Trader Comes to Town….

It is clear that upbringing, education and social surroundings shape a person’s belief system and influence greatly how he conducts himself and relates to others. This is a piece on the more questionably-held beliefs that people repose their faith in – that set of beliefs and practices which are explained by supernatural causality or just unexplained at all – that stuff commonly referred to as ‘superstition’.

I realised quite recently that the occupation of a person does contribute just as significantly to some of the most unexplainable beliefs. Traders both big and small, are some of the most superstitious people I have ever encountered; the term ‘trader’ used here being a broad term for the ‘mom-and-pop’ stores or the neighbourhood grocers. Your neighbourhood grocer is the trader with whom you are most likely to have the maximum transactions; the one who provides you with everything from soap to pulses to bulbs to tidbits about the goings-on in your locality. A big part of being a trader or a grocery store-owner (I feel) lies in adequately propitiating the pictures and miniature idols of gods and goddesses installed at the shop in the morning, and completing the intricate set of activities at lockup time in the late evening, and keeping an active eye out to ward off any possible incidents of covetous customers casting the ‘evil eye’ anytime in between opening to closure.

When I was a student of commerce, we learnt about the unpredictability of trade – the risks involved and the keen business awareness required to offset the losses possible from unforeseen causes. The tools you need to have are myriad; a competitive edge, the meticulous skills needed to plan and anticipate, a reasonable appetite for risk, an agreeable relationship with stakeholders, etc. No scholar or book ever advocated a keen sense of holding questionable, unexplained beliefs as one of the pre-requisite for doing business well. Apparently, our traders have acquired an entirely divergent skill-set of managing business which while appearing unconnected with any aspect of commerce, is being practised overwhelming by those in the profession.

Most traders simply avoid big transactions on Saturdays (which is a common belief among most Indians), which means that they will not make big purchases or plan any new launches on Saturdays. Some of the traders stagger their stock schedules so that they make most of the purchases on Tuesdays and Thursdays (considered auspicious for some reason, I guess). Invariably all traders have the ubiquitous lemon-chili-garlic totems dangling at their shop-front to keep off the ‘evil eye’. Knowing how many lemons there should be in a such string, the ability to identify when to change the old, discoloured totems are essential elements of the traders’ competencies, as is knowing which god’s picture/ idol is supposed to be installed on the right and who goes on the left side.

A recent conversation with my local grocer revealed that

rats gnawing away at flour or rice sacks in a grocery is actually considered auspicious for the business because it is supposed to drive up profits and unfathomably, make the flour tastier. I must explain here that the humble rat is revered in our society as the trusty consort of the much-loved god, Ganesha. I suppose that such a belief is very convenient for the grocer because it liberates him from the need to actually undertake the efforts (and the expense!!) to keep his stock safe from pests. Most of the beliefs we profess to hold are the ones which are expedient for us at that moment. Our beliefs originate, evolve and get discarded as per our situation because at the very basic, they are meant to serve our interests - their purpose in our existence.

Like a few weeks back when I undertook a new venture, my father consulted some astrological almanac to decide upon the date of launch, mother organised a small puja on that day and another member of the family took it upon himself to apply vermillion streaks for prosperity upon the attending people and on our business paraphernalia. I do not believe that there are specific days for starting something new, neither do I hold much store by random dots of red colour on people’s foreheads or on machinery, but I acquiesced. It is not my place to object to the good intentions of other people who are willing to invest their energies and time to secure my well-being. Their way to ensure this is different from mine, but their hearts I feel, are in the right place.

There is another trader I know who post shutting down his business for the day, always proceeds to burn scraps of paper before the storefront to ward off any bad karma accumulated during the day. Ultimately the beliefs we live by and the practices we train ourselves in, are merely meant to provide us some security and a certain peace of mind amidst so much incomprehensible stuff that life throws at us. 

So Much for Oranges and Lost Keys!

I was pathetic at math when I was a kid. “If an orange costs Rs. 4, then how much would a dozen cost?” The answer was very apparent to most of my classmates then, but all I could see behind such

math problems was dense fog. Many a time my father would sit beside me patiently attempting to explain how to unravel such complicated-looking math. He would rarely lose his temper as tried to make me comprehend the logic. He would suffer my blockheaded-ness with ease. Of course as time went on, I did get better at math due to in no small part, the efforts of my father.

Two decades later, the tables have turned. My father has got older and cannot easily trace his way around the modern gadgets which we take for granted; like the computer, the mobile or the digital camera. He forgets small things too, like where he kept the car keys or whom he handed over an important letter to. Inevitably when some item seems misplaced or he encounters some complicated-looking problem with his laptop, he turns to me for assistance. I try to take him backwards through his routine to help him locate the misplaced thing, or sit beside him when he cannot find the download button to a song he likes. I try to show or simply talk or sometimes even demonstrate to him but I am ashamed to admit that I show none of the patience which he so often showed me when I needed his help with my childhood problems. I explain an issue once, dumb it down for the second explanation and start losing my temper, if I have to repeat it the third time for him. In fact, I think that I must be one of the difficult people that I know, when it comes to make someone understand the issue behind a problem, and help resolve it.

As I was sharing this with a close friend, I realised again how utterly ungratefully I must be conducting myself. And that too with the same person who would explain child stuff like how when a single orange costs 4 bucks, a dozen would cost 48. I had wrapped my head around oranges and math, but when it comes to displaying tolerance for my father whom I love immensely, I am a dunce. So I tell myself, “When you misplace the key, or when the internet page does not give you the download link, Dad, I will help you with it – Always.”

Thus Gurudev speaks…..

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” – Rabindranath Tagore

I did not hear this statement in an intellectual discourse; neither friend nor teacher directed these words to my attention, nor did any priest. In fact, I heard it first when the auto-rickshaw driver taking me from Malviya Nagar to GK II looked at me in his tiny rear-view mirror and recited the lines word-by-word in English amid all the cacophony of a weekday morning Ring-road traffic snarl. I just listened to him with awe.

The context had been that morning’s weather, which was particularly pleasant after the harsh heat of the previous few days. I remarked casually what a godsend the weather was since the heat is actually worse for people who have to work out throughout the sun like the labourers and yes, the taxi and auto drivers. My driver looked at me in the mirror and smiled saying how work, when perceived in that exalted attitude ceases to be merely a physical/ mental activity which is capable of causing discomfort or stress. He explained his personal views that work done in the service of others stripped of avarice and ritualism, is actually an honest offering to God and therefore, escapes all the accompanying encumbrances which work sometimes amounts to. It was then that he spoke of how Tagore had so clearly synthesised the essence of work, which is service.

The auto driver had graduated in Arts from a university in UP and came down to Delhi looking for work, and has now been driving his auto for nearly 21 years. All his children are graduates (a son is even pursuing his PhD degree) and he confessed with an easy humility that having not amassed any monies, his only wealth is the upbringing he has been able to provide his children, and furnishing them the foundation upon which they can aspire for greatness. In the presence of such plain-speak and humility, I felt humbled too. As I got down, I thanked him for his inspiring thoughts, and silently thanked Tagore too for the clear truths which he has left behind for all of us. 

About a Nut……..and a Leaf

The first image which my mind conjures up when I think about tamul-pan is that of an old granny whom I met many years back during a brief stopover at a village. We Assamese stand by a long tradition of tamul-pan which is a concoction of betel leaves, raw areca nut and some lime smeared on the leaf – a tradition which is pretty much inescapable if you are in Assam. We chew it as a mild intoxicant, offer it to bhokots (monks) in prayer meetings, offer it to the Gods in our marriages, offer it to the departed soul for his appeasement, even our wedding invitation cards are adorned with that familiar image of tamul-pan arranged on a bota (a sort of brass chalice), and not offering it to the husori (Bihu balladeer and dancing groups) players when they come visiting every household in Bihu time, would be tantamount to a sacrilege.

To come back to my story, the granny I met must have been in her 80s, if not in her 90s, and we exchanged greetings. She grabbed a seat beside our family, and talked about this and that, mostly about how old customs are dying out even in the villages. She was very bent over due to her age, her hair was all silver and she had that sweet toothless smile with those twinkling eyes which most grannies seem to have. She had lost all her teeth, and her daily diet consisted of only milk and boiled rice mashed to sheer liquid consistency. Anyway as we were talking, she loudly exhorted her daughter-in-law to offer us tamul-pan (you see, in rural Assam you absolutely have to offer guests tamul-pan). The daughter-in-law placed a bota with tamul-pan in front of us, and a wooden mortar and pestle in front of granny. We watched with fascination as granny proceeded with a single-minded devotion to place first the leaf, and then the nut and lime together in the mortar-bowl, and mashed it all together with her pestle. When she put that powdered brown-green mix in her toothless mouth, her face lit up like a kid who has just got the candy which she was always wishing for. Afterwards she told us how chewing tamul-pan was one of the few pleasures she still enjoyed in that ripe old age. That wonderful image of the old granny with the beatific smile on her lips and eyes has stayed with me.

So when I was visiting Meghalaya just last month and as I saw Khasi people, mostly ladies chewing their kwai (the Khasi equivalent of tamul-pan), that long-loved image came back to me. I saw Khasi ladies in their traditional jainsem dress (with built-in pockets for holding knick-knacks and of, course for holding the beloved kwai), some of them carrying produce to the local markets in their khoh (traditional Khasi bamboo baskets), some with their babies strapped on their backs, others sitting by their shops and tea-stalls and chatting, but all of them with their customary red lips (locals call it the ‘Khasi lipstick’ and it comes from a combination of chewing the lime and nut in kwai). This form of Khasi beauty has been immortalized in a song by balladeer Bhupen Hazarika in his song ‘Lien Makao’ where he sings about a lovely Khasi maiden whose jainsem has been “woven by lightning” and with “alluring red lips”. The Khasi menfolk are mostly seen with their ubiquitous pipes which seems like a natural extension of their face (to be fair though, I saw far lesser men with pipes in Meghalaya the last few times).

Just like us Assamese, the Khasis too have placed their kwai on a pedestal which is accorded to a beloved family member. Khasi people in markets, in shops and on their home porches congregate over kwai, end their meals with kwai and when a person dies, the formal reference is that the departed soul has gone to heaven to enjoy kwai with God. Every other person you meet is most likely to be chewing kwai which also helps to keep warm, particularly in the winters when a small piece of fresh ginger comes gratis with the kwai. The last few times I have visited Meghalaya, I have also made it something of a custom, to imbibe the local kwai but there is one great difference. You see, unlike the Khasis, every time I chew kwai, my face and ears turn beetroot-red. My mom tells me it is because the Khasis traditionally put more lime in their kwai, and also due to the fact that their areca nut is fermented in water, unlike ours (fermented nut is supposed to impart a better taste but I wouldn’t know).

Youngsters now are veering away from the traditional tamul-pan or kwai and moving on to pan masala mixes available in sachets and therefore, more convenient. I cannot say that either is really a good habit. Chewing any form of betel nut concoction is unhealthy for the teeth and also carcinogenic; in fact, instances of mouth cancer in the country are highest in the North-east.

Anyway, whenever I think of old granny and the red-lipped Khasi ladies, I cannot help but smile when I see this connect in our region.

Says the confetti girl, “Have some candy!”

It is just chance that this is July - the birth month for Simi, the “confetti girl” - and it was on the 1^st day of this month that I happened to see the animated film ‘Wreck It Ralph’. Just a few minutes into Wreck It Ralph, I was drawn into the familiar tale of how characters even as those as far-removed from us as the pixilated people from video game are moved by the all-too human emotions of an alienated sense of duty, rejection, isolation, and the cycle of impulsive, ill-advised actions which sometimes precipitate when it is the very nature of the duty which causes that seclusion.

As plots go, this film does not break new ground. We have after all, seen how outcast and misunderstood characters like the hunchback Igor in Igor (2008), the villainous Megamind in the eponymous Megamind (2010) and not to forget, that lovable green monster Shrek, all strive to escape from the caricatured roles which someone else has scripted for them, in order to gain just that little bit of love, acceptance and friendship which has always been denied. Yet it is not the plot itself which delighted me, but the imaginatively-written characters which populate the arcade-style video games, the humour, and the poignancy and honesty in feelings which often laced such humour. This film follows Ralph – a ham-fisted bulldozer of a man in a game called ‘Fix It Felix’ who is forever fated to rain down blows on an apartment building (Niceland) and terrorise its residents, an unhappy state which the handyman Felix soon remedies with the help of his magical golden hammer. Every successful game of ‘Fix It Felix’ concludes with the same fixture – Felix gets feted and awarded with a medal for a job well done while the residents unceremoniously throw Ralph down from the terrace to a muddy puddle on the ground below. To add insult to injury, Ralph is left to dwell in the neighbouring dump from where he sees the colourful and happy lives of the Niceland’s residents. It is this sad state of things that Ralph seeks to turn around.

Ralph quickly comes to the conclusion (erroneous!) that what he lacks is a gold medal just like Felix, which would propel him into the high league. And so starts his journey to a game ‘Hero’s Duty’ which awards a gold medal to its victorious warriors, and onto an ill-managed starship crash into a racing game called ‘Sugar Rush’ with a candy landscape and an absolutely saccharine little girl, Vanellope (voiced so endearingly by Sarah Silverman). It is the chemistry between the mischievous little Vanellope and the grumpy Ralph which is the highlight. In an obvious parallel with Ralph’s own state, Vanellope who is characterised as a game glitch is the resident outcast in ‘Sugar Rush’, mocked and left friendless by her own kind. In a predictable journey fighting vile cybugs and racing impossibly candy-coloured cars through an impossibly candy-themed racecourse and discovering the inherent spirit of friendship between them and a new sense of self-worth, we are treated to some insightful ideas.

It is these insights which bring me now to the life of our beloved friend, Simi. In a world where so many of us seem ill at ease with who we seem to be inside, and the struggles which we put up to re-define ourselves in a bid to win acceptance and love, Simi was the exception. Just like Sarah’s plummy-voiced Vanellope, Simi too conveyed that sweet naughtiness and that bold spirit to boot, of a girl who has her sights set high borne up by a sure sense of identity.

Whether it is Fix It Felix or Wreck It Ralph, I realise that just as we are defined by the jobs we do, we are also marked in a far deeper sense by the values we live by and the love and friendship we are able to share. Just like a zombie character in the game says, “Labels do not make you happy. Good, bad... you must love you.”

Here is wishing you a very happy coming birthday, Simi!

Our Hills of Cambria

I had originally intended this piece to be a memorial for all those Englishmen and Englishwomen – all part of the British Raj – who lived and then died here; some of their remnants surviving in the form of plaques and tombstones adorning their graves scattered all over our land.

The trigger for such a piece happens to be a cemetery I recently visited; a quaint cemetery of a quaint church in Meghalaya. It has been the custom for me when I travel to new places (I realise this now with my latest visit), to end up visiting the old British-era churches and their grounds which often double up as the final resting places for erstwhile British subjects. When I visited Nainital so many years back, I went to St. John’s Church in the upper reaches of the hill-station, and explored the cemetery lying just beside it – interring the remains of so many English folk; men who had gloriously succumbed in battle, dutiful wives who had followed their husbands to this land, and even infants who had been cruelly snuffed out by the deadly epidemics of that age. So many headstones were crumbling and the letters on some were almost rubbed out by the ravages of the wind and the rain, but my friends and I had a strangely wonder-filled time reading out the messages describing the lives of all those people from so long ago. I continue to experience that same feeling of wonderment and an unexplainable kinship whenever I visit old churches and cemeteries, like the times spent at St Paul’s Cathedral, Kolkata, Hudson Memorial Church, Bangalore and the war cemeteries in Digboi and Guwahati.

So it was that as I looked upon a crumbling stone-brick column serving as a headstone, whose sides now housed a loud brood of sparrows, I felt that same wave of something familiar sweeping over me. I was standing on top of a low wind-swept hillock in the cemetery of the First Presbyterian Church at Nongsawlia, Lower Cherrapunjee, Meghalaya and looking down over the church in the background. The First Presbyterian Church at Nongsawlia was established in 1848 by Welsh missionaries who had undergone great hardships to travel all the way from Wales to the Khasi Hills, to spread the words of the Gospel among the local populace, also educating, teaching and guiding them in the process. A Primary School set up in 1843 by the first Welsh missionary Thomas Jones for educating the Khasi children still stands today, as does a High School established by the missionaries. As you move from Cherrapunjee town to the outlying areas of Lower Cherrapunjee, the tall bell tower with a simple cross on top is the first indication of a church you see as you round a bend. Just beside the tower, stands the unassuming First Presbyterian Church of Nongsawlia, with its grey stone walls sourced most likely from the local stone quarries (the lower portion of walls painted with simple white lime), with its Gothic-arched windows and sloping roofs of red tin.

On the other side of the road, a gate with a curved sign proclaiming ‘Presbyterian Church Nongsawlia Cemetry 1845’ leads the way to the cemetery scattered over I think, 3 small hillocks with the farthest right on the edge of a plateau and offering panoramic views of the gorges beyond. The first 2 hillocks are studded with graves adorned with headstones of departed Welsh- and Englishfolk. Many of these headstones are now half-sunken, a few further embellished with protective rings of iron grill. Some of these headstones are more like ‘head-towers’, fashioned out of stone bricks and into vertical columns much like the stone monoliths which Khasi people used to erect as memorials for their forefathers, and which dot the hilly landscape all over. The last hillock contains more recent graves of Khasi dead – some modern graves now decorated with ceramic tiles of floral patterns and covered with colourful artificial flower bouquets left behind by the grieving.

Beyond the stones and the buildings lie the stories of people who strived for something singular and whose efforts are now forever a part of the Cherrapunjee and perhaps, Khasi way of life. The Welsh missionaries, who first came to these hills bearing the words of the Lord, were supported by the honest folk of Wales impoverished themselves, who were moved sufficiently to improve the lot of peoples whom they had not even heard of or met. Still suffering under the constraints of the Napoleonic wars which had severely affected them, folks of distant Welsh towns like Anglesey and Denbigh set aside a portion of their produce or livestock as charity for the Bible Society which spearheaded the missionary drive. Possessing neither riches nor much education the Welsh people contributed with extraordinary fervor and resolve, to send forth these missionaries

The first Welsh missionaries landed at Cherrapunjee on 22nd June, 1841 and proceeded to reform many aspects of the Khasi way of life by imparting practical skills in agriculture, distilling, mining, education and religion. They also introduced the first Khasi script using Roman alphabets and enriched the lives of the local population in ways, which were far-reaching. Clothes, embroidery patterns, reading and writing, medicine, designs in crockery, using coal in limestone kilns – the Welsh missionaries worked in ways of spreading the Gospel that “joyful sound shall have reached the uttermost parts”. Subsequently, the missionaries moved to other parts of Meghalaya like Shillong, shaping positively the lives of Khasi and Jaintia people.

It is indeed heart-warming and inspiring to reflect on the stories of these people behind the crumbling headstones and weathered plaques. A little bit of the hills of Cambria will forever live on in our hills of the Khasi and Jaintia people.

CineM Review: The Secret Garden (1993)

"How does your garden grow?"

Watching ‘The Secret Garden’ made me realise a few things about children. Firstly, that their world though appearing carefree, is just as serious as ours, inhabited as it is also by the more‘adult-like’ emotions of rejection, coercion, belief and finally redemption. Secondly, we as children make the best friendships and though they may not necessarily last a lifetime, that innocence and feeling of something special may last a whole lifetime. And these childhood friendships are not as hard to establish either – sometimes even a shared secret or joy in playing a mutual game suffices to create that wonderful bond. Lastly, children possess a single-minded ability to make up their own ideas and stick to them with a great finality. ‘The Secret Garden’ explores this complex world of children with an understanding and a delicacy which is startling.

This film directed by Agnieszka Holland who has earlier made the children-themed ‘Europa Europa’ and ‘Olivier Olivier’, has adapted the screenplay from Frances Hodgson Burnett's 1911 novel of the same title. The author who had herself led a chequered life, had written a host of romantic and children books. Though the ‘The Secret Garden’ was relatively unheralded during the author’s lifetime, it has subsequently emerged as one the classic English books ever written for children, and the film by staying true to the book, does ample justice to the ideals prescribed therein.

As stories meant for children go, ‘The Secret Garden’ too throws its characters onto a path of vicissitudes, discovery and triumph. Orphaned in India, young Mary Lennox (played to perfection by Kate Maberly) comes to live with her uncle in his rambling estate, Misselthwaite Manor. This estate is also home to a vague sense of disquiet and a human entourage comprising of a cherub of a housemaid, Martha (acted endearingly by Laura Crossley), her Huckleberry-esque brother named Dickon (Andrew Knott), and a strict and forbidding housekeeper Mrs. Medlock (Maggie Smith). Set in the moors of Yorkshire, the estate also houses a secret garden which belonged to Mary’s aunt (her mother’s twin sister), whose death has plunged her uncle and everything in Misselthwaite Manor into a pall of relentless gloom. Mary’s grey and massive room in the grey and massive manor is swathed with intricate and heavy-looking tapestries – the whole look seemingly consistent with a house that can only be home to dour-looking adults, and no children.

Mary manages to splash her own burst of individual energy when she makes a series of strange discoveries, starting with a secret passageway in the manor leading to her dead aunt’s secluded room, a tentative friendship with a trilling robin who leads her into her aunt’s garden, now locked away and running wild and finally, her cousin Colin (Heydon Prowse) who is proclaimed too frail and lives like a condemned person, secreted in some gloomy room with barricaded windows inside that massive house. With these discoveries in that seemingly distant house, Mary proceeds to blaze a child-like path of joyful effort, honest intentions, clear-speak and simple love which goes around in a circle, enveloping the entire household in a new bond of life.

Kate Maberly who had earlier acted in a series of BBC productions brings in a petulant but lovable streak into the character; observe her diminutive jaw stuck out in moments of impetuous anger, the bitterness in her words when she spits them in the face of un-understanding adult supervision, and the smile in her eyes when she gets her way. Mary when she starts out is not very dissimilar to the cantankerous, almost infuriatingly stubborn Colin who is wedded to the belief that he is facing imminent death. As the smart and articulate Mary first aided by the simple country boy skills of Dickon sets out to bring the long-neglected garden alive, and then accompanied by the till-now reclusive cousin continues her incursions into the joyousness and freshness of a new spring now shining upon Misselthwaithe, we witness a transformation. And this transformation is all around – from the bare, weed-overgrown garden now bristling with a colourful bloom of flowers, to the new-found health and vigour in Colin, and the blossoming of the goodness that lies inside Mary’s heart.

This film succeeds at numerous levels; the first obvious mark for me was the superlative acting by all the characters, in particular the young ensemble of Mary, Martha, Dickon and Colin, and finally Mrs. Medlock. Exchanges between children are always fascinating, underlined as they are by their simple joys, tantrums and fears. There is in particular one exchange between the determined Mary and clamorous Colin, when she confronts her cousin with her unfailing belief in his good health borne out of the simple common sense which children do possess. Colin protests and creates a scene, twitching his lips at Mary’s stern rebukes and at last, capitulates. There is another moment in the film when the 3 children gather around a bonfire and circle it in a sort of trance-like surrender, mumbling inanities but calling out for a miracle with a simple but deep fervor which compels even an attending adult to participate in the unlikely voodoo dance. There is also another delightful moment on a swing when Mary and Dickon exchange a glance (is it the first awakening of something greater than just friendship??) of something significant but as yet, indecipherable.

The film also succeeds in capturing other moments of beauty (great cinematography by Roger Deakins). Since I love flowers and gardens, the time-lapse photography of blooming flowers rising up from the ground under the love and care of Mary & Co. was particularly mesmerising. In a film with so many deft touches, the allegory of the secret garden barred and neglected and then, brought back to life by the tender hands of the young children stands tall and unshakeable. In a sense, our lives are also disconcerting similar.

This is a film about the magic which is nothing but irresolute belief in positiveness, and about children. Just like a dear friend of mine who recently got a wonderful opportunity to interact with kids and bring together a great skit by harnessing the resourcefulness and the innate grace of young children, I too have immense belief in the powers that lie hidden inside their immense throbbing hearts.

CineM’s Verdict:

RIP The Man Who Loved Movies

What Roger Ebert (June 18, 1942 - April 4, 2013) has to say goes a long way beyond films and the people who make them. His thoughts possess a much greater reverberance when applied to the larger theatre of the comic-drama that is Life. One unwavering yardstick for me (for the last 3 years atleast) when I set out to see a film is to check what Roger Ebert has to say about it. This does not mean that my own thoughts have been in exact consonance with whatever he said. It is safe for me to say however without the least reserve, that he is able to delve deeper and unearth greater meaning from films that I had thought possible, accustomed as I was, to look at the medium of movies as basically a carrier of entertainment.

Beyond the loud (and silent) tears, the raucousness of strident laughter, the silky manipulations of work and society, the remonstrance of failed romances, and the tentative and ill-at-ease expressions (and triumphantly evocative demonstrations) of all the colours of moviedom, what films essentially seek to draw forth are the myriad hues of life itself. And with some effort, a little study and nudged by the knowing words of a great critic such as Ebert, films acquire a more realistic dimension – like a parable, they enable us to draw our own conclusions of what happened. In inexplicable ways, I have also found occasions where I have been able to apply some of these learnings to my own existence.

Ebert’s critiques of films as published in his website and in his books are wonderful pieces to read. They are peppered with unique observations, bits of humour and embellished at times with the rarest of rare truths, which are more likely to find their way into great spiritual books and discourses. Thank you, Ebert.

“For me, the film is like music or a landscape: It clears a space in my mind, and in that space I can consider questions.”

- what Ebert says in his review of Wender’s ‘Wings of Desire'

Winter Garden @ 2013

Winter is a good time for flowers. For those homes with a garden, winter is a colourful season – yellows, reds, purples, whites – it is nice to see all those hues splashing and cascading in merry confusion. As I have discovered, it takes very little to get all these colours into your garden and then, into your life. Nature takes care of most of the stuff anyway; the sun happily shines its warmth and light down on the sprouting shoots, the soil nourishes the roots and as the gardener, you have to water and every now and then, do a nip and tuck on the spreading plants.

I had gone along with chrysanthemums and petunias last year for winter. The results I was able to see encouraged me to take on a more ambitious winter project this time. So, I went around consulting garden aficionados, collected young plants, took care with the potting mix and watered and prayed. Nearly 2 months after I had planted the first tiny plant, colours slowly started appearing in my garden. First it was the chrysanthemums who shyly opened their radiant faces to the sunlight; the gay petunias imperiously followed and pretty soon, there were blooms of all colours and shapes. The hesitant pansies started blooming and it is a real joy when the pansy petals with the loved face-like dark prints appear. The zagged-edged dianthuses were not to be left behind and they too joined in the general bedlam of colours. The verbenas too opened their little bell-shaped petals with great willingness. Finally, it was the turn of the big boys – the dahlias with their impressive girth and humongous multi-layer petals.

When I see all the richness around me, I look up at the big gardener above and give him a hearty 'thank you'. I forgot to mention the most important tool that the gardener has in his paraphernalia, and that is…love!

(All images shown here are from my own garden; so nothing borrowed J. )

An Art of Many Forms

I am terrible at drawing; have always been since school days when my Vinci-esque repertoire was limited to battle-scenes of unaerodynamic-looking planes above dropping egg-shaped bombs on proportionally-challenged hapless infantry below, grotesquely-smiling plaid-shirted ‘kou-boys’ with shoulders too broad and legs too small and finally, my pièce de résistance – scenery sketches of hills, valleys and plains. My sceneries were dominated by triangular hills which I am sure, would have made Pythagoras proud and a serpentine river flowing down from the hills in distinctly Z-like courses, and of course, the ubiquitous proportionally-challenged people frolicking in the foreground. Evidently I suck at drawing, which is why I have forever looked upon people gifted with the artist’s eye for detail, colour and imagination (not to forget proportion!!) with awe and a teeny bit of jealousy.

While some artistically-gifted people are content to express themselves on drawing paper and painter’s canvases, still others explore several additional avenues of expression, like the sand painters who work such wonderous images using just sand or the artists who use superlative imaginative skills to fashion beautiful objects of art using the most nondescript of artistic medium – sticks!! Yes, it is true that over the ages, man has sought and found unique and mesmerizing artistic voices where stones, egg shells, glass panes, even pieces of discarded junk have done service as sometimes the brush, at other times as the blank canvas upon which man carves out his impossible, wonderful dreams.

To conclude, for those with the creative bent, everything is grist to the mill. So there is this friend of mine; she is unmistakably a member of this singular clan of individuals who splash the world around with colours and new forms. She carries a notebook around – a constant companion of many years – where she records the passing wisps of still half-forming images which sometimes float by. Her living room is adorned with wall murals, picture portraits, a framed Ganesha made up of perfectly-cut and wielded silver foil pieces and wonderful knick-knacks of decorative items painstakingly crafted with everyday items.

I have reproduced one of her most recent murals; I find the colours, the smooth curves and yes, the imaginativeness in juxtaposing the gently-swaying flower stalks with that of the left silhouette of a girl’s face quite striking. Now more than ever, I am convinced that Art is a gift – a gift which brings joy to the self and to others, and creates new spaces for reflection and comprehension. Yes, Art is a gift.

CineM Review: The Big Heat (1953)

PROLOGUE

Too many Bollywood films in the 80s and 90s bolstered by the phenomenon of the angry young man featured the protagonist as a cop hell-bent on busting crime with a passion which can only be termed ‘manic’ and a personal confrontational style which is centered around violence – acting out fatuous impulses with the inevitable result that his loved ones would be promptly bumped off, which would again only, understandably whet his appetite for further mindless destruction. This celebrated ‘knight’ always simmered with seething rage which would ultimately boil over, but at the same time was also capable of performing good deeds like rescuing a hapless orphan from the streets. Bollywood brought out (and still does) a slew of anti-establishment films characterised by a compulsive desire to dispose off every piece of criminal scum in the country, featuring heroes whose destructive behaviour ensures that every member of the supporting cast either got killed or tortured. What these films essentially manifest is a war and the troubled hero as the soldier for whom this war becomes his only life.

A Different Bane

Before attempting to write a critique of ‘The Big Heat’, it is perhaps important to understand 2 things – firstly, the notion of the dark anti-hero as developed in art and secondly, the origins of the film’s director, Fritz Lang. Art forms like cinema and comics have developed and fine-tuned the ‘anti-hero’ concept for the last 4 decades, evolving the lone crusader from a do-gooder with an individualistic sense of meting out justice at all costs into the morally-flawed paranoid reactionary who is only too willing to kill and maim in his quest; a possessed individual with twisted, dark moods and overt violence in his thoughts and actions. However, it was a far more conventional form of evil which had shaped and defined Fritz Lang’s life and work. Partly-Jewish Lang was one of the foremost German directors (he had already made ‘M’ and ‘Metropolis’) and personally mandated by Hitler and Goebbles to make Nazi propaganda films before he escaped and became a Hollywood legend making films out of the eternal motifs of the dubious circumstances surrounding man and the evil that perennially lurks inside him. Lang’s films are streaked by the presence of individuals insidiously primed to wreak violence and the accompanying emotional ravages. Lang’s career spanned geography, language and culture; bridging as it did both the silent and sound eras. Lang’s earlier films effectively laid the ground stone for establishment of that intense brooding genre in Hollywood’s Golden Age - film-noir.

On the face of it, this is a plain cop-versus-mob crime thriller but it has considerable dark undertones of moral ambiguity and psychological conflict. Like many other film-noir classics, this is a canvas defined not by the traditionally uplifting qualities of heroism, idealism or duty but by knotty hues of self-preservation, vengeance and utter oblivion in its pursuit. This is a remarkably violent film – in which other film else have you seen all the female characters killed off?

The film starts with a lingering shot of a pistol lying on a table in a study. A man picks it up and blows his brains out. Glenn Ford as Detective Sgt. Dave Bannion is assigned to the case and he starts the investigation with the dead man’s widow. It turns out that the dead man’s an ex-cop and from there, Bannion picks up the threads leading to a brief meeting with the man’s girlfriend who comes up with a possible story which Bannion finds unbelievable and the widow upon questioning, dismisses as baseless. Subsequent events seems to point at the prevailing mob boss in the city and his henchman Vince Stone (a very young but very very talented Lee Marvin). The introduction of Vince Stone’s character is accompanied by the first appearance of his girl, Gloria Grahame as Debby Marsh. Juxtaposed against the coldness of the criminal world are interesting short and warm vignettes of Bannion’s blissful life with his wife (Jocelyn Brando) and kid.

This film which is at one level, that of a heroic and dedicated police officer is at another wholly disparate level, really about something else. The tipping point in the film occurs when the murder investigation casts its own dark spell of mayhem on Bannion’s little family. The big heat inside Bannion’s character find a volcanic way out…and how!!

Besides the dead man in the opening sequence, the story chillingly kills off all the 4 main female leads and what is morally damning for Bannion is that in one way or another, his reckless actions have been culpable in all the 4 killings. Bannion for all his sincerity and dedication in the early part of the murder investigation is prone to foolhardy and impulsive decisions. Like when he promptly discloses the information provided by the dead man’s girlfriend which leads to her torture and ultimate murder, and he does not think twice before bouncing off to the mob boss’ house to confront him for threatening calls being made to his house, and to add insult to further injury, slams his fist into an underling’s face at the slightest provocation.

The tragedy which befalls his family shortly afterwards lays bare the sinister mask underneath Bannion’s character. A brilliantly played-out scene of intimidation, brazen challenge and momentary capitulation in a city bar involving Vince, Debby, another mob hand and Bannion, brings to the fore Bannion’s barely-suppressed rage. “Thief!” Bannion splutters  with venom at the face of Vince.

This scene at the bar prefaces the third act of the film which was for me personally, the most enigmatic. This portion of the story showcases the immense talents of Gloria (Debby) and Lee (Vince). Debby is the typical moll with a flippant attitude, a light speech and coquettish mannerisms (eyes which twinkle with allure, lips which curl up invitingly, and a languorous body language) and the gangster Vince possesses that coldness evident in the thin lips, lean face and not-unattractive scowl. Lee successfully portrays the wired-up violent streak in Vince’s character which the film brings out with sharp intensity in a couple of marvelous bits. The most vicious bit of violence in the film is where Vince with great intent and a chilling callousness, upturns a pot of boiling coffee on Debby’s beautiful face. This coffee-throwing incident sparks a transformation in Debby from a vacuous and self-loving pretty girl whose favourite pastime it seems, is checking herself in a mirror. Gloria excels in the character of Debby; her bounce, lithe figure, a child-like enunciation and suggestive expressions are on the surface, all that is to the character. As with most such characters however, there is a hard steel in the spirit and an obscure sense of righteousness which when provoked, manifests itself in the most resolute of actions. The new Debby proceeds ahead on that new trail of retribution along with Bannion.

This is a remarkable film; remarkable for its performances, remarkable for the terrific lines (Debby with her irreparably disfigured face bravely tries to keep up her act: "I guess the scar isn't so bad -- not if it's only on one side. I can always go through life sideways.”), remarkable because it does not shy away from uncovering the terrible face of human lusts even when the mission seems righteous. The main writer of the screenplay is screenwriter Sydney Boehm, a former crime reporter who alongwith Lang lends that strange, unquiet air of apprehension and impending danger.

p.s. Though largely unheralded in his lifetime, Fritz Lang’s oeuvre is the stuff of master filmmaking and the sceptre of the dangerous world of layered human evil is relevant in modern cinema too. No wonder then, that as a heads-up to the great director in Quentin Tarantino’s latest offering replete with cinematic references - ‘Django Unchained’, the beguiling, menacing character of Dr. King Schultz played by Christoph Waltz rides on a horse whose name is you guessed it, ‘Fritz’!!

CineM’s Verdict:

Of Memories Lush

An uncle passed away on 2^nd Jan this year. Death of a loved one invites reminiscence. One attempts to piece together an image of the departed person through a collective prism of memories; if the life lived is fulfilling, fruitful and love-filled, that prism throws up a joyous and generous mental image. So is the case when I try to recall past memories, buried incidents with my uncle, Dulal jetha (jetha being the Assamese colloquial for the husband of one’s paternal aunt).  Jetha was a doctor who served with the Assam state government’s medical department; during his service stretched over 4 decades, he had served in various remote areas throughout the state. After his retirement from active government medical duty, he used to look back on his past days when he used to go out on medical calls in all odd hours, sometimes trudging through dense forests, clambering over hills, or crossing rivers in spate on nothing more than a flimsy rowboat. And he had many interesting storied to relate from the various experiences he had while on duty.

Jetha had a wondrous and enthralling story-telling technique as he would relate his past experiences and the little impressionable kid that I was, I would sit captivated listening to all those stories filled with wild animals, ghouls, hunters and all other quirky, mysterious things which a young boy’s mind is occupied with. Years later, Jetha would compile all these stories and author a book in Assamese about his experiences. Not having gone through the book because I tend to labour while reading the Assamese vernacular, I would ask Jetha to recount those stories whenever I would visit him. I was grown-up by then but Jetha s stories about feebly-lit stormy nights, colourful rural folk and yes, those ghostly apparitions would still captivate me.

One very incredible story told by Jetha come to my mind now. It pays to bear in mind that the Assam of bygone days was an almost-alive mass of steaming jungles and wild and exotic animals who were far more in number than people, little-known tribes who had their own quaint customs, and villages scattered very sparsely with runners being the only means of communication. Anyway there was a malaria epidemic around the 60s in a particular area, and Jetha was dispatched on emergency duty to stem the outbreak. The area was covered with jungles and every morning, Jetha would set out with an orderly and carrying his precious little box of medicines. As protection against the mosquitoes swarming all over and the myriad wild animals on the ground, Jetha had taken up temporary quarters in a tree-house. One evening as Jetha returned back from his daily rounds, what he saw resting peacefully on the ground just below the tree-house stopped him in his tracks. It was a full-grown Bengal tiger reclining in that particular insouciant way that all big cats have perfected; idly swatting away the flies and flicking his tail contentedly. Jetha and his orderly slunk back into some bushes, staying still and observing the tiger from not more than 20 feet away. They sat there for close to an hour, darkness had almost set in and the emerging mosquitoes made sitting still an almost impossible task. Squirming and praying all the time, my Jetha told me that he almost felt the hot breath of the tiger as it lay panting. Finally, the tiger stood up, examined the bushes where jetha and the orderly lay hiding with an indifferent stare and suddenly, bounded off into the dark green.

Back in the time when I heard this story for the first time, I had read and re-read Jim Corbett’s ‘Man-Eaters of Kumaon’, ‘The Man-eating Leopard of Rudraprayag’ and ‘Tree-tops’ too. He was my hero and it seemed to my hungry imaginative mind that jetha too was no less than Corbett. He had his own tree-top residence and lived to tell the tale of how a tiger rested no more than half a cricket pitch’s length away from him.

Jetha was born in a small nondescript village in Assam but I am certain that a small part of his ancestry must have been undoubtedly Swiss; you see, he was very precise and he always, always made good time!! When Jetha walked, he would fairly trot; when he was at the dinner-table, he would invariably be the first to finish and when he would be driving, everyone else would be left far behind. There was also a certain economy and efficiency of manner around his behaviour which suggested a great deal of attention to what he was doing or saying.

As a son, father, husband and brother, Jetha led the kind of life which many us desire but seldom lead. Nothing in Jetha’s stories was make-believe; his chequered, dutiful and joy-filled life was the same way too.

CineM Review: Un Coeur en Hiver (1992)

Cryptic Gazes

‘A Heart in Winter’. Directed by Claude Sautet, this is a story of repressed feelings and repressed individuals. The story itself may be a ‘love triangle’ if you will, or is it a ‘love quadrangle’? Or is it about love at all? This is a story essentially, of the characters of Maxime, Stephane and Camille – all 3 are connected with creating music. Maxime and Stephane are in the business of crafting violins and Camille herself is an up-and-rising violinist. Maxime is a polished social sort cultivating a dedicated clientele. Stephane is the master craftsman; he works away quietly eschewing unnecessary interactions - cutting, measuring, burnishing and beveling the sonorous wood. The violinist Camille stepping onto a cusp of musical greatness is involved in a romantic relationship with Maxime. All these details atleast the film is very much clear on.

The film also shows the extent to which Stephane is introverted; he shares a normal working relationship with only 3 people – his business partner Maxime, a book-seller Helene and a past mentor who is the closest to a father figure that Stephane can call upon. Stephane seems to understand himself but does not like what he reads in himself; that is his major orientation towards the external too – he understands but does not know what he ought to do. Stephane’s life gets shaken however when Maxime gets involved with Camille, and both move in together in a bid to cement their blossoming relationship. For a careful, precise person for whom his craft is his only life, this development creates the first uncharacteristic stirrings in Stephane’s bonded heart. Further developments follow when the normally unobtrusive Stephane steps into Camille’s life in small ways – attending Camille’s rehearsals and recordings, shooting long deep gazes – and Camille too finds herself getting attracted towards the quietness and seeming completeness of the violin-maker. Camille admits her new-found admiration in front of Maxime, and comes over to Stephane. All that has happened till now is conventional romance; what transpires after this point is a bit complicated.

Stephane rejects Camille’s love, explains that he does not love her and only wanted to get back at Maxime for some reason he does not fathom, leaving Camille devastated. In a canvas which seems to abjure passion and vivid displays of emotions, there is a cathartic outburst when Camille barges into one of Stephane and Helene’s usual coffee-table conversations in a café, and confronts Stephane for leading her on when he really had nothing to offer. A sad cycle of remonstrance, bitterness and ultimately, forgiveness involving all the 3 characters flows from all this mess. All these details the film lets us on gradually and sometimes, with stark clarity in tiny delicate moments.

This brings us to the parts where the movie apparently has nothing to communicate to the viewer. Camille who studied for a time under the same mentor as Stephane’s is described by the mentor as the “cold, polished girl who keeps others at a distance” and yet, she inexplicably falls for nothing more than the brooding, intense gazes of Stephane who is to remember, too closed to even venture an opinion in a conversation not involving violins. Somehow this strange attraction may be accepted for love is, if anything, quite inscrutable. However, the bafflement runs still deeper – there is a hint (and nothing else) of a past failed romance to partly explain Stephane’s regressive demeanour; the movie is curiously silent on why Stephane should harbor a resentment towards the suave, worldly Maxime (one can only laboriously infer that Stephane might be nursing a deep jealousy for the easy social grace with which the latter manages his business and his romance), and there is eventually, the added matter of the veneer of sterility in the relationships formed by the principal characters. Maxime (who is to a degree, self-seeking) is willing to leave his wife to live with Camille but is oddly undemonstrative of anything except an altruistic understanding of why Camille should opt for (again the not-obvious charms of) Stephane. The book-seller Helene who is obviously close to Stephane and confides about her love-life in him (in the hope of eliciting a romantic interest??), shares a platonic interest in Stephane’s ‘thing’ with Camille. So, there is Maxime who is obviously in love with Camille who in turn falls in love with Stephane who unfortunately, has no love for her. There is also Helene who may or may not be in love with Stephane. There is also a dense side-story involving the mentor and his lover, a merry but sometimes high-strung duo who may or may not be important in the scheme of things.

The high points of this movie notwithstanding the manner in which the characters sometimes interact, are the masterful performances of both Daniel Auteuil (as Stephane) and Emmanuelle Béart (as Camille). As the intensely private Stephane, Daniel lends great credulity to the hesitant, sometimes deep gazes with which his character views others and the world. One can always sense in any scene involving Stephane that the character is holding a part of himself back so that no one is able to completely perceive him or what he thinks. He is troubled yes, in an unseen way but he is also strangely assured in the way he goes about his trade or garnering the interest of Camille.

The character of Camille attracts a ready lampoon on the guileless but love-lorn woman who is taken for a ride and then unceremoniously discarded. This is where Emmanuelle as Camille, exhibits a singular portrayal of a woman who is scorned but save for that one moment in the café scene, never lacks in grace. Emmanuelle Béart is one of those true Pre-Raphaelite beauties with her long, slender swan-like neck, raven hair, expressive eyes that make one swim with headiness and perfect lips. She lends beauty to everything that she enacts in the movie; of particular mention is the absolutely rapturous manner in which she plays the violin. As she holds up the violin and screws her head slightly upwards, eyes half-closed in deep passion, she embodies the true fiery ornament of transcendental music. She embodies the emotion of love too, in that bridled but lush manner which is the hallmark of a true romance; there is a scene where Emmanuelle wonderfully masks the first flushes of emotion in a violin recital where Stephane directs steady, unflinching looks at her. She starts playing the violin, then becomes conscious of Stephane; there is a tiny imperceptible change in her posture, her music stutters, and she asks for a glass of water.

The perfectly assured manner in which Daniel and Emmanuelle act out their characters, obviously stems from the complete way in which they understood what their characters are and how they should behave. This makes me believe that there is a scope of re-interpretation into the story and the story’s characters, and a more complete understanding. For the moment though, this is a movie which sees some bits, misses a lot and explains little.

CineM’s Verdict: