How Austin Stevens helped me

Austin Stevens

For regular viewers of Animal Planet, Austin Stevens is a familiar name and a known face. I myself came to know him not more than 6 months back. I was more interested before while watching nature programs, with the animals rather than the presenter. Somehow though, this saffron-shirted (mostly) free spirit fascinated me with his sheer energy, simple narratives and almost-schoolboy passion. Austin Stevens is a herpetologist and wildlife photographer who travels across the globe in search of nature’s wild treasures, photographing them and making short films. His chief interest lies in snakes and he is better known as ‘the snakemaster’.

When handling snakes, Austin is always careful, respectful and very deft. In his commentary and through his movements while handling a snake, he explains the characteristics of the reptile and wherever possible, describes the unique physical attributes of the snake, mostly fangs, scales etc. There is a common thread which runs through his commentaries in snake programmes which is basically this – the snake will not harm you unless you advertently or otherwise, exhibit behavior which it might construe as threatening. Since man is not the natural prey or predator of the snake, it shies away from us. Also, if you follow Austin’s shows, you will see that it is the snake more often, which is trying to get away and Austin who is the one compelling the snake to stay/ react. It dawned on me eventually that it is the snake who is more afraid of us.

This brings me to my own story. Years ago when I was maybe 6 or 7 years old, we were residing in a small town (my father was posted there). I was in kindergarten and our government-provided quarter was a large single-storey house with a large backyard which was over-run by weeds and shrubs. There was no running water but there was a tube-well in the backyard to pump water and carry it back inside the house in buckets. The tube-well was constructed on a cement plinth and served as a nice platform to wash clothes and dishes. Also, being a small kid, I mostly used to perform my ablutions there rather than inside the bathroom. A nullah existed beside the plinth for draining the dirty water from all the washing. It was my custom then to take a long afternoon nap after school and one evening, as I woke up, I remember I was feeling particularly groggy and disoriented from waking up. So groggy in fact, that I had thought that I had woken up in the morning. So, I took my toothbrush outside and went to the tube-well to brush my teeth. My father was away and mother was in the kitchen. As I was intently brushing my teeth with my head down and still-heavy from all that sleep, I heard a loud hiss.

I looked up and saw a hooded cobra not more than a foot away from me; to my small eyes, its hood looked almost as tall as myself. The cobra’s hard glinty eyes stared at me, it seemed and then it just climbed back into the nullah and raced away from me, its hood still high and its scales making a swishing sound along the wet surface of the nullah. To this day, I can see the back of that long dark hood swaying from side to side as the cobra weaved its way through the nullah. I stood like a statue for I know not how long; then uttered a long scream, and then with my toothbrush still in my hand and foam still in my mouth, ran to my mother inside. I clutched at her, shaking all over and not being able to utter a word after that one scream. My mother did not know what happened, and I was dumb for as long as it took my father to reach the house after work.

Cobra sketch by Karen Murray

That one childhood incident impacted me in a way that I found any pictures, mention of snakes terrifying. Their long sleek shiny bodies, forked tongues and hisses pervaded my dreams. Many a night, I have woken up in cold sweat after a nightmare in which a raised hood had stared at me and then moved away. This dream had continued all these years, the only difference being that sometimes they came regularly and sometimes, after long intervals. In fact, they had continued till well into this year but then, around July, I discovered Austin Stevens and his snake-wisdom. In the last 6 months, I might have seen many snakes on TV – sidewinding over sand dunes, flying (or falling with style!) from tree to tree, coiling around each other’s bodies during mating, baby snakes and many other facets of a snake’s life. I have seen too, Austin Steven’s wonderful presence in my mind’s eye and his cool collected words of wisdom.

I have not had any nightmares involving snakes for a while now. I do not know if they will start coming again in the future but somehow, the vision of a person named Austin Stevens re-assures me. “The snake will not harm me”.

Portrait of the Countryside in Winter

I was fortunate to take 2 trips through the countryside this month – once by road and again by train. Though Assam has great bio-diversity across, both the trips I undertook were along the Brahmaputra valley, which is sub-tropical. As the name itself suggest, the river Brahmaputra is the principal geographical feature here, influencing as it has for centuries now, both the land and the people that live in it.

To be sure, when you are in these areas, the perceptible difference between summer and winter landscapes is not great. Nevertheless to the discerning, winter landscapes in the valley present uniqueness. The first sign that winter has crept in often lies along the roadside in the tall, silver stalks of the kohua bon. These slender reeds thrusting their tall cottony stalks into the sky grow in big bunches, creating large undulating splotches of silver and green. The second sign grins in your face with blossoms of varying shades of yellow, rising up from flower beds, tumbling down from corners of walls, the bamboo fences of peoples’ dwellings – marigolds and black-eyed susans. These two flowers grow profusely in this season, often voluntarily, with little care, presenting their sunny faces and soaking in the wintry air.

Fields of winter paddy clothe the ground in gold, often wreathed in mist till late in the day. Of course, when you are in the valley, you can trust the river to present the starkest feature of the season. Every winter, the deep waters of the Brahmaputra recede, unearthing large sand-banks (chaporis) of clayey soil, stretching for miles around. This wonderful illustration of regenerative nature provides sustenance to man and beast – people grow varieties of winter vegetables and mustard here, and animals like the rhino and large herds of elephants, make these chaporis their winter home, feeding on the grasses that grow in this short season.

Winter is also the time when you find entire roadside markets of vendors selling oranges, with their citrusy smell pervading the road. People do take advantage of the nippy air, the receding river, the soft sun and the vistas that nature presents and go out; picnicking by the shores, even in the fallow paddy fields by the road. Sometimes these picnics (bon-bhuj) are interspersed with little trips to wildlife sanctuaries like Pobitora and Kaziranga, where an early morning jeep or elephant safari is succeeded by large meals prepared by the families themselves al fresco at the picnic sites (on the river shore, or by forests, or near hilly glades, or by streams). December and January is the time for such excursions, and they come out in droves – in cars, in minivans, small and large buses. Yes, winter is fun!

Movie Review: Passion Fish (1992)

Cast & Credits

Mary McDonnell  (as May-Alice)

Alfre Woodard  (as Chantelle)

David Strathairn (as Rennie)

Written, Directed And Edited By John Sayles.

Running Time: 135 Minutes. 

My Rating: 3½ stars of 5

Passion Fish, showcases its 2 principal characters’ (May-Alice and Chantelle) hopefulness and hopelessness in a light which I had never realized previously. Where May-Alice relapses into a daze of misery and alcohol-induced mist of self-centeredness, Chantelle struggles alone towards her self-rehabilitation - two unlikely individuals who are connected at a very obvious level, by the conflict of their motivations for existence but at a deeper plane, related not by conflict but by identification of a shared identity.

Named after a Cajun superstition about finding love, the movie opens with a close-up of May-Alice’s eyes as she lays on a hospital bed, victim of a freak accident and now, very mean-tempered inheritor of a crippled body. Her soap acting rendered futile and raging at the seeming dithering uselessness of all hospice personnel in uniform (nurses, physical therapists, doctors, psychiatrists), May-Alice moves back to the family home by a Louisiana bayou in a clear attempt at drinking herself into oblivion. Bound to a wheelchair and perennially in front of the television with a wine bottle as an unshakeable appendage, she has an attendant nurse to look after her but her belligerence results in a steady procession of agency-sent nurses who take up the May-Alice assignment only to leave the cantankerous woman within a short time. This mélange is broken only when a feisty black nurse (Chantelle) comes into the picture – who takes up this work for far more substantial reasons than what initially appear.

May-Alice’s curmudgeonly self-indulgence in wine and TV collide with the blunt denials and admonitions of Chantelle, with decidedly un-“nursey” approaches. This conflict of wills between two strong and set women lies at the heart of this film; a conflict which does not get manifested in typical conventionally hoarse and piquant scenes. What interested me immensely are the numerous tiny battles which emerge in the course of this war of wills – a tug here, a pull there followed by a push. Several times in the movie, I expected the dam of unresolved and unsatisfied emotions to burst into a torrent of screams and the inevitable firing of the nurse. It never came.

Passion Fish intensely resists the easy transition of such a story into a likely tale of maudlin sentimentalism and spiritual upliftment. When I think of it, the movie is less of a motif for human tragedy or that of people who have suffered mentally or physically coming out of the ordeal as veritable angels. Alice-May is a self-proclaimed “bitch”, her repartess with Chantelle are stinging – you do not have to like her. Chantelle likewise, does not automatically get custody of her child because she is a reformed addict now.

Then there is the Louisiana landscape and the comic portraits of an assortment of Alice-May’s visitors, and a repressed but tender romance which materializes with an old acquaintance. To the back of the house, there are verdant and soothing wetlands teeming with herons, alligators and snakes while towards the front, the track which leads to it is dusty and decidedly un-photogenic with what I can only presume to be factories, pumping affluents into this seemingly serene lake. This two-tinged sepia is present everywhere in the movie. Chantelle appears at first, to be a strong, cool and collected customer, but later developments show all too well, the timidity in character that co-exists. This many-layered portrayal of a story of two women is marked by engaging performances all-round and a screenplay which does not veer into the realm of the tear-jerker. Some may find the movie’s duration (at 2-and-a-quarter hrs) a tad taxing, but the unfolding drama may very likely, present you with the patience to partake in its delights.

One more thing, I love the “I didn’t ask for the anal probe” monologue for its intensity and the sheer range of emotions it seeks to explore – from thrill to determination to anticipation to frustration to dismay and finally, resignation. You can take a gander at this scene here (it is titled as a comic scene in YouTube, never mind).

IMDb link for Passion Fish  

Death of a Balladeer in Mumbai

There was a quote I found in a newspaper some days back; reflective of the general public mood in the wake of Anna Hazare’s agitation against corruption in the echelons of power. I reproduce it here - "You chase the drunken elephant towards us, but if we people come together, we can tame him too"; said by a hypothetical commoner Assamese of bygone times to the ‘Swargadeo’, the Divine Title assumed by the Ahom king (the Ahoms ruled over Assam for more than 600 years). The words speak of the power within the common people like us, held within our throbbing hearts and pulsating blood to even subvert the will of a heavenly creature like the ‘Airabot’ (the Royal Elephant of the Ahoms). These evocative words might have been poured into a song, a book or a film – I do not know, for Bhupen Hazarika, the man who penned them, also composed songs, wrote lyrics, created screenplays, directed movies, authored books. And Bhupen Hazarika, the man who could create such a landscape of sheer beauty for us Assamese, for his country and indeed for the world, died today evening in Mumbai.

Dr. Bhupen Hazarika (1926 - 2011)

Bhupen Hazarika was a symbol of Assam, the North-east and the Assamese like nothing before has been, and nothing after probably ever will be. His songs, the wonderful poetry he wove, the music he composed are a part of the consciousness which the Assamese society possesses or lays claim to. Indeed, he could create ethereal magic out of nothing and everything. Dew drops glistening from the wires strung across telephone poles, a mother harshly admonishing her child with a switch – everything was grist to that wonderful imagination. In his compositions, this maestro consistently held aloft the motif of the mundane, the everyday into a thing of great beauty.

It is perhaps immaterial at what unthinkably tender age Bhupen Hazarika composed and sang his first song, or which were the many commendations and awards that a grateful people bestowed upon him, or who were all those great singers and musicians and artists who collaborated alongwith him to create great masterpieces. What matters is he created universal images for everyone who seeks to lend this great artist his senses, for all time to come.

For a long time (since June this yr), this great artist under the ravages of old ages, had been ill and admitted in a private hospital in Mumbai. A few days back, when the news of him suffering a complete renal failure came, the newspaper report proclaiming this carried a detail which I felt very numbing. The report stated that Bhupen Hazarika as he lay strapped onto a life-support system, seemed oblivious to everything else, but one thing. His head doctor said that the 85-year old was responding only to Bihu geet (the harvest songs of Assam) – he seemed to have just that little bit of consciousness to lightly tap his fingers to the rhythm of the song which was played to him intermittently. At 16:37 today evening, those frail fingers stopped tapping their wonderful magic into our lives.

(You can know more about Bhupen Hazarika in the following 2 links.)

Website dedicated to Bhupen Hazarika 

Wiki's Stub on Bhupen Hazarika 

When keys don’t work

It is peculiar when your work’s output is tied down to seemingly unrelated and self-indulgent idiosyncrasies. Sportsmen, artists, students, everyone – me definitely included – seek the comfort of little serendipitous joys when we set out to do something. To the young Indian hunter of the Old West setting out to track bison, an eagle in the sky would have probably meant good fortune; two eagles and it would have just as well meant something bad. The basic theme underlying this and all other ‘omens’ is one of the human mind seeking and deriving assurance and reinforcement from the external environment, whether it be a bird, a broken egg, or anything else, when it is on the threshold of embarking on action.

The reverse is also true – I forget how many times I have let random, unconnected happenings lure me away from my chosen path, with hidden, subtle messages of futility and incipient bad fortune. Human nature is also ironical in that, while it seeks assurance from a thousand and one things when it is beginning a course of action, a solitary, stray incident containing within it obscure but seemingly portent cues of “all-your-efforts-will-come-to-naught” is sufficient to dissuade one from breaking away from such a course.

So, it is with me and my blog. ‘Compulsive Pursuits into Quaintness’ ran into an unexpected blockade when my keyboard conked out on me. To be fair, my laptop keyboard had been giving me quiet hints for some time now when one-by-one, its keys stopped working. First, it was ‘O’ that simply stopped responding to the pressure of my right middle finger, then it was ‘N’ followed by ‘B’ and ‘C’ in quick succession. So, you must surely understand my consternation if I ever had to type in ‘Bacon’ – still I struggled on, using the on-screen keyboard until. Until that is, till almost all the keys gave up the ghost, leaving me stranded. I was somehow relieved at this ‘divine signal’, happy to let my blogging days take a break (fulfilling but completely unearned, I must confess).

Getting a keyboard replacement started its own saga of dismay and frustration, involving in its wake, a kindly friend in Delhi, one less-than-knowledgeable computer parts dealer in Nehru Place, eBay India, a careless laptop accessories seller from Ahmedabad. Finally, I got my new keyboard and have now got it installed.

Equilibrium has now been restored and I feel, compulsive pursuits may now resume. So, tag along!

Tumse Acchaa Kaun Hai: The original Indian tobogganist

It was just yesterday that I was taking a drive along with a friend when I saw an Amul hoarding depicting a tribute to Shammi Kapoor who passed away on Aug 14. Like always I wondered at how promptly the marketing people at Amul react to contemporary events, incorporating them into their entire campaign. A much more heartfelt and sobering realization was that the person they were remembering is no more.

I have only seen a handful of Shammi Kapoor’s films but the images which immediately spring to my mind are enduring nevertheless. You say ‘Shammi Kapoor’ and I instinctively see him sliding down a snowy slope in gay abandon, dangling dangerously down the sides of a shikara creating ripples in the water with his fingers, and playing air guitar on a dance floor and twisting like Elvis. If anything, he was a handsome rogue with a style, a panache and nonchalant brashness that we get to see far more (and in excessively cringing amounts) in today’s lot of stars. Yes, Shamsher Raj Kapoor was the original rockstar of Hindi cinema.

It is common knowledge that Shammi Kapoor used to be a computer and internet buff and was an enthusiast long before computing and the internet revolution took shape in India. I once met a person in Mumbai who used to work for a telecom company which offers bundled broadband services. Once he was sent on a customer complaint call to Shammi Kapoor’s residence in Malabar Hills. Understandably he was nervous about meeting one of yesteryears’ greatest film idols. When he went inside the house, Shammi Kapoor himself sat down with him and explained the problem that he was facing - evidently the dongle provided by the company (required to be inserted into the USB port to activate the internet connection) was not working on his laptop. So, he was asking the company to disconnect the services.

The rep found out that Shammi Kapoor was using a Mac and the dongle provided by his company was not compatible. He explained the issue, also suggesting that if he so wanted, he could be provided with the compatible accessory which should expectedly solve the problem. The only glitch was that bringing in that part would take an additional 3 – 4 hours and so, Shammi Kapoor would have to wait. The actor agreed readily, provided the guy with snacks, made small-talk with him and the rep left, saying that he would be back with the part by that evening. When he came back, the actor himself opened the door and sat patiently till the time that the new part was installed and a demo afterwards shown to him. Work done, Shammi Kapoor smilingly led the rep outside, thanking him for his help and the prompt response. When this person told me this story, he remarked that when it is a complaint call, very few customers are so courteous to a company rep and fewer still are willing to patiently wait for a solution. An actor and a legend at that, did what even ordinary people like myself consider an unnecessary and unthinkably difficult task – treating others courteously.

Sharmila Tagore who co-acted with Shammi Kapoor says this of the actor, “It is difficult to imagine Shammiji without life, and life without Shammiji.”

The original Indian tobogganist who attempted the feat for the first time on celluloid and of course, without the toboggan in characteristic fashion, is now living only in our hearts.

A Heart Purple

With living spaces shrinking for man and wild animals, both are becoming increasingly violent and their spreading conflicts are turning progressively ugly. The loser in most cases is the wild animal. So when I read the newspaper front page on 27^th July, I was dumbfounded.

The usage of the phrase ‘into the lion’s mouth’ is merely connotative of knowingly and willfully doing something dangerous, like approaching a feared person, especially in order to ask a favour. The literal usage of ‘into the lion’s mouth’ has now been exemplified by a man, who undertook this dangerous task not to entertain an audience (à la the lion trainer in a traveling circus) but to save the beast’s life.

The Centre of Wildlife Rehabilitation & Conservation (CWRC) based out of Kaziranga is committed towards the protection of wild animals; they rescue and rehabilitate animals who come into conflict with man in shared habitats. On 26^th July, a team from CWRC set out for a village near Kaziranga on hearing reports that a leopard had been trapped. The team comprised of veterinarian Abhijit Bhawal, Raju Kutu and Tarun Gogoi (both animal keepers). The female leopard had attacked a villager earlier in the day, and was now facing imminent death at the hands of the agitated villagers. Armed with sharp weapons, the mob converged at the spot and surrounded the leopard in a vegetable field, but it managed to outwit the mob momentarily by jumping into a drain. The CWRC team equipped with a tranquiliser gun and a net, attempted to tranquilise the animal when it was inside the drain but the visibility was too poor to take a shot.

The leopard jumped out of the drain and took shelter inside a bamboo grove with the mob hot on its trail. Tarun ran along with the villagers to the spot where the leopard was taking shelter, trying to persuade them not to attack it. When the mob did not pay heed to his pleas, Tarun jumped on the leopard and held it tightly to save it from being beaten up. By the time Abhijit and Raju arrived on the spot and netted the leopard, Tarun’s right hand upto his forearm was inside its mouth. On seeing the netted down leopard, the villagers calmed down and the team extricated Tarun’s mauled arm from the big cat’s mouth. Injuries to both Tarun and the leopard were not severe – Tarun was hospitalized and subsequently discharged; the leopard was tranquilised and shifted to CWRC, undergoing treatment for a minor injury. Even as I am writing this post, the rescued and rehabilitated leopard must be going through its paces back in the wild.

Tarun aiding another big cat

Speaking to the media after the fateful incident, Dr. Abhijit who was in the CWRC team that day says this of with Tarun says, “He had put his hand inside its mouth to protect his face and head. Had it not been for Tarun’s courageous effort, the leopard would have been beaten to a pulp by the irate mob.” In recognition of this extraordinary act of selflessness and superlative courage, a NGO engaged in wildlife activism, Nature’s Beckon has instituted the ‘Green Salute Award’ and presented it to Tarun Gogoi.

I wonder what citation has been presented to Tarun in the Green Salute Award but there is a very poignant commendation which is commonly used in awarding military Medals/ Decorations/ etc., especially a line which goes something like this – “….Awarded For Extraordinary Heroism above and beyond the call of duty”. What Tarun has done, the qualities that he displayed in saving the leopard in that bamboo grove that 26^th July, his sense of what he probably thinks is ‘wildlife conservation’ goes beyond any touchstone elucidated, expected and exhibited.

Appended  below is a news clipping of the incident;  it does not show actual footage of the rescue but is informative.

To Scotland & Back

I am yet to go and see the sights of Scotland, but evidently atleast one Englishman who had, came down to Shillong and fell in love with its low verdant hills, the ever-present mist and the picturesque lakes. And he must have been the one to coin Shillong with the much-beloved moniker - “the Scotland of the East”.

Shillong the state capital of Meghalaya (“Abode of the Clouds”) is perched at an altitude of 1,520 meters (4,990 feet) above sea level. Shillong was a tiny village till 1864, when it was accorded the status of the new civil station of the Khasi and Jaintia hills. During the colonial period, it was an integral part of the erstwhile British provincial states of Eastern Bengal and Assam and served as the capital even after independence. Shillong thus became Assam's capital in 1874 and remained so for a century

With Shillong being the capital even in the British heydays, it remained the epicenter of administrative affairs, followed naturally by trade and commerce ties. Officers put up residence in Shillong, their families soon followed uphill cos after all, the ‘Scotland of the East’ with its salubrious climate, was and still is a comfortable address. Schools came up, shops opened and Shillong became a city.

With the creation of the new state of Meghalaya in 1972, Shillong ceased to be Assam’s capital. Thereafter, there was a reverse influx of Assamese families from Shillong. In Guwahati, it is easy to come across people who used to work and live in Shillong, grown men and women who recall wistfully, the wonderful times when as schoolchildren in Shillong, they would roam in Police Bazaar, go trekking in the hills all around, slurp steaming hot soup in roadside stalls around Bara Bazaar and go off to the Polo Grounds to watch the archery competitions and place their bets. The Shillong of yesteryears can still be seen in their memory-laden eyes, and it makes for a very pretty sight. 

A newspaper article last month about the beauty of monsoon in Shillong and the accompanying inflow of tourists that it invariably brings, prompted a family visit in the 3^rd week of June. Shillong is 104 km from Guwahati but for all the difference between the sweltering heat of Guwahati and the coolness of Shillong, you might think that the two places are in two different continents. It is presumptuous to assume that any beauty, even the beauty of a place is meant for consumption of the soul cos beauty and natural beauty at that, should not be cumbersomely burdened with a ‘purpose of being’. But for whatever it is worth, I drank in through my senses, the sights, smell, tastes and sounds of most that Shillong offers.

We put up at Umiam Lake (or Barapani) near Shillong; nestled among all the pines, with the turquoise waters of the lake in the background. For an all-too-brief period on that 1^st day, the lights went out and we spent some blissful moments in candle-light, with the crickets singing in the forests beyond and a starry sky above. A ritualistic visit to Shillong for most includes a trip to Cherrapunji village, now called Sohra, which our school GK books never tired of reminding, was ‘the wettest place on earth’. The sobriquet now belongs to Mausynram (another village nearby). The trip to Cherrapunji often comes accompanied with spray-like rain, which if you playfully poke your face out of the car and heavenwards, drenches it with cool, invigorating minuscule beads of water. In this journey again, more often than not, you will drive through cottony wisps of cloud which descend suddenly upon the road, just like long-lost friends. Of course, with all the driving rain and clouds, you might or not get to see the majestic waterfalls that dot the panoramic landscape, and fall out like so many petulant rivulets from high plateaus into the deep ravines below.

To end on a light note, with all the inherent attractions of falls, peaks and lakes, Shillong also holds enough charms to entice the shopaholics in the form of ‘Police Bazaar (called ‘PB’ by the locals) and Bara Bazaar. Stalls laden with goodies with grim-faced proprietors in the front apt to quote any price which catches their fancy, hard haggling with vehement remonstrations delivered with hand gestures and shame-faced expressions and the joy afterwards of carrying home the fruits of a hard-fought battle in a cheap blue/ green/ pink/ what-have-you plastic packet – all these appeal to the deal-sniffing instincts of my mother and brother.

We trudged onwards through many stalls, finally coming onto ‘Grand Tibet Market’ near Bara Bazaar.  With my brother scanning the goods from one stall to another, mother and myself stopped at one stall to catch our breath.

It was then, that I saw the black tee with a silhouetted Slash (from GnR) with his favourite Gibson Les Paul guitar. Well, one thing led to another and I learned a thing about myself – that I was not so different from my mother and brother, after all. So, I ended up buying 2 tees and a pair of jeans from that one stall. On the jeans front, the pleasant-faced lady proprietor shows me pairs in slim fit, narrow fit, ‘crotch-gripping’ fit with the usual line, “Brother, this here is the latest fashion.” She felt a little let-down when I asked for a straight fit pair which I normally wear, and began rummaging around the bottom shelves, obviously stocked much below the ‘latest fashion’ stuff and came up with exactly 7 pairs of my specification. She looks up and smiles wanly at me, asking me if I would like to try them on.

I glanced quickly over the pairs, realizing one thing I’d missed; so I tell her, “Didi, my waist is 34” and most of these are too small.” Poor didi’s eyes rolled up and in a voice mixed in equal measure with irritation and reproach, she says, “Brother, 34” is too big. You should slim down.” To be fair to didi, I am hardly representative of the local populace of Shillong. The people here are lithe, wiry, slender and of average height. Didi’s looks and words have the effect of making me feel like a outsized giant with a waist liable to attract litigations and summons issued in public interest. To add insult to injury, I am now left with precisely 2 pairs to choose. So, I gulp down my wounded pride and choose.

Afterwards, I found myself thinking of an act by stand-up comic Russell Peters (bit reproduced here) about a similar situation he says he faced in China. This is mirth about girth!!

Great Greta Greatest

“GRETA GARBO!” – The name itself sounds enigmatic, reminiscent of half-hidden, half-tangible visions of wonderment. If the silver screen be the oracle of all that is sparkling and lucent, then Greta Garbo indeed, is one of the greatest goddesses in its pantheon.

With eyes closed

It was just the day before i.e., 12^th July around 1 in the afternoon that my friend Kaushik (also read about him here), calls me and says that I have got to go somewhere with him. I ask, ‘Where?’ and he tells me this.

Tiny & Kaushik

Earlier in the day, post-breakfast, Kaushik hears the piteous meows of a cat outside the house and so, moving out to the verandah, sees a tiny kitten huddled out in the lane in front. Mixed with the kitty’s cries are the loud caws of a few crows. Kaushik sees the crows swooping down on the kitty and trying to peck it; the mother was nowhere to be seen. My friend goes out and retrieves the defenceless kitty and brings it home. The kitty was so tiny, almost like a mouse, with a mottled brown coat and shivering and crying continuously. It was so small – its eyes had not even opened and it could not have been more than 3 days old. Everything about this kitty was tiny; the legs, the tail, its ears and it could not even open its tiny mouth properly. Kaushik tried putting it in front of a saucer of milk but it could not feed itself.

Just over a couple of months earlier, Kaushik and his mom had taken care of a litter of abandoned stray kittens for a short period. The kitties were older and had been able to feed themselves with the food and water offered to them in plates and saucers. So Kaushik thought that handing over to an animal shelter where they would have better facilities for raising young animals, was a good idea. He searched online and found the details of 2 shelters operating in the city. He called the first number but it was of no use; the person on the phone stated that they looked only after dogs. He called up ‘People For Animals’ next and they said that they could help out if the kitty could be brought to their shelter. Kaushik noted down the address and then he called me.

It was pouring outside and another couple of hours later, we set out for the shelter. The first time I saw the kitty, I am amazed. I had never seen such a tiny kitten before. I pick it up gingerly; over its eyes are 2 small patches of pinkness, it feels almost weightless in my palm. Another hour later and we were there. The people at the shelter took the kitty, saying that it would have to be fed through a bottle, wrapped it in rags and put it inside a small empty carton.

It was then that I glanced around the place. PFA maintains this animal shelter through the donations and services of benevolent animal lovers and concerned citizens, and like-minded organisations. The facility is a shelter for abandoned, injured and rescued animals. It is a largish plot with a single-storey building in the middle, with a couple of shed attached at the back, possibly for storing feed. Just beside the entrance gate, there are a few pens, and one rickety structure which looks like a coop. A couple of covered cow-sheds with the ubiquitous feeding troughs in the middle completed the picture. The shelter was a regular menagerie and moving around, I told myself that this is what Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’ would have looked like. 

Animal Farm

A few indolent dogs were stretched on the cool floor of the shelter and catching their forty winks in the manner that only dogs can pull off. 5 – 6 kittens were playing around, scurrying around corners, very inquisitive about our presence, rubbing themselves against us. One huge sheep was surveying us with the air of a very wary proprietor, attempting to size us up. This inquisition was not in the least, affected by his constant attempts to get at some old newspapers lying on a shelf and convert them into lunch. The other animals tied up or kept in enclosures were on the whole, lot less enthusiastic about goings-on.

There was a kitten much like the one that we had brought along except that it was older and therefore larger, and with a large discoloured and obviously recovering wound just above its right eye. One of the keepers picked up the kitty and showed us the marks left by 28 stitches on its belly, when it was hit by a vehicle on the road. We also saw a purebred puppy alone and shivering inside its cage. It was very small (maybe a month old) and its hair was coming off its skin and all the time that we were there, it was closely curled up in the foetal position. We were told that it was suffering from a nervous illness and could not move about without falling over; all its motor skills were affected. Its owner had probably decided that he had no use for such a puppy, and left it at the shelter.

The one which does not leave my mind was a very old dog with wrinkly brown skin, and very sad, liquid eyes. On closer inspection, we found that it was suffering from cataract in both eyes. When it walked, its side swayed and it moved very laboriously; nevertheless it came near me. I wanted to pet it but something about its appearance put me off. Its face had such a human emotion when it was looking at us that it unsettled me. Much later as we were coming back in the car, I realized what that emotion was. That look on the old dog’s face was that of resignation, and this epiphany was the saddest moment of my day.

I feel it deeply now that every once in a while, we should close in our senses and let the heart take over. All of life’s actions cannot be and should not be taken with eyes wide open.

(You can know more about People For Animals here . )

Come on over and become a lily too

Capra

Frank Capra was a prolific American film-maker (though earlier he tried his hand at acting too) whose films have now established themselves as shining stars in the firmament that is the American landscape. He directed 55 long and short films in a career spanning 4 decades from the 1920s to the 1960s but it was the golden period from 1934 – 41 that he gave the world what is now considered as his best and most sparkling.

Why I Like Capra

There have been times when I have gone through emotional and moral distress, primarily arising out of a perennial struggle between the cynicism of others and my own faith and idealism. I have often attempted and faltered redefining my own individual life along the lines of simplicity, freedom of the soul and plain good nature. Capra’s characters do that too, except that unlike me; they succeed – showcasing the ability of the individual to make a difference.

I like Capra because he made some wonderful films which seem to leap at you, make you laugh and cry, and think. But most of all, I like Capra because he reinforces in his champagne-like way and best of all, does it on celluloid and through the luminous faces and voices of all those great actors, my own thoughts and feelings.

A Capricious Life

Actor and film director John Cassavetes says this of Capra, “Maybe there never was an America in the thirties; maybe it was all Frank Capra." This ‘epitome of American-hood’ started his amazing journey as an immigrant in a crowded passenger ship which was by Capra's own admission, "degrading, stinky and awful". Frank's early life reads like a typical immigrant's story of sweat, struggle and a constant feeling of insecurity; peddling newspapers, busking, manual laboring jobs, movie extras.

It was in college that Capra developed a love for language and poetry, and started writing ~ an eye for things. Possibly it was at this time, that he fleshed out the ideals and the type of characterizations which would later on, be termed ‘Capra-esque’.

Capra films usually carry a definite message about the basic goodness of human nature and show the value of unselfishness and hard work. Life gave Capra the opportunity to manifest these values himself many a time and significantly, post the Academy night of March 16, 1934. Capra received the first of his 6 Academy nominations for Best Director that year for 'Lady for a Day', and it seems that he was quite hopeful of winning. When Oscar host Will Rogers opened the envelope for Best Director, he commented, "Well, well, well. What do you know? I've watched this young man for a long time. Saw him come up from the bottom, and I mean the bottom. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Come on up and get it, Frank!" In typical Academy night fashion, the audience clapped, the searchlight hovered around trying to locate the winner, Capra got up, squeezing past tables and making his way to the open dance floor to accept his Oscar. Then the searchlight swept away, stopped, and picked up Frank Lloyd who had also received his nomination for ‘Cavalcade’ that year. As Frank Lloyd went up to the dais to collect his award, a shamefaced and flustered Frank Capra slunk off towards his seat among his friends, accompanied by calls of "Down in front!" and "Sit down!".

Capra calls this the "Longest, saddest, most shattering walk in my life.” His friends at his table were crying and after returning home that night, he did what many men would in his place. He called himself names, got drunk and passed out.

Next year on Academy night, he had his own Capra-esque moment when he did walk up to collect his Oscar for Best Director (the first of 3) for ‘It Happened One Night’, amplifying what he has always showed in his films – a common man, struggling and humiliated, rising up for his own feel-good, happy ending, showcasing the power of one against many.

Heroes and the craft

I must profess here that whatever knowledge I have of Capra’s film-craft comes after watching just 5 films – ‘It Happened One Night’, ‘Mr. Deeds Goes to Town’, ‘You Can't Take It with You’, ‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington’ and ‘It's a Wonderful Life’. But this clutch of 5 films along with ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ and ‘Meet John Doe’ is considered the hallmark of Capra’s film-making - his golden period.

Capra’s simple narrative, his ensemble of quirky, free-spirited lead and supporting characters, the fast repartees, and sometimes, even the sheer physicality of the scenes, mean that as a viewer, you are always keyed into what’s happening. Capra’s films belonged to him and his actors; perhaps Capra could bring out some element in his actors which imprints his brand among movie-watchers even today.

Frank's Favs

I love Capra’s characters. When I think of ‘It Happened One Night’, I instantly think of Gable’s quick-thinking and equally fast-talking journalist role; ‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington’ brings to my mind the young and gullible idealist Jimmy fighting against a system. Somehow, when it comes to Capra, I find the connections and the underpinnings quite easy to create and comprehend. Among other stuff, one lovely attachment that I have towards Capra’s films is Jean Arthur; she always appears so wholesome in spirit and beauty, the twang in her voice and the vulnerability and strength in equal measure that she exhibited.

Just like other gifted individuals in the fields of art, Capra displays an astounding intuitive and prescient quality to anticipate how individuals, groups, corporations, administrations and even countries indeed, react and progress. Underlying very hard-nosed ideals of economics, filial obligations, practicality, there would be the typical Capra-esque qualities; his own personal history, transformed on the screen.

A recurring theme in Capra’s films is the irrationality of a crowd mentality, juxtaposed with the strong convictions and humanity of the protagonist. Capra would be again, one of the very first film-makers who chose to portray the media as a self-serving and not necessarily, evangelical entity – a theme to be explored later in films like Network (1976). Capra’s portrayal of how the media manipulates and is in turn, manipulated is evocative of how the power to do good gets corrupted, when it is corporatised.

Capra’s best movies were and still are, known for the happy way in which the final reel unravels itself. Before the pleasurable denouement though, there would be strife, complications, misunderstanding and a lot of heart-burn on the screen. Capra shows that even happy endings have their price, as James Stewart once put it, “Capra made you pay for those happy endings.''

Those who do not like Capra

Capra and his films have their fair share of detractors, of course. Critics have often, commented that Capra’s films are clichéd celebrations of the "pursuit of happiness"; a tiresome exercise in extolling and preaching ideals with whom the audience may not connect. Viewers may feel that the films are talking down to them. Capra is accused too, of creating characters who refuse to perceive the griminess around them, instead preferring to "wander about wide-eyed and breathless, seeing everything as larger than life."

In conclusion

In my personal space though, I am glad that Frank Capra existed and even gladder that he made the films he did. I see in them – a plainness, niceness and goodness – which is difficult to find in too many things these days.

I heard this – “One of the nicest movie things one person can do for another is to introduce him or her to Frank Capra's work.” I hope this introduction serves that purpose.

(The title of this post has been adapted from a line in Capra’s ‘You Can't Take It with You’, the lily here being a metaphor for all creations who sustain themselves through the bounty of the Lord, just like lilies in a field.)

No matter how strong II.

The final tale involves a mother elephant and her calf who found themselves by a cruel twist of fate, pressed against the sides of a rocky ravine. This happened around 28^th April in Karbi Anglong district when the duo fell into a 30-foot gorge beside a hill. The mother and her two-month old calf stayed trapped in this rock tomb until local people and then, wildlife vet teams reached them. Reports say that the two got trapped very close to each other, with the mother being hardly able to move and only using her trunk to caress her calf. The mother even tried – unsuccessfully – to suckle her calf. A vet at the site says this of the mother, “Despite being trapped between two huge rocks she tried her best to suckle the calf but in vain. We saw it but were helpless.”
 

Eventually the vet teams with the assistance of the locals, were able to rescue the trapped calf, digging a 100-metre trench removing several rocks to reach the stricken calf. They fit the calf on a sling and lifted it, while the rest of the team and some villagers pulled it from outside. The severely traumatized and injured calf calf was carried down the hill on a stretcher and rushed to the nearest Range Office where it was treated.

Rescue attempts to save the mother were complicated by the terrain, inclement weather and the sudden appearance of a wild elephant herd in the area. Eventually after four days of being trapped, the mother succumbed to her injuries. The body of the mother elephant will forever stay entombed in this rocky grave because it proved impossible to retrieve her carcass.

As per latest reports, the calf was recuperating from its injuries in CWRC at Kaziranga.

It seems that with all the speeding trains, falling rocks and man-made obstructions, not to mention deliberate human action like poisoning water-holes, fate has dealt Assam’s elephants a very bad deal. However, this conclusion in itself, is deficient and hasty. In the ever-hard struggle for living space in a confined environment, both the elephant and man are losing their cool – rapidly. According to records, wild elephants have killed about 279 people in Assam since 2001, while 289 elephants have died during the period, many of them victims of retaliation.

The Trapped Mother-calf

It is this no-winners battle that gets highlighted in This Land We Call Our Home – Man Elephant Conflict of Assam, a short film that has got selected in the competition segment of this year’s Cannesfestival. This film shot by husband-wife duo, Vikeyano Zao and Indrajit Narayan Dev is their second film-making venture that has got shortlisted by Cannes. Their first film, The Last of the Tattooed Head-hunters exploring the head-hunting practice of the Konyak Nagas was the first film from North-East to make it to Cannes last year.

In this film shot all over Assam in the forests, sand-bars and estates that are the last bastion of the elephant, the conflict between man and the beast is examined in detail. The film is said to portray some very poignant and blood-curling scenes, shot in a matter-of-fact style. The outlook is not encouraging as filmmaker Zao says, “When we talk about national parks, many of us know only about Kaziranga. But what about the other forests? The situation is very bleak in Assam.”

The elephant may be strong in itself, but perhaps now more than ever, it needs our help.

[The title of this and the preceding post has been borrowed from the opening lines of Rufus Wainwright’s “Dinner at Eight”.]

No matter how strong I.

At around 5,000 kgs and standing 9 ft. tall, the Indian Asiatic Elephant presents an imposing picture and seemingly brooks no nonsense. India is home to just under 30,000 elephants with half of them in the North-Eastern states, particularly Assam where they eke out a very precarious existence. In the fortnight starting 20^th April, this magnificent beast with this gargantuan frame and girth has been hit by locomotives, found itself encircled within concrete walls and entombed by rocks in my state.

The first jumbo incident occurred in the second week of April in Gibbon wildlife sanctuary along the Assam-Nagaland border. The elephant, a young male around 10 – 12 years old, got injured after being hit by a train near the sanctuary. With its injured left foreleg, it found the strength somewhere to limp about for a week, painfully keeping up with its herd until it was forced to stop. It was then spotted, tranquilised and treated on 20^th Apr by a vet team from Centre for Wildlife Rehabilitation & Conservation (CWRC) based in Kaziranga. On closer observation, another wound on the rear of the elephant’s head was found and treated.

The Gibbon Elephant

And at that spot, the poor animal stayed immobile for a fortnight from 20^th Apr to 4^th May, until it finally succumbed to its injuries. It must be said here though that the local forest authorities tried to save the jumbo, keeping it under constant observation all the while. Forest officials even had a muddy pit dug close by to where the jumbo lay, filling it up with water from a fire tender, dragging the animal to the comfort of the artificial pool. The diagnosis was grim, a second tranquilising and treatment was undertaken, a round-the-clock surveillance mounted up to guard the defenceless jumbo against carnivores, and even saline bottles administered to replenish the animal’s failing strength. Ultimately however, all these efforts came to naught, the Gibbon elephant eventually adding to the tally of elephant deaths caused by locomotive hits. It is poignant to note that from 9^th Apr (the date on which it was hit) to 4^th May – a period of almost a month - this magnificent animal limped, suffered and starved until it met its merciful end.

The second jumbo tale is more in the nature of an inadvertent but nevertheless damaging human obstruction. On 25^th April, three wild jumbos were injured in Golaghat after they found themselves cordoned off between a concrete wall on one side and an electric fence on the other. Yes, this actually happened when the trio moving along a designated elephant corridor entered into a plot fenced off by a private company in alleged contravention of forest laws.

Man-made walls in Elephant Corridor

When it was observed that the jumbos were trapped, the forest authorities’ attempts to guide them towards an opening in the fence were very amateurish, to say the least. I saw this news clipping where a few very terrified forest guards burst some crackers (the sort we use in Diwali), and resorting to uselessly flailing their arms and shouting loudly. One forest guard was even seen folding his hands and mumbling something, obviously in prayer, seeking divine intervention to guide the jumbos to safety. It certainly seems that prayer forms a very important weapon in the local guards’ arsenal when it comes to assisting stricken animals.

So, it comes as no surprise that the panicky jumbos among all this ruckus, started banging themselves against the thick walls in an attempt to escape. After nearly three hours, the bruised animals finally managed to escape through the same opening in the wall through which they had entered.

Last heard, the forest authorities, the local administration and the company people were squabbling over the ownership of the plot cordoned off. Till its resolution, many more wild jumbos are likely to land themselves in similar trouble cos the land form parts of the elephant corridor.

(To be concluded)

The Raging Bull of Orang

Massive. Stolid. Ungainly. Your mind might very well kick-off with these words when you see a rhino for the first time. I know my mind did, when I first saw the rhino in the city zoo so many years back. Seeing one in the wilds, in its natural surroundings is however, quite different. For an animal which is the second largest on land, smaller only to the elephant, it gives off an aura of invincibility, given its size coupled with its armour-like hide. It almost looks regal and peaceful given that being a herbivore, you are likely to see it munching grass and leaves.

There’s an element of incongruity too about the rhino’s appearance; if you see one from the rear, it seems as one friend remarked ‘to be wearing shorts’! Its skin has many layers and folds, the last fold ending just above its rear knees.

Once found extensively in India from across the Indus Valley in the west to Burma in the east, the Indian or Greater One-horned Rhinocerous survives today in its natural habitat only in Nepal, Bengal and Assam. Assam accounts for the most significant rhino population, its ecological status ‘endangered’ due to poaching. Rhinos are killed for their horns, which are bought and sold on the black market, and which are used by some cultures for ornamental or (largely pseudo-scientific) medicinal purposes.

Orang the smallest national park in Assam, is home to around 68 rhinos as well as other threatened mammals. Perhaps Orang’s most famous inhabitant was ‘Kaan-kata’ – a feared and cantankerous male rhino (also called a bull rhino) who roamed the grasslands of Orang for close to 4 decades. Kaan-kata which means ‘the one with the cut ear’, owed its name to the fact that poachers’ bullets had chipped some portion of his left ear when it was younger. It has been said that Kaan-kata had survived other attempts by poachers since that fateful incident.

Owing to these unpleasant human encounters, Kaan-kata had developed a marked testiness towards people, charging at sight. Such was his sway that both forest staff and poachers were very wary of coming close to Orang’s most famous denizen, not daring to cross its path.

Lording over the grasslands of Orang in its lifetime, Kaan-kata breathed his last in Feb this year in his beloved and only home. The forest staff found Kaan-kata’s lifeless body in the morning of 16^th Feb at a spot, roughly at the centre of the park. The body bore no external injury and the horn was intact too. Post mortem confirmed that the aging patriarch had succumbed to the ultimate malady – old age.

In death, Kaan-kata elicited wistful reminiscences from local forest staff over his intrepid nature and post-16^th Feb I suspect, his exploits will become a part of Orang legend. Like the time that Kaan-kata charged at and attacked the vehicle of a divisional forest official (pretty much the top officer in a forest division) 3 years back. Poachers too, were at the receiving end as one forest official has said, “A poacher who was arrested a few years back had revealed during interrogation that Kaankata had chased him along with a few others for more than 2km.” In fact, Kaan-kata’s trepidations had spooked poachers to such an extent that they had stopped entering into Orang at daytime being fearful of Kaan-kata.

Kaan-Kata at his final resting place: At last, angry no more

The way I see it, Kaan-kata fought not only for himself but for the right of all animals everywhere to rid themselves of the yokel of human greed and interference. We need more Kaan-katas.

Garden State: Exploring the Infinite Abyss…

Garden State opens with a dream sequence of Zach Braff in a plane evidently about to crash. The co-passengers are panic-stricken, stuff inside the plane are colliding against other stuff, Zach is strangely detached and a sloka to Lord Ganesh “Vakratunda Mahakaaya Vakratunda Mahakaaya….”, is unhurriedly playing in the background. In a way, the sloka beseeching the Lord to remove all obstacles from one’s chosen path, is evocative of how all of us feel at some points of our lives.

Garden State celebrates this……celebrates the breathlessness, the bewilderment, the numbness that life sometimes turn into, with style and oh, with so much of coolness. Zach who makes his directorial debut with this, carries the persona of Andrew ‘Large’ Largeman with a loose-bodied and foppish grace as he ascends from his medication-induced haze onto a re-discovery of his life.

Large returns to his home in New Jersey after nine years for his mother’s funeral and the story unfolds. The Oz-ian landscape he returns to is home to an assortment of quaint characters with quirky interests – a grave-digger friend into collecting play cards, an ex-classmate who’s a cop now but you are left wondering about his supposed sanity for such a job, another is one of those guys who makes a lame but financially rewarding invention and then relapses into bored nothingness. Most of the characters seem to mirror Large’s own mental frame – superficial coolness masking a sense of suffering and loss, just content to be in “the waiting line”. Natalie Portman (Sam) is the odd one in the milieu, a character as free-spirited and unconventional as the foam helmet she wears while traveling and in work.

In the Harlequinade that Garden State explores, Zach is very much a modern-day Pierrot, naïve, unsure and with a sensitivity which is sometimes dorky. The movie joins Large, Sam and his high school buddy Mark (Peter Sarsgaard) on a journey which is replete with scenes that strike a fine balance between simplicity and poignancy, all echoing the sentiment - “I’m still waiting for my time”.

At times though, Garden State becomes meandering with the denouement itself very much at odds with the easy, un-contrived flow that preceded the events before. I have a sneaking suspicion too, that the overt coolness of the movie will wear off as one moves on with his life and gets further and further away, from the ‘nervous twenties’.

It would be fair however, to say that I loved Large, his quirks, the characters he came across, Sam’s effervescence and unusual pantomimes and the ‘geological phenomenon’. Chances are, that you will too.

If you like Garden State, it’s a cinch that you will simply love its soundtrack. Garden State received the Academy Award for Best Movie Soundtrack in 2004 – for a collection of songs which could be in your I-pod favourite songs’ playlist. But it is a collection which Zach compiled specifically for the film and he enclosed the soundtrack CD along with every copy of the film script he sent to producers.

The songs work wonderfully at a level where they unobtrusively but very eloquently underline the emotions which the film seeks to create. The soundtrack employs a mix of indie-rock, techno, blues that explore the eternal themes of youthful angst and loss. The Shins with their twin songs ‘Caring is creepy’ and ‘New Slang’ churn out a curious blend of  disillusionment and resonance, which is further expounded by Nick Drake’s brilliant ‘One of these things first’. Coldplay’s hummable ‘Don’t panic’ introduces a playful hopefulness – “'Cos yeah, everybody here's got somebody to lean on”. The unusual ‘Waiting line’ by Zero 7and Frou Frou’s ‘Let go’ are languid portrayals of an Elliot Smith-like resignation and muddled acceptance of life’s stuff. Zach’s ex-girlfriend Bonnie Somerville’s ‘Winding road’ and Cary Brother’s ‘Blue eyes’ are bluesy-country numbers full of melody and ‘Blue eyes’ specially has a resounding quality that fills up your senses. Colin Hay’s ‘I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You’ rings easy with Hay’s sonorous voice.

The heartfelt tone of ‘The Only Living Boy In New York’ by Simon & Garfunkel sounds great especially when it is played at that point in the movie where the 3 main characters come up to the edge. There are additional covers by Thievery Corporation (‘Lebanese blond’) and Iron & Wine (‘Such great heights’ of the Postal Service original) which work well if not great, with the rest. My personal favourite is Remy Zero’s ‘Fair’ for its haunting melody and the soulful refrain.

Simply speaking, this compilation works even without the film – an eclectic bits-and-pieces that come together as a mellow whole. In the movie, Natalie Portman offers Zach Braf her headphones and tells him that the song he is about to listen to (The Shin’s ‘New Slang’) will "change his life". No stupid line this cos if you let it, the songs in the album will speak to you – truly and deeply. 

MAd aβ¤uŦ MaR©h

March is here and it comes accompanies by the familiar hoopla. When I was younger, March was the month before Bihu (spring festival of Assam) and I used to look forward to the Bihu holidays. Now March has become the financial year-end, heralding the time for individuals setting investments in order, filing I-T returns, organisations compiling their statements and planning for the year ahead. So chances are that whether you are a part of a family or a salaried employee in some organisation or self-employed, you are feeling the March blues cos this month necessities you taking decisions with far-reaching consequences, planning ahead and getting your life in order.

All in all, depressing stuff for most – avoided till the last minute.

The breathless insurance companies beseeching you to ‘secure’ your life and the FMCG and auto companies conspiring to offload their excess inventory and project an inflated profit by extending ‘discounts’. Repeated calls to your banker and accountant who resort to incomprehensible jargon. Yes, March is upon us.

Spare a thought for Niaz da who has a PCO-cum-photostat-cum medical shop near us. I enquired after his business and he cursed March saying that his trade always comes down in this month. The reason he came up for such slow trade is that people tend to hold onto their money and spend less - a theory entirely at cross-purposes with all these companies promoting their products/ services with limited period only offers. Niaz da is pissed too that he has only till the end of this month to return the expired drugs in his stock to the pharma companies.

An auto-wallah told me that his business suffers in March everytime cos people do not want to travel too much in this month. Huh?! I presumed that with all those people buying ‘discounted’ stuff, ‘securing’ their life, filing returns and everything else, a lot of rubber must be getting burned.

We have let the calendar take control of our life, March madness being just one symptom.

“Those whom the Gods love”

It is quite commonplace that the news of a person dying in infancy/ adolescence/ youth is usually accompanied by comments like, “Tsk tsk, but he/she was so young”, “its not fair”. Yet when it happens to someone with whom you shared some moments of life, fairness, age or any other consideration to “decide” who should die and when, are gone. You just feel….numb. I felt the same on 27th February, 2010 when I heard that Sayak was no more.

Sayak Sarkar was my MBA batch mate with whom I shared a room wall for 1 year (he lived in the hostel room next to mine in the 1st year and we lived in different hostel blocks in the 2nd year). He was strictly not a friend but just a batch mate

who shared the same curriculum, same professors, same assignments and the same bland canteen food as me. I was always mindful of what I considered was his overbearing and opinionated nature. But Sayak being the person that he is, I could not help being drawn into his plans for monthly incursions into CR Park for fish and debates about what is best for our batch’s placements.

You see, Sayak was one of those people you meet who had an enduring interest in social good (in this case, our batch), lengthy discussions and ……..food. Yes, he was a true food aficionado – the sort who cultivates an extensive interest in cuisines, especially all fish preparations and also not averse to trying out new dishes. He also possessed an indeterminate interest in advising people about how they should plan their life. Being unknowledgeable of how these bits of advice worked out, I was surprised that some other batch mates did actually consult him for help. It is a measure of how meticulous he was regarding his own life too; he still is the only person I have met who plans his vacation in Microsoft Excel with columns for “Day”, “Activities to undertake”, “Time Allotted”, etc. I was dismissive of these traits and of the person too, at that time.

Yet when I heard that he died on a highway inside the gnarled remains of a car, I felt sadness in the most profound sense. Although we lived and worked in the same city for one odd year, I had met him only twice. Alongwith his family, other batch mates, his colleagues, I too went to a police station in a town in Maharashtra whose name I cannot remember now, retrieved Sayak’s body from the local morgue and went to Pune to cremate his mortal remains.

Afterwards, I found myself thinking of him and googling his name many times and visiting the links that came out. Being indifferent to him when he was alive, I was now reduced to trawling through the net to acquaint myself with the digital vestiges of all that is Sayak’s. And I found unexpected stuff; my MBA batchmates are not the only people who benefited from Sayak’s advice, his Orkut account has loads of scraps from old friends to this effect. He had been quite active in platforms which discussed European club football and online games; I saw so many snaps which he had uploaded in social sites, snaps of his friends, of the places that he had visited, of his good memories. Before February happened, it seems he had real plans to go to South Africa for the FIFA World Cup 2010, being the avid fan that he was of the game.

I can only be sorry now that I had closed my mind towards Sayak in an effort to safeguard myself. So, I pray now for his peace.

(Sayak died in a road accident on 26th February 2010 around 9 am. He was driving with some friends on a trip to Goa. They had hardly started out when it happened just an hour’s drive away from Sayak’s place in Navi Mumbai. There were 2 casualties; Sayak who was driving and his friend who was in the co-driver’s seat.)