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.”

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!

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:

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.

Grandparents & Grandkids

Once there was an old man. You could say that he had a natural predisposition towards crankiness. He did not get along with most grown-ups but he had a granddaughter who stayed along with her parents in the house of her grandparents. And this granddaughter was the apple of her grandpa’s eyes.

Both grandfather and granddaughter would spend every available moment together playing, singing or going out for walks. At that time, the granddaughter could not have been more than 3 years old and she had just started playschool. Every morning before going off to school, she would rush over to her grandparents’ room, coax her grandfather out of bed and get him a glass of water. After she returned, both the old man and the young granddaughter would play their own peculiar games. One of the games was pretend-fishing, the duo would spread out pages of old newspapers on the living room floor; and then both grandfather and granddaughter would take out cane sticks with threads attached and pretend that the scattered paper was indeed fish, and proceed fishing. They would pretend to put their fish in a bag so that they could carry their catch home. Another game was bashing stuff; the old man would take out old cups of china, clay pots and other odds and ends of breakable stuff, and lay it out before the young kid like a veritable spread. The granddaughter would then pick up any object that caught her fancy and go thunk-thunk, disintegrating and scattering little bits of broken stuff all over the living room. All this noise and mess would anger the grandmother who would loudly admonish the frolicking duo. The grandfather would then reply, “She’s just a kid; she’s supposed to break things, It’s OK.”

One day while having his customary morning glass of water offered by the granddaughter, the old man was pointing out a lizard on the wall. He was talking to his granddaughter about the lizard and its life (what it ate, how he could grow back its tail even if it fell off, etc.) and walking towards the lizard, looking up and still holding his glass of water. He struck the arm of a chair and fell down on the floor. He took a nasty fall and the family took him to a hospital. The old man never returned home.

Sometime later the garlanded portrait of the old man was put up on a bureau in the grandparents’ old room. Every morning brought an inexplicable puddle of water on the bureau-top just beneath the portrait till the family found out what was causing it. You see, every morning before leaving off for school, the young granddaughter would still fill out a glass of water, stand up on a chair and hold it to her grandfather’s portrait. She would put the glass to her grandfather’s lips in the portrait and try to make him drink.

Nippon steel in the family

The Second World War (1939 to 1945), the most “widespread war in history” affected hundreds of millions of people worldwide; it has affected me too, albeit in a small way. My grandfather (‘aata’) who was trained as a surgeon, was involved in WW II. He was a part of the British Indian Army Medical Corps, and had actively served in the war in Burma (now Myanmar), where the allies first stemmed, and then pushed back the Japanese juggernaut that was threatening the entire continent. Aata probably served in those frenetic battle-field medical stations just behind the front lines, where the freshly wounded would be immediately brought in and being a surgeon, he must have been involved in some pretty hairy situations. Anyway, aata was with the allied troops when they marched into Rangoon (erstwhile capital of Burma, now Yangon), recapturing it from the Japanese army.

My beloved Aata

When the war ended, aata was honourably discharged from the army. He returned home, now an Army Captain and bringing a very special object, a ‘spoil of war’ if you will. Aata was just a doctor, mind you; he was no warrior but when he came back from the war, he carried with him a warrior’s weapon – a Japanese samurai sword, a “katana”. 

The Imperial Japanese Army required all its officers to wear the sword and as a symbol of aggression, it must have been very effective. The unsheathed katana and the accompanying cry of “Banzai!” have remained enduring images of the belligerent Japanese army in WW II. The story behind the katana in our family is simple enough – aata prised loose the sword from the cold grasp of a dead Japanese officer lying in a paddy field. Steel from Nippon was widely regarded then as is now, as being the very best of fighting steel and the samurai sword which the Japanese Emperor Hirohito mandated all his officers to carry, was very sought-after by the Allied troops.

It was I guess in the early 1990s, that I saw our katana. My father drew out the sword from its maroon-coloured scabbard very carefully. It looked distinguished even after all the years; it was very slender and had a continuous curved blade. My father began telling me about the sharpness of the blade; the katana was quickly put to the test, first on a hapless water gourd and then again, on a few, fat potatoes. It ran through the veggies like a knife goes through butter. The veggies decimated, my father sheathed it back and I can still remember how pleased I was with the entire demonstration. The katana was not mounted or exhibited in the house; the reason for that I feel now, was cos of its history as a weapon of war. Instead it was kept high up (remember I was small then) on top of a wooden bureau, carefully rolled up inside a piece of large cloth.

For a few years, the katana was the companion of Nitul dada (the son of my father’s elder brother). In his teens, dada used to sleep with the katana under his bed, I suppose as a weapon against burglars. I can understand how as a boy, dada must have been fascinated with the katana. To my anguish, I was too small then to wield it. The katana is a single-edged sword; its razor-sharp cutting edge is a meticulous blend of unique Japanese steel called ‘tamahagane’. It must have been to protect dada from any accidents that the razor-sharp edge of the katana was blunted by repeated hammerings but it was sharp nevertheless, as the veggie exercise showed.

Shortly afterwards, aata and 'ai' (my grandmother) died, my parents and I moved out from our ancestral home and the memory of the katana faded. It was almost a year back while on a visit to our old home that I remembered the katana and I asked Nitul dada (now a 40-something father of 2 daughters) where the sword was. Dada did not know. I guess we have lost that little, history-laden bit of Nippon steel. Or is it even now, lurking in a long-forgotten corner of the house waiting to be taken out of its scabbard to be shown to a new generation?

Infinite Mischief

Bhumon (meaning ‘beautiful mind’) is my youngest cousin brother, all of 3 years. I call him ‘Bhoo’ while my younger brother Sunny calls him ‘Baby Bhoo’. How equipped really, is a 3-yr old with social, directional, conversational and selling skills? Can he charm people and win them over to his POV? ‘Oh yes’ I hear you say, if by ‘charm’, one is alluding to how kids howl, slather stuff copiously with drool and otherwise, coax out thingies from tuckered-out parents and nannies. But what if I were talking about a 3-yr old being a smooth operator? ‘No!’ But wait a minute, he’s so intelligent…. ‘Nyet, nada…whoever heard of conversational skills in a kid as small as that.’ So to win over all skeptics I present before you, 2 of the latest exploits of Bhumon, the charm-kid.

His parents go visiting a colleague of the dad’s with Bhumon in tow. With the adults talking in the living room, Bhumon rolls around taking inventory of the house’s provisions. Food being the reason d’être of most 3-yr olds, our charm-kid soon ends up in the kitchen where he sees a maid. Bhumon strikes up a conversation with the maid all by himself, talking about this and that, until he gets around to the topic of whats available in the way of instant consumption. Our charm-kid enquires, “Have you got Maggi (a brand of instant noodles)?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I love Maggi. How much time does it take to make Maggi?”

“No time at all.”

“Then maybe you can make me some. I’m so hungry.” The charm-kid usually embellishes such requests with a slow smile and big, twinkling eyes (from my own experiences).

It was a short visit which gets prolonged cos the maid’s preparing Maggi for Bhumon who spends a slurpy time eating the noodles which he had got prepared by someone he’d met for the first time in a house he'd been visiting for the first time.

Another time, Sunny goes visiting Bhumon. Both of them are watching TV and Sunny is slowly getting irritated cos Bhumon’s been watching cartoons for the last half-hour and he’s got the remote nestled safely within his small palm. So Sunny says, “Hey baby Bhoo, you’re so big and still watching cartoons. Gimme the remote.” Our charm-kid slowly turns his head away from the TV, looks at Sunny full in the eye and explains, “Sunny da, I’m just 3-yrs old. All I can understand is cartoons.” And just as slowly turns his head back towards whatever colourful adventure was exploding on the screen. A very sheepish Sunny spends the rest of the evening following the trail of a pink teddy as it gallivants around a sleepy, Japanese town.

Whoever says that a 3-yr old is shy around people, unable to express himself thru language, is naturally hesitant & has no working knowledge of Carnegie’s ‘How to Win Friends & Influence People’, has to interact with Bhumon, the charm-kid.