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'

Armour of Love: From Nippon to Assam

Weaving is deeply rooted in Assamese culture; in fact, it was customary for every Assamese household at one time to possess atleast one spinning wheel and a loom. Elaborate silk panels woven in Assam depicting typical cultural motifs and religious symbolisms have ended up in museums and monasteries worldwide. Weaving was not restricted to a particular caste nor was it restricted to household with means – every woman and girl irrespective of caste or economic standing spun and wove their own cloth. Dexterity in weaving was one of the prime sought-after qualities in girls of marriageable age in earlier days.

One of the customs among Assamese womenfolk was the preparation of armour made out of – you could never guess it – Cotton! During times of war, diligent wives would gin, card, spin and weave cotton to fashion a piece of cloth (all within a single night) and present it to their menfolk in the morning as they set out for the battlefield. This piece of cloth was known as a ‘kobos kapur’ literally translating into ‘armour cloth’; the men proudly wearing it as a belief that it granted invincibility to the wearer. This custom is all the more heart-affecting cos the Assamese army in the days of the Ahom rulers was hardly composed of warriors. Instead, the Assamese soldier was actually a ‘paik’ – a civilian beholden to the local feudal lord or the Ahom king called up to military duty in times of war. So, when these farmers or woodcutters or fishermen or otherwise peaceable folk went out to war clad in homespun armour made out of just cotton, their courage and sense of duty becomes all the more admirable.

Scientifically, there is a basis to armour spun out of soft fibres like cotton. The soft body armour functions just like a very strong net. The interwoven strands of greatly slender and elongated cotton disperse the energy emanating from the point of impact over a wide area, thus reducing injury from abrasions.

One can see a striking parallel in a far-more warlike land like erstwhile Imperial Nippon governed by the strict Bushido code of war. When Japanese warriors of the Imperial army set out to war, it was the custom of their womenfolk to present them with pieces of cotton cloth to be worn as vests, belts, headbands or caps. This cloth was called the ‘Senninbari’ (or 'the thousand person stitches') – a strip of cloth with a thousand stitches, each sewed by a different woman and lovingly presented to the warrior to protect him. During the Second World War, mothers and sisters and wives would stand near the local train station or temple or store and hold out their senninbari to passing-by women so that they could sew in that one stitch. Oftentimes the senninbari was lined with a few strand of hair of the woman or studded with coins as additional amulets.

Whether it is Nippon or Assam or anyplace else, it is the devotion and love of the women of the land manifested in heartfelt simple ways, sometimes even in fragile homemade pieces of cloth which I am sure in ways unfathomable, somehow lend a different spirit to the wearer.

Magic in dough

As we turn into one of the busier lanes of Lajpat Nagar, we catch sight of this sign in neon lights proudly proclaiming ‘Shiv Dhaba – We Serve 36 Types of Paranthas’. It was my early days in Delhi then and so, I marveled at this seemingly unbelievable declaration. Back home in Assam, paranthas are a frugal affair with a thin round apologetic-looking specimen surrounded by a (mostly) watery concoction of lentils and aloo. In Delhi which for me, is the parantha capital of the country, the parantha is not just dough, it is a boisterous, aroma-filled way of life. Trust the Delhites to turn around anything and make it a celebration!!

My initial snobbish reaction towards paranthas has turned into a great liking for this magical piece of dough. Stuffed paranthas or just the plain parantha, the happy parantha swimming around in its own pool of melted butter, the busy-looking parantha which comes accompanied with a full attendance of sabzi, dal, pickle, onion rings, dahi et al – I have met them all in Delhi. Delhi was also the place where I got introduced to the more elaborate and regal-sounding eastern cousin – the Mughlai Parantha which is stuffed with beaten egg and keema (minced meat).

This liking started innocuously enough and like all good things in life, took its own time in blossoming fully. I liked only the plain parantha at first, and then I started preferring the stuffed ones. I looked down upon those dunking their paranthas in quarter-makkhan (1/4^th of a 100 gm stick of Amul butter) thinking to myself ‘look at these poor calorie freaks’ until I myself started doing the same with every single order. Later during my post-graduate days where there was a long line of small eateries behind our college dishing out paranthas of every description, I used to derive great pleasure from simply reading out their parantha-filled menu cards. Just look at these, I told myself, they have Aloo paranthas – Aloo-piyaz paranthas – Gobi (cauliflower) paranthas – Gajar (carrot) paranthas - Mooli (radish) paranthas – Paneer (cottage cheese) paranthas – Andaa (egg)  paranthas – Chicken paranthas – Keema paranthas. In Delhi you might be forgiven for believing that every conceivable veggie after getting chopped, boiled or masticated finds itself stuffed inside a parantha.

If one thinks that fascination for the delights of this heavens-fried flat bread is confined to the northern part of the country, then the southern cousin ‘parotta’ provides ample gastronomic evidence to the contrary. Some of the tiny Mangalorean eateries in Mumbai offer the crisply-fried and layered parotta endemic to south India. I found these perfect and spent many an evening tearing off succulent pieces of the parotta and dunking them in the coconut- and tamarind-flavoured rassa (curry) provided gratis and even with omelettes.

Sometime later in Kerala I had the opportunity to savour their local parotta which is fluffier cos the dough is prepared with egg, thus making the bread rise more. This parotta I found, was quite scrumptious when paired off with a side-dish of the local fiery mutton or chicken curry.

I feel that the parantha is demonstrably the most gracious of hosts. Whether you are pouring out a piping Mangalorean rassa next to it or lining its insides with fenugreek or even cashew, the parantha welcomes with alacrity everything that we Indians, see fit to embellish it with. 

Different Folks, Similar Strokes

A visible part of Christmas celebrations worldwide is the singing of Christmas carols - a tradition involving a group of singers going from door-to-door and regaling the residents with carols (like the famous ‘Joy to the World’). Carols may also be sung by larger, more professional groups formed from church choirs. Though carol singing is an art and as art goes, different groups bring their own variety into their songs but there is one detail which is seemingly common. The objective of all carol singing is to spread joy and merriment among the listeners, and sing praises of the Lord and invoke His blessings upon all.

We have something like the Christmas carols much closer to home in the form of Bihu Husoris. Bihu (the spring festival of Assam) is celebrated with its own set of traditions and comes accompanied by a lot of singing and dancing. One of the Bihu customs is the husori.

Here’s how Christmas carols and Bihu husoris bridge the divide and become similar. Every spring young people form their own bands (which traditionally comprised only male members) to sing and dance to the tune of a category of Bihu songs called ‘husoris’. Two enduring motifs of all ‘Husori geets’ (husori songs) are God and Nature. Carols too, are about the same spirit of spreading happiness and warmth, and praying to the Lord.

Just like the Christmas and caroling groups, these bands (called ‘Husori dols’) are an integral part of the spring festival. The husori dol congregates first at the local prayer-house (naam-ghar) or the house of the village headman (gaonburha) or under a big tree (traditionally believed to house the spirit of Nature). Thereafter, they would go about their business of spreading benediction and good cheer. The husori dol would announce their arrival to the people of the house with energetic bursts of drumbeats from outside the gate (podulimukh). The house-owner would venture out to the gate and cordially invite the dol into the front-yard and bid them welcome. The first words of the husori would traditionally sing the praise of the Lord. A husori dol uses few instruments – typically a drum (dhul) and a kind of trumpet (pepa). The dol would sing and dance and before leaving the house, all assembled – the dol and the household – would prostrate on the ground and pray to the Lord asking for His protection, and praying for good health and contentment of the people of the house. The house-owner typically offers betel nuts, a few leaves of paan, maybe a good piece of home-spun cloth and sometimes, a few coins. 

This husori custom typically exists in villages resigning urbanites like myself to be content only with the images on TV and in newspapers. This year though, I have my own Husori tale. A couple of us friends ventured out on 14^th April (the traditional 1^st day of Spring) and leaving the city behind, we took a trip to a resort. As we turned off the highway and onto a lane, we saw a bunch of kids in the middle of the road. These kids turned out to be amateur husori dols waiting for passing-by vehicles – boys in dhotis with crisp clean gamosas (a piece of cotton cloth with red and intricately patterned woven motifs) wrapped around their heads, and young girls dressed in mekhela chadors (silk sarees) and adorned with traditional Assamese jewellery items. The youngest boy was almost as tall as his dhul! 

We stopped and the kids in the dol started their husori; the boys began beating their drums, the girls started singing and swaying to the beats. I must confess that the singing was slightly off-key and the dancing was mediocre, but they were kids after all and I wasn't complaining. The tall-as-his-dhul boy was beating his drum for all it was worth, and the simple, easy grace with which those kids performed was simply heart-warming. Obviously the husori was being conducted very amateurishly and for money but I could not help being taken in by the beauty of the moment. I fished out a few notes and started distributing among the kids. It was then that my friend pointed further along down the road. I followed the outstretched finger and saw not one, not two but five other husori dols patiently waiting for us further ahead! The kids of the first dol happy now with their collection, bade us onward with that now-universal greeting – ‘Happy Bihu!’ We made ritual stops for all the dols; all kids and very young at that. It was obvious that the girls had borrowed their mothers’ and elder sisters’ dresses; the mekhelas were all in sizes many times big and held together with safety pins, and the little girls had difficulty moving around in their heavy dresses. I suppose it was easier for the boys – all they had to figure out was the intricacy of dancing and staying inside their dhotis at the same time! I ran out of small change, my friend ran out of patience but eventually, we negotiated past all the dols, with raucous shouts of cheer or disappointment (depending on their collection) from the kids. As we moved on ahead towards the resort, I looked back and saw another car turning into the road, and all the kids preparing their song-and-dance routine for the new visitors. I felt glad that we had made that trip and wished myself silently – ‘Happy Bihu’!

Who says barter is dead?

Barter very much alive at Jonbeel Mela!

Barter is trade without using money. We all barter sometimes; my uncle regularly barters with his 3-year old son during the kid’s meal-time, and the exchange rate is “you-eat-your-food-now-and-later-I’ll-take-you-for-a-car-ride.” In Assam, an annual mela (fair) founded entirely on this barter concept by the erstwhile Ahom kings perhaps in the 15^th century is still going strong today. This fair called the Jonbeel Mela is held every winter at a historic place known as Dayang Belguri in Morigaon, around 32 kms away from Guwahati. The name Jonbeel comes from 2 Assamese morphemes – ‘jon’ meaning moon and ‘beel’ meaning wetland – because this fair is held beside the eponymous beel which is shaped like a crescent moon.

This fair is a 3-day event commencing when the tribes from nearby hills come down to this place in the plains to barter their goods with the local populace. The hill people like the Tiwas, Karbi, Khasi and Jaintia trade in their indigenous items like ginger, wild honey, turmeric, etc. for the traditional pitha, sira, akhoi, muri (local Assamese delicacies made of rice flour, puffed rice, etc. which are conventionally prepared in this season). In the olden days when trade and commerce was intermittent and scarce, I suppose that this fair must have played a more than symbolic role in the sustenance of the people. In todays age, the Jonbeel Mela must be upheld as a showcase of the cultural landscape that exists in the region, and the simple joys that people engage in, adding gaiety and colour to their lives.

My mother tells me that when she was a small girl living in a place called Jagiroad very close to Jonbeel, she used to go to the mela every year. The local kids used to call the hill tribal traders ‘mama’(uncle) and ‘mami’ (aunt), and it was a grand opportunity for the young ones and the old too I suspect, to partake of fresh-tasting food items from the hills and have fun. The mela is interspersed with colourful activities like communal fishing on the beel, performance of various tribal music and dance forms, cock-fighting, and descendants of the erstwhile Rajas mingling with the people to conduct a puja, collecting taxes and finally, arranging a grand communal feast on the banks of the beel.

The Jonbeel Mela seeks to serve as a living bridge among the various tribes and communities scattered in the region, and this noble ideal together with the alter-purpose of serving as a cultural showcase, has to be appreciated and carried forward.

Every January the hill people still come down to mingle with the people from the plains. Every winter the Jonbeel comes alive with joy and songs. And yes, the young ones still call their hill neighbours mama and mami.

For more info and colourful pics of the Jonbeel Mela, you may visit the following 2 links. 

Link #1

Link #2