. If you own a dog, you know exactly what it feels like to come home to find him doing nothing else but waiting for you, the most honest and heart-felt emotion that a living thing can express is when your dog shows how glad he is that you came back. You might not believe it, but that is exactly what Christian did, he jumped on them like a dog would jump on his Master, hugging them with his massive paws. He even introduced them to his wife! 

This is one of those stories that make your day and if you are an animal lover it might make you teary. Christian, the Lion only reinstated my complete faith in animals and how honest and unprejudiced their affections are.  Their story might make you want to watch Madagascar again and cry yourself to sleep, cursing the government for making it illegal to walk down the road and pick up an exotic animal from the zoo. 

Bon Appetit, yes Indeed!

I found Julie & Julia on the Golden Globe listings from a few years ago, given the fact that Meryl Streep of course had been nominated in some category. Running out of movies to watch I downloaded the film anyway, despite the fact that its rating on IMDB isn't that high, and decided to watch it when I had absolutely nothing else to do.

So yesterday evening, while I piled up a mountain of laundry on my bed that needed to be ironed, I decided to let the movie play in the background while I was forcing myself to iron clothes which I should have done a couple of months ago. But then again, I found a new reason to put the laundry aside, and this one was a good excuse.

Julie & Julia is about the true life-stories of two women, separated by decades, struggling to turn their mundane lives around and all with the help of food. Meryl Streep plays Julia Child (the woman who made French cooking do-able), who had barely ever boiled an egg in her life. Julia, in the 1950’s, when she moved to Paris with her husband, takes up cooking lessons and eventually masters the art of French cooking, determined to make it simple for all. The film keeps travelling between Julia’s life and Julie Powell’s (played by Amy Adams) struggles in the early 2000’s, who lives with her husband in a small apartment in Queens. A washed-up writer, who hates her job, decides to give cooking a shot. She eventually begins writing a blog, a sort of competition for herself, attempting to cook all the recipes in Child’s humongous cookbook, in a year.

Although Adams' haircut looked a little bit like a WIG and she didn't seem to be getting any fatter with an entire year of all that French food, the movie was a delight, because it told me what I always knew (ever since I broke open locked pantry doors as a 5 year old). Food=good things will happen to you. Also, both the women eventually become successful writers and famous people, and I couldn't help thinking to myself, what am I doing wrong?I eat a lot and sit at my computer and write all day...but then it is fairy tales such as these that make life a journey through a tunnel with a light at the end (no you can't see it like that!You've got to squint). Disclaimer : Julia Child's character might get on your nerves and you might begin to wonder who on Earth (or outerspace) stole Meryl Streep and replaced her with this high-pitched overtly-happy big lady, but I looked it up...she has played Julia Child perfectly. 

So if you for one, do not have any ironing to do over the weekend and if all you’ve ever dreamt of, is to watch a movie about butter, Julie & Julia might just be your cup of tea, or creme brulle if you like. 

Anna Hazare: Gamers Unite

If plump ripe birds ready for roasting can destroy pig fortresses, why can’t Anna Hazare? In a technology driven world which has been overtaken by the ‘Angry Birds’ revolution, Hazare must not be left behind and Geek  Mentors Studio  is making sure of that. A Noida based start-up company, the developers of ‘Angry Anna’ made sure that they  tap into the Indian gaming youth with this Anna Hazare based Angry Birds version as an online game, the only difference is that the pigs protecting the fortresses have been replaced by politicians atop money towers.

The recent addition to the online world is only one of the many indicators which reveal how far reaching the influence of Hazare has been on the youth and more specifically youth that has easy access to the internet. The anti-corruption drive, initiated by Hazare’s indefinite hunger strike in April 2011 owed a major part of its success to the awareness that was spread by Twitter and Facebook activity. However, the question still remains, how angry has Anna truthfully made the Indian youth? In as large a country as India, a few thousand people Tweeting online and a few thousands more joining a monthly procession do not justly account for the lakhs of others who remain inactive.

Surely, one reads on the front page of the well-to-do young corporate suit who took a day off without-pay and joined Hazare on one of his hunger strikes, or sees a group of college students skipping classes, in white caps marching and waving placards. How all-encompassing is the reverberation though? The youth joining hands, literally, and trooping together in candle light vigils have increased such in numbers,  that one cannot help but wonder if this is not just the latest trend of the generation. When Radhika Tanwar, a Delhi University student was shot dead by Ram Singh as revenge for an insult, or when the CBI submitted its report on the closure of the Aarushi Talwar murder case because of lack of evidence and the time when Binayak Sen was sentenced to life imprisonment by a Chhattisgarh sessions court; all had a common factor- a candle light vigil, as did Anna Hazare’s fasts against corruption. Are these processions therefore truly Samaritan calls to support fellow citizens or are they simply a civilised enactment of herd mentality?

The irony with the above can simply be answered with a word – “busy”. The youth is busy, and they are busy the very day after they attend a demonstration. It is safe to say that such mass processions could in reality be highly effective if they are consistent and can duly be supported and followed up. But a singular, lone march in a month might not have the desired effects.

The purpose and vision is rightful, the cause has most definitely gained visibility but the pervasive effects that Anna Hazare had perhaps expected have yet to be achieved with speed. The mission had begun with a very bright spark, being covered by news channels, the internet being abuzz with it, but has this modern-day Gandhi been able to mobilize his troops to their full potential yet? Only six decades ago, Gandhi and his team of leaders initiated a nationwide youth struggle that gained independence for our country; however as is evident, freedom is not enough. As the late pianist and human rights activist Hephzibah Menuhin once put it  “Freedom means choosing your burden”,   our country seems to have chosen a system that is diseased by corruption. Hazare and his team, whether purposely or not have been able to affect a percentage of youth in the country,  admittedly. One would only have to wait and watch however, whether they can essentially change this free nation’s self-afflicted burden, or will the only towers of political-dirty money that come crashing down be on high resolution smartphone touchscreens. 

Bookstore Lovers (Don't get ideas)

Ever since I was six, way back when “going out” meant going cycling with a bunch of dungaree wearing neighbourhood kids, there has been no other experience that I’ve enjoyed more than exploring a bookstore. A bookstore is one of those places that physically and emotionally affect all my senses in the most glorious indescribable ways.

Rows and rows and stacks of new, crisp and colourful books. How gorgeous they feel under your touch, fresh pages that have not been read yet and the smell of the pages and the print, all ready to be given a home. Bookstores are rooms with endless possibilities and not a single one has yet disappointed me. I would spend hours at one of them, going through all the books that I could reach and fiddle with. The beauty perhaps lay in the selection, my mind reeling with all the options I would select the book that looked the prettiest, or had my favourite character or if I felt adventurous, one that I had never heard of.

The habit still remains, only now I love old bookstores too. A tattered book with yellowed pages are the ones that carry history apart from the stories that the print itself tells you. If I find one with a mysterious dedication on the front page, in a handwriting that I will never know belongs to whom, that is a book that holds great pleasure for me. A book lover has an addiction, I can vouch for that. Sometimes at night, such an addict would lay awake in bed and have stupendous dreams of building in their home a library that people from all the world over would travel to visit.

The reason why I have penned, alright, “typed” the above thoughts is because I tried surfing through some online bookstores to see if I can expand my addictions, experiment with some new variations of the drug, you know, be wild! But unfortunately, the websites don’t hold the same charm. I cannot feel the books, smell them or see them all stacked up in a row or go through a tedious process of selection. I hope someday soon, convenience gets the better of me and I actually do try one out. 

Short note on the Lake and Us

Sept 2010, Virginia, Disha Bose

I had a dream on the jetty. My feet high above the water which might have been blue in the morning but was red when my toes dangled over it. I wished I had longer hair, like the fairytale princesses, it would have blown in the breeze the same way the orange maple leaves loosely hung for life from the branches of the trees behind me. The sun was setting and the water looked cold and the lake so still I didn’t have to lift my eyes to see the clouds. There can only be extremes of thought, either peaceful happy ones or sad dreadful ones in a place like this, where you’re left alone, a lone breathing thing in the center of all things bright and beautiful.

But my dream was a happy one. I would have thought hopeful in another place in time but certainty is what I’ve gained surprisingly with distance from him. I will live by the lake. I will awake to slow motions of the water lapping against the waterfront. The sun will be in my eye through the ivory curtains in my room, the deck will be washed in blinding sunlight when I walk into it and the water will be at peace with me as it is today. I will swim in it, in the cold I will swim in it too, because it will be mine. A chill will not threaten me because I will know the lake well and it will know me.

Sept 2010, Virginia, Disha Bose

We will live by the lake I dreamt. Sit on the jetty at night like we did on a jetty in a different land. Sit, our feet dangling above the dark waters like it does today. Chase fireflies among the falling leaves in Autumn and see each other in the moonlight before walking back to our home by the lake. The clouds will pass over us and if it ever rained, we would run in it with our dogs and laugh at the sky till we were cold and shivering. We’d watch the tress grow from green to orange and red and then slip into the water during Fall. But we’ll wait for them to dress the trees again and we can welcome summer back with a boat on the lake and our closest friends.

No dream seemed so real to me before, no thought seemed so like a promise. My mind was racing yet the water was so still and the sun was dying peacefully. An amazement it was the world around me then. I knew I would get up to leave but I shared an hour with the lake, a love story with a promise. I promised the lake I’d live by it with him and it told me it’ll wait.