Gives me the chills!!

 

For an immigrant, securing a driver’s license is one of those notches on the checklist of ‘things to do’. Canada’s graduated licensing program is rational but poses challenges for the newly arrived resident. Getting a driving abstract from the home country and convincing the Drive Test officials of the authenticity of your documents, is one of them. When I first visited the Burlington Drive Test center for my G1 licensing exam in December 2020, the lady at the desk refused to award me driving credits because my Indian driving license had ‘something wrong’ with it. No further explanation was provided. Almost a year later, another official from the Mississauga Drive Test center took a long, hard look at the same license. Scratching the edge of the chip embedded in the license to check whether it was real, she finally accepted it.

The next and more real challenge along the Canadian licensing journey – the G2 road test – reared its fearsome head. My Google search history got populated with the monikers – three-point turn, parallel parking, downhill parking with the curb, et al. I have driven on the chaotic and laisezz-faire roads of India for close to two decades and executed all those maneuvers multiple times without a second’s thought. In a new country and with stricter traffic rules, those vehicular contortions suddenly seemed more difficult.

With a smiling Sikh instructor in tow and at the helm of that ever-popular instructors’ car – the Corolla – I drove for the first time in North America. It was exhilarating and nerve-wracking; the better roads came accompanied by other cars, pedestrians, and buses; all of whom seemed to have more ‘right of way’ than I did. Back in India, this property of right-of-way if there was one, rested with the one who could accelerate faster, weave in and out, and swivel to be the first. 

Feeling prepared, I went in for my G2 drive test at the Burlington temporary site. It was bright and sunny, and my examiner was a smiling Sri Lankan named Pradeep. I remember I was excited but not nervous; confident in my two-decades-old driving experience in India. It took me all of 3 minutes to fail my test when I dawdled on an advanced green light. With the smile never leaving his face, Pradeep made me go through all the mandatory driving tasks for the remainder of the test without letting me on to the fact that he had already failed me. Back in the parking lot after the test, Pradeep uttered those demoralizing words, “Unfortunately, you were not able to meet the Ministry’s standards today...”.

Another bright noon eleven days later, and I was sitting behind the wheel of the trusty Corolla in the Oakville drive test center parking lot. This time, I was nervous. I was trying to keep my mind blank, but unerringly, my thoughts would turn to the very real prospect of a second failed attempt. I had already spent a lot of time and money on the driving lessons and the car rides to and from the test centers. Sensing my nervousness perhaps, my instructor gave me a piece of gum. Then, an examiner, Steve, got in the car and proceeded to give me the pre-test official ‘talk’. By this time, I had already sat in the car for close to half an hour (Steve was late) and was itching to get on with the test. Silently offering a prayer to the powers-that-be, I drove out of the parking lot. The traffic was sparse; I remember I was not feeling any emotion – I was just cued onto whatever Steve was saying from the next seat.

Ten minutes later as my instructor would tell me later, we pulled into the parking lot where Steve had his last directive for me. He indicated a vacant spot and asked me to reverse-park. The previous minutes had been uneventful, but suddenly, I felt a little anxious about that little space. I felt I went too far ahead to make the turn properly. So, I made a little adjustment and slowly reversed into the spot. Finally, it was done but the car was not strictly in the center between the lines. I asked Steve if I could try to make a better placement.

Steve asked, “Why?”

I said, “The car is not exactly at the center.”

“Can you see both lines?”

“Yes.”

“Then, it’s ok. You don’t have to be perfect.”

“Alright.”

“I am happy to tell you that you have met the standards of the Ministry today.”

And just like that, I got lucky the second time…again! Waiting at the center to get my temporary G2 license, I was not ecstatic or relieved. I felt a curious detachment from the entire experience because my mind was already moving forward to the next things to do. Later in the night when I was alone, I offered myself a silent note of congratulations and drifted off to sleep with visions of the Oakville parking lot floating around.

Give it Back

 
The province of Ontario runs a recycling program called the Ontario Deposit Return Program (ODRP) or simply, ‘Bag It Back’. Presently, it applies only to alcoholic beverage containers. The way it works is this – a mandatory deposit is collected at the point-of-purchase (10 cents for the smaller cans/ bottles and 20 cents for the bigger ones). Once the user returns the empty container to The Beer Store, which is the official collector, the deposit amount is returned. The results of this program are phenomenal – almost 80% of all empty alcoholic containers are being returned. Instead of being dumped into our landfills and potentially affecting our soil and water, this waste is getting recycled.

Which brings me to the story of my cousin brother and his early days in Toronto. My brother came to Canada in 2016, moved into an apartment block overlooking the lake, and spent the first few months as a jobless immigrant. It was then that he struck upon the idea of generating a small income from collecting the used cans and bottles he could see strewn all along the lake’s beaches. So, he would go comb the beaches every morning. On his salvaging spree, he was surprised to see other Torontonians (what a wacky moniker!) doing the same.

Young, old, hobos in their scruffy clothing, well-dressed people, immigrants like himself, homeowners whose backyards opened onto the lake – he would come across all sorts. Some of them, my brother guessed, were just like him – wanting to make an extra buck, but then he would also encounter many who just wanted to keep the place clean and safe. Many of the early morning walkers would thank him for doing his part as a conscientious resident. My brother did this for a week and earned almost $ 20 – 30 daily. He says he stopped when he could no longer overcome his discomfiture when he had to acknowledge those words of gratitude being uttered by total strangers.

Sometime later, he got his first job. Those first few days, my brother says, showed him the strong sense of duty of the people of this great city.

An Exercise in Gluttony

‘Mission Mandarin’ commenced on a bright afternoon on the 29^th

A typical buffet at Mandarin!!

of last month; triggered by the need to break out of my current spartan existence. Surfing the net, I came across the welcome news of restaurants and eateries of the province of Ontario now declared open to walk-in patrons after a long period of close to a year. My friend, Google, helpfully pointed out that ‘Mandarin’ – a Chinese-

Canadian cuisine chain – had only recently restarted their fabled buffet service and I jumped at the chance of sampling a spread comprising 150+ items at a (comparatively) low cost of $24.99. So, I called up the Mandarin outlet nearest to my home on 29^th only to be told that the reservations for the week had been exhausted already. Well, I must say that I wasn’t surprised by the evidence of how my fellow people are striving to normalize their lives, one plateful of food at a time! Undaunted, I made a reservation for the next week on 8^th of October and started my groundwork to make Operation ‘Conquer Mandarin’ a resounding success.

My friend, Google, came to my aid again, directing me to helpful content on how to prime my constitution for the mayhem to come. Again, I was not surprised by how many of my fellow people have fine-tuned gluttony to a fine art, perfected by painful attention to sleep, exercise, water and fiber intake for the days leading to the final battle. Experts of countless buffet battles have devised their own strategies to come out on tops at the battlefield, comprising diverse elements as to the choice of clothes on the D-day (loose-fitting, mind you, to accommodate your expanding girth), arriving early to the scene and doing a quick but perceptive recce of the spread, chalking out a pecking order(!) of the gluttony to follow, staying away from carbs, et al.

Armed with the information and having carried out some of the preparations, I couldn’t wait for 8^th October to dawn and dawn it did, with a muggy vengeance. The skies were overcast, there was a constant drizzle, and the winds made a late but telling entrance. The dedicated foot-soldier that I am, I ventured out into the drizzle and the wind nonetheless, with but one objective in mind – total annihilation!

Arriving at the comfortable environs of Mandarin and being welcomed by the ever-solicitous staff there considerably bolstered my confidence. I was first comfortably seated at my table and the rules of the new-age ‘socially distanced’ buffet dining experience having been explained, I placed a ‘spirited’ order for a glass of Bellini – a concoction of rum, schnapps, and peach puree – and then strode into the buffet hall with the air of a seasoned veteran. Looking at the vast expanse filled me with delight and no small sense of wonderment – there was a salad bar, a soup counter with breads, a live grill, a sushi bar, a wide selection of hot entrees, calories-laden desserts, ice cream, frozen yogurt bar..

The first to be taken prisoner was a steaming hot bowl of soup with chicken wontons, accompanied by crackers and breadsticks. It was delicious and immediately filled me with a warming premonition of how glorious the day would turn out to be. I turned my attention next to the occupants of the salad bar who were colorfully turned out amidst bunches of merry periwinkles - a few button mushrooms, a sweet and tangy Thai chicken salad with thin mango strips, a chickpea salad, a wonderfully fresh shrimp salad, a creamy surimi salad, a basil-sprinkled mussel rounded up as my targets from that section.

My further conquests included golden fried wings, Kung Pao chicken, salt and pepper shrimp, lemon chicken, honey-garlic spare ribs, General Tao chicken, baked salmon, stir-fried vegetables, grilled chicken, torpedo shrimps, barbequed pork ribs….well, suffice it is to say that I tried to overpower as many of the opposition as I could. I partook of the sushi bar as well (only the second time in my life that I have had sushi!), the smoked salmon and cream cheese sushi just impressing me with its melt-in-the-mouth quality. Throughout it all, I had the able assistance of Vinh, my host for the day with his charming and helpful manner. Vinh is a Vietnamese student who is currently doing an internship with a company and working as a server at Mandarin during the weekends.

I hope it is not haughty on my part to admit that though I made short work of all that I chose to come to arms with till then, I was secretly conserving a significant part of my armory for the most delectable of all food – the desserts! And the desserts bar at Mandarin’s made for a very worthy adversary, with its varied arsenal of cakes, cookies, flaky parties, puddings, sinful cheesecakes, ice creams, yogurts, and what-have-you. I was pleased to try out the usual suspects – macaroons, crème brulee, butter tarts, etc. but I was exhilarated to encounter certain confections like pecan pie and lemon meringue pie, of which I have heard lots but never come to face with. The child in me couldn’t resist finishing up the day’s conquest with a small helping of that ubiquitous white and pink ice cream (called ‘two-in-one’ in India), the vanilla and strawberry combination ice cream.

Well, there’s nothing left to do now but tell the powers-that-be, “Coming in for ‘Mission Mandarin’. My work here is done. Over and out!’

GO?! A no-go for me!

 

Go Transit runs commuter trains and buses and is Canada’s first regional transit system, operating in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA) and adjacent suburban cities. So, if you are staying in the GTA region and not presently owning a car, chances are, that like me, you are used to straining your neck on the bus stop or the train station to spot the next approaching trademark green and white bus or train which Go transit operates.  

This is a post about the rail services of Go Transit and writing this takes me back by a decade when I was in the city of Mumbai and regularly commuting by the suburban train service there, colloquially known as ‘local trains’ or ‘locals’. Travelling by locals was hair-raising both literally and metaphorically, as any seasoned local commuter would tell you. The coaches had open doors and windows to allow for air ventilation and standing by the foot board was both an exhilarating and a terrifying experience. You see, standing by the foot board during rush hour office timings was more of a compulsion than a choice due to the unprecedented commuter rush; added to this, I have travelled umpteen times barely clinging on to the door ledges with just one foot on the foot board – a perilous feat which shudders me even now when I reflect on it but something I was compelled to doing almost every day on my way to work then.

So, you can imagine my delight now when I stand on of the train platforms here and observe the unhurried approach of the double-decker, elongated-octagonal shaped coaches pulling in. Inside, the coaches are space-y and air-conditioned, with plush seats, working Wi-fi and clean toilets even for so short a journey. If I am giving you an impression of nonchalance as I stand by the platform here waiting for the next train, it is hardly the complete picture. As my station is situated at one end of a long line (or corridor) marked by hourly service and around 2 kms away from my house, I am often harried as I cycle or run to the station to be on time. I often under-estimate the time it will take to reach the station and coupled by my propensity to take in the sights as I amble along means that many a time, I have executed a last-minute dash to the platform only to see the bright green and white coaches pull away by the slightest of margins. I remember the one time when I dashed to the station and reached it in the nick of time only to find myself on the wrong platform and then scrambling to the correct one, only to find the coach doors literally closing on my face. A classic case of ‘so near, yet so far’!  Yes, if I look back at these ‘close finishes’, I find that I have helplessly observed the train pull away from all vantage points – from the station’s entrance, from the platforms of course, and once from the cycle parking lot. Standing forlorn at the deserted station once the train chugs away, I must contemplate choosing between staring blankly at the next hour before the next one pulls in or taking a costly cab to reach the nearest transport hub.

It is not all despondent though, because once you make it in the train it’s a nice, pleasant journey. The coaches are mostly empty and since I always take a seat on the upper deck, I have a nice view of the surroundings as the train cheerfully moves onward. As it draws closer to Union station which is the hub, the train characteristically loses speed, and you can take in leisurely views of the downtown Toronto skyline. You can observe too, the CN Tower as it slowly rises within your field of vision like a monolith – it almost seems other-worldly in a sense, with its smooth walls and lack of any detailing on the lower level where it just looks like an immense concrete monster.

Nowadays, I leave well in time if I am taking the Go train – it saves money and a lot of last-minute running!

Keep Running

Stories and novellas by writers such as Enid Blyton, Ruskin Bond and Rumer Godden fascinated me immensely in my childhood. The magical tales set in India and far-away lands among children, animals and nature effortlessly transported me away to realms totally disparate from my own. These writers used a great deal of imagination to infuse their stories with characters, societies, philosophies, et al so much so that sometimes they succeeded in creating a whole new universe.
I remember Blyton’s ‘Shadow, the Sheepdog’ from my childhood - a riveting tale of a boy and his dog set in a farm in England, a universe where animals could talk, form alliances, unite against a common foe, act out the moral codes of duty, love, friendship – a heady premise for so young a mind as mine.

All those feelings of wonderment, thrill and awe came rushing back as I watched the mini-series ‘Watership Down’ on Netflix. I discovered ‘Watership Down’ quite by accident, never having heard of the novel or its creator, Richard Adams. Anyway, once I started the series, I could not stop, and I finished all 4 episodes at one go, so engrossed I was in the world of
rabbits and their warrens. It is obvious that Adams sought to explore the ‘human condition’ by transposing it to the universe of rabbits; he comes up with an interesting story of the origin of rabbits, the emergence of antagonistic elements, the hierarchies in the rabbit society, the all-too-common pitfalls of organized structures, motifs of human qualities like struggle, self-determination, the metastasizing of tyranny, etc.

It is interesting that the novel actually sprang out of tales that the author used to regale his 2 young daughters – tales that Richard actually confessed to improvising as they story moved along. The story is essentially about a motley band of rabbits who flee from their warren fearing imminent destruction, their travails when they hop out into the unknown world meeting strange characters, mortal enemies in their search for a new home, making unlikely friends and their final success in surmounting numerous odds to secure a happy, peaceful warren.

First published in 1972, the epic motifs in the book still ring true, tethered as they are, to the enduring realities of human existence. I guess I got attracted to the characters and the story because they are so allegorical and therefore, easy to identify with. Take for instance, the main protagonist, Hazel, who struggles through self-doubt, the barbs of his fellow-rabbits, his own physical limitations and lack of fighting abilities, instead choosing to trust his own instincts and the sage advice of his younger brother, Fiver.

Richard used great imagination to imbue his rabbit world with compelling mythology, its own language, ‘lapine’, sweeping adventures and a hierarchical structure built on gender, individual physical attributes, skills. I have not read the book but the mini-series makes for very enjoyable viewing and a ready interest into the goings-on of the rabbit world – does look after the kits and maintain the warren, bucks guard the perimeter and sound warnings, rabbit councils decide on important matters, the military rabbits act as enforcers and above all, the rabbits run. Mythology reveals that their fleet-footedness is their prime defense against most dangers – they run, hop, and skip away to safety.

Hares are quite common here and there is a particularly intrepid brown one who ventures into my backyard most mornings, nibbling on the succulent greens. Whenever he senses my presence however, he dashes off in a blur of brown….

The Trends I see in Social Media

My current job requires me to sift through tons of user-generated content in social media and very often, it offers a voyeuristic peek into the minds of the users and society. Crunch through enough social media posts, videos, captions, and what-have-you, and you start to develop a sense of what concerns users currently, the contemporary issues which they like to post on, how they seek to build relationships and even, the preferred filter they use on their pictures. This gives me the opportunity to expound on what I see as current trends among social media users. 

 1. Growth of User communities. Doing what they do on the social apps – sharing, creating, commenting – increases affinity among users to form communities or groups based on common connectors. These may be the games they are currently playing, the city they are presently staying in, the brands that attract them the most, lifestyle goals like food, travel, photography, the local events whether they be politics, economic, leisure, their country of origin, religious and spiritual values, etc. Once formed, these communities largely function as a touchstone of shared beliefs and ideas the members identify with, fiercely protect, and oftentimes seek to propagate among others too. 

 2. Games, games, more games. Beside the stratospheric numbers of the online games industry, it has also spawned its own platforms like Twitch, B Site, etc. Emergence of Augmented Reality (AR) & Virtual Reality (VR) games, popularity of gaming platforms like Roblox, etc. where developers and gamers can co-create, the ever-expanding scope of what gamers can do within the games, etc. all mean that the gaming community has a lot to share and talk about. And guess where the gamers like to come? Oh yes, the social media apps where users share posts on their latest avatars, gaming achievements, and flaunt their in-game collections. Chew on this – Twitter calculated that its users sent 1 billion tweets about gaming in the first half of 2020 alone! 

 3. Live streaming is In. Content creators such as indie game developers, artists, lifestyle teachers are using live streaming services on social media like never before. Being constrained by the pandemic, users have adapted to connecting with their audiences, co-users by creating live chats, competitions, and tutorials to grab more eyeballs and make important announcements. Recent studies have thrown up the conclusion that the popularity of live videos is dominating the demand for video content. 

 4. We all like stories. Storytelling finds a new significance on social media where users seek to create content by taking a more organized approach, layering content through pre-launch banter, quizzes, ‘behind-the-scenes’ moments, tours, etc. This all creates the impression of a definite thematic journey in the minds of the audience and the short-lived nature of the content keeps users engaged, excited and on their toes. 

 All these evolutions make social media exciting and better understand the impact it has on the users and the world around us. So, strap in for the ride!

CineM Review: Diecisiete (Seventeen) 2019

 As the number of characters go, the film ‘Diecisiete’ or ‘Seventeen’ in English is sparsely populated but it manages to showcase an amazing depth of the human condition through the lean cast. What the film seems to depict lies so apparently on the surface but once you invest time in the tale, you get to see innumerable little twerks in the details. The ‘road trip’ genre of films is characterized by the fact that it brings together a disparate set of characters who while seemingly tugged by different motivations, are nevertheless welded together by some common element. Another feature of this genre is that somewhere along the way, the story transcends into something more elevated than the destination – it becomes a parable about the journey itself. In all these, this small Spanish gem, Diecisiete, stays true to the beaten path but where it diverges, and diverges so eloquently, is the sincere way in which the characters are etched out and the honesty which lies behind their actions.

There is not much of a back story; we are presented with the basic details. There are 2 brothers - the younger Hector, is smart, focused and given to petty delinquencies; the construct of his mind is portrayed as controlled yet fragile and his single-mindedness but utter guilelessness, seems to hint at autism but is never made explicit. The older brother, Esma, is nervous and acts in measured tones which suggest at a weariness and a resignation towards readily accepting the hand dealt out. They are attached to their grandmother who is now old and is housed in a care home.

As the film opens, Hector is up to another petty crime but he is caught and interred in a juvenile home where his peculiarities are in stark contrast with the other inmates. A paperback of the country’s penal codes as a constant companion and his introverted demeanor does not win him many friends there, and his multiple unsuccessful attempts at breakouts are something of an establishment joke. Yet, when he is introduced to a rescued dog as part of his rehabilitation program, Hector undergoes a change. He readily accepts and quickly relishes the job of training the mutt whom he plainly names ‘Oveja’ (or ‘sheep’ in English) on account of his raggedy, wool-like coat. Hector who has trouble relating to people nevertheless finds it quite easy to communicate with and assume charge of Oveja and the dog too, reciprocates the affection. His fragile world shatters when he is informed that his efforts in training and socializing with Oveja have yielded fruit in securing him a forever home. Unable to reconcile himself to this forced separation, Hector makes yet another and now successful, breakout and the real story unfolds from this point.

The tale finds the 2 principal characters together by their grandmother’s bedside where the brothers clash over going back to the juvenile home; Hector proclaiming that he will initiate search for his beloved Oveja while Esma argues about returning in time by Hector’s 18^th birthday which is just 2 days away (once he turns an adult, any crimes committed subsequently would be judged in a far harsher light). Grudgingly, Esma agrees to Hector’s idea if it results in him getting back Oveja and returning to the home to serve the rest of his sentence which is only a couple of months from being over. With their grandmother in tow and in Esma’s RV, the brothers embark on their journey to retrieve Oveja from his new owner and restore their lives to the earlier equilibrium, or so they think.

Their search leads them through the canine rescue shelter where Hector ‘adopts’ a 3-legged dog, bucolic villages, long-lost relatives, an ancestral cemetery, et al. where the director and co-writer Daniel Sanchez Arevalo slowly explores the myriad nuances in the brothers’ characters. There is quiet, unobtrusive humor which emerges out of the milieu of hidden intentions and thoughts of the brothers. The grandmother perpetually attached to her life-support paraphernalia acts as a silent foil to the brothers’ shenanigans and despite her character’s senility and approaching death restricting her dialogues to the Spanish phrase ‘tarapara’ or ‘we will see’ in English, provides one of the true motivations of what lies at the heart of the brothers’ actions.

The story takes them through the mountainous and coastal region of Cantabria and the beautiful photography seems to elevate the geography into a side character almost. I feel the film is replete with images as metaphors – the juvenile home which abounds in bullies, Esma’s RV which is his flimsy excuse of a home, grandmother’s burial plot which is both lost and within grasp at the same time – and the wonderfully rugged and at times, peaceful Cantabria countryside serve to propel this unlikely tale forward. The RV passes along road bordering deep ravines which seemingly evoke the yawning differences in the brothers’ personalities and later, the pristine coast fringed by cliffs symbolize the emerging calmness in their loves. In a way, the towering cliffs are emblematic of the leap of faith which both characters are required to take in order to embrace their true destinies.

This is a wonderfully evocative film which ultimately surmounts the limitations of what we see as characters to portray a thoroughly enjoyable tale of human nature, change and ultimately, hope.

I like to think of the three-legged dog who becomes an unlikely companion on the road trip as you and I. Tired and beleaguered, we all think we have lost an important appendage of ourselves on the journey of life and are happy to clutch at any chance at a ‘safe’ existence only to discover that there is apparently, a whole world of possibilities that we can strive for and accomplish. And that thought urges me forward.

Cycling Away

 

When I was in school, I pestered my father to get me a cycle, but I could not close the argument with him. Beyond the plain metal frame and two wheels, my vision of a cycle was unshakably tied to the notion of ‘freedom’, a devil-may-care attitude and the capability to simply pedal away from life’s problems. Unfortunately for me, my father too must have arrived at the same calculations as I and forcefully shot down this puerile and feeble attempt at a rebellion. Added to my father’s reluctance, was the very real problem of terrible traffic and road conditions with so many vehicles jostling for space, absence of cyclist lanes, and a general insensitivity towards cyclists on the road. So ended my initial attempt at cycling.

Now, two decades later and with the wind ruffling through my hair, the sunlight on my face, the steady roll of the twin wheels under me accompanied by the satisfied sound of rubber on asphalt and gravel, I am living out my cycling fascinations of yore.

Working from home for the past many months, stuck to a seat and rivetted on the computer screen for hours at end with only a small window to look out of, I was starving for any real interaction with the outside world. Being in a new country was becoming a strange, exciting but ultimately, unfulfilling experience with the global pandemic raging outside and multiple lockdowns coming into effect. As winter descended into spring, I could start seeing the natural beauty of my newly adopted town but could not touch and feel it. I could not walk over the great distances in this vast, open landscape; neither could I drive anywhere since I have no car presently. It seemed I was consigned to the prospect of looking at the blossoming spring beauty through a window.

Then, I got me a cycle – a used one – with a crude silver paint job, iffy brakes, a hard-as-stone (it seems!) seat, a paralyzed side-stand and non-functioning shock absorbers which deliver a truly tactile experience.

So, after my daily shift ends, I cycle out into the unknown streets and lanes of my town, sometimes using my phone navigation but mostly, just venturing out with no destination in mind. In this way, I have acquainted myself with some pretty parks and trails nearby which offer the joy of being under great trees, passing over bubbling brooks or sitting on the newly-sprout green grass. Dandelions with their bright yellow faces are growing all over like weeds, birds noisily chirp from their nests among dense shrubs and thickets, squirrels and hares happily trot everywhere. It is like a symphony of nature and my cycle affords me a ringside view like nothing else. I stop wherever I feel like for however long I feel like; I rest my cycle alongside a tree or just lay it over the grass while I contemplate my place in these surroundings. I have started to take out my cycle for grocery trips too, though there is the constraint of riding back fully weighed down by my purchases which does not make for very smooth or enjoyable riding. Sometimes I also ride through quiet neighborhoods with kids playing or cycling outside while their parents engage in more mundane tasks of mowing the lawn, clearing out deadfall or planting new bulbs out in the garden. My cycle is helping me in slowly exploring the place I call home now.

My experience is also aided immensely by the conscientious and generous attitude of people here on the road. Pedestrians and cyclist have right of way on most crossings, there are designated cycle lanes, sidewalks and pavements are well-maintained – all these go a long way in making my ride easy and pleasurable. I can imagine how if I were growing up in this country and my younger self would have asked my father for a cycle, I hear my father happily saying ‘yes’.

Forever Young & Free!!

This is July again, and therefore, Simi’s birth-month. Caught up in my own life, I had completely forgotten about the significance of this month until only a few days back. Simi would not have approved – either of how so full-of-activities our lives have become or, of how easily we seem to gloss over the importance of relationships. As I look at my own unorganized life, I recall the words of Sissy Spacek playing Loretta Lynn in the film ‘Coal Miner's Daughter’ as she gazes over an expectant audience and says; “Things is moving too fast in my life...they always have….. Patsy always told me 'Lil girl, you gotta run your own life', but my life...it's a'runnin' me."

I feel that way a lot these days, and I am sure it is not a good feeling to have. So, I shall hunker down here and attempt to talk of Simi again. Our existence perpetually throws us onto paths of newer experiences and fresh acquaintances; it becomes difficult to recall our past ties and hark upon the memories of days gone by. So it is through my own words and borrowing the words of our batch-mates that I shall essay another pen-picture of my dear friend.

You come across this character in many a movie – the loud, absolutely energetic guy or girl who exults in the present, laughs off worries and starts waltzing at the slightest sound of a trumpet. While doing so, this character of course, teaches the others in the movie (most of them inevitably complicated and too caught up in life’s little problems) a thing or two about living. As movie characters go, this guy or girl is nearly omnipresent in all narratives, sometimes passing off as the protagonist’s best buddy, or a bubbly parent or sometimes even as a stranger from a chance encounter. In real life however, such characters are very, very difficult to come across – life instead chooses to burden us with acquaintances more reminiscent of the afore-mentioned complicated and calculative kind. So, it is a classic case of real not following reel. So, it is with some amount of self-pleasure I declare that my life has been populated by atleast one sample of this rare breed. This blog calls Simi the ‘the confetti girl’ not without reason; so many of us were desirous of being like her. Geetika our batch-mate announced this in the testimonial that she wrote for Simi in our year-book. Another batch-mate Aman, unabashedly credits her with changing the way he lived his life. All our batch-mates were thrown onto the wondrously shining path of Simi for only little less than a year and yet she has managed to cast her unique magical perspective onto our minds even within such short a time.

It is in very recent times that I have unearthed yet another realisation about Simi that pains me slightly in my more unaware moments, but is a secret source of glee in my more contemplative thoughts. Since I have left IMI – that wonderful place which remains and shall remain the harbinger and old steward of so many full memories -   I have loved and lost, have fell and rose, have started and discarded so much that the signs of all those times have left their mark upon me. Similarly, when I see my friends, I see them as they actually are today – some are happy, some are not so happy – but every one of us manifests the toll that time has taken upon us. But when I think about Simi, I still see her in that green top of hers, and always with that smile on her face. She looks so young!

As we go on through life, we will inevitably be marked and scarred with the passage of time. But Simi will always be that beatific, smiling angel which she was and still is. Perennially grinning, making friends everywhere she goes and cocking a snook at life’s complexities with a mischievous glint in her eyes – we shall always see Simi in this wondrous light.

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: