Leopard in the City

I had been meaning to write on ‘Urban Wildlife’ for some time now; an urge driven mostly by my experiences in our national capital, Delhi. It was in 2000 that I remember being astounded by the sheer number of squirrels traipsing on trees, buildings and on the pavements in delhi. I was staying near Connaught Palace at that time, and squirrels were omnipresent; with their cute brown fur, their tiny forelimbs clutching at food. Years later when I was staying in South Delhi, we had a tract of protected forest right behind our college – an extrusion of the Delhi ridge. Peacocks, foxes, Nilgai (blue bulls, a type of antelope) and squirrels of course, were to be found in plenty in the forest, which is open to public. We used to roam in the forest sometimes, looking out for peacocks with their majestic plumage all fanned out and collecting their pretty feathers from the ground. Once when I was climbing down a small ridge in the forest, I must have startled a family of nilgais for they burst out from behind a thick green wall of foliage, and galloped right down below me, not more than 10 feet away. Congested Mumbai too, has its share of wildlife and a large protected forest in Sanjay Gandhi National Park, home to an astounding range of flora and fauna.

Guwahati located along the southern bank of the Brahmaputra, is bounded by hills on the other sides. The expanding city corridors and the main city itself now form the largest metropolitan area in north-eastern India. For a city that has 11 forest reserves, including 2 wildlife sanctuaries in its vicinity, Guwahati may very well boast of the highest concentration of wildlife.  Guwahati and Greater Guwahati are home to several rare mammals like the elephant, tiger, leopard, primates etc. With shrinking living spaces and a tentatively-shared habitat it is common for these animals to stray into the city sometimes.

The latest such incident occurred this January 7^th, when a male leopard strayed into the city, mauling and injuring 4 people before it was tranquilised by Forest personnel and whisked away for rehabilitation. What happened that day is a stark reminder of the sad drama that gets invariably played out in man-animal confrontations. The animal cowed and unsure of a city environment, wants to pass through and finding his escape difficult, attacks the first thing he sees, in this case, humans. People on the other hand, being informed of such an animal in their vicinity, congregate and surge towards the spot where the animal was seen. The unsure animal now further cornered and feeling threatened by human sounds and sights, becomes more aggressive and goes into a frenzy. In this case, the unruly crowd that had assembled to see the cornered animal, made the task of tranquilising the leopard all the more difficult. A procedure that should have clinically taken 5 minutes took 45.

Some days back, a tiger was killed by police bullets outside Kaziranga. The tiger has strayed out of the park and was resting in a bamboo grove by the highway when it was spotted. Predictably a crowd gathered at the spot and a media photographer trying to get a good picture of the tiger, got in the way of the animal trying to escape. The tiger finding its way blocked lunged at the photographer, and the armed police beside felled the animal like a mad dog. A wildlife personnel said, “Point a camera at a tiger or a leopard and it thinks it is being attacked. After that it will lunge at you. That is cat behavior.” It is pertinent to note that where Nature has given the leopard claws and teeth, it has given us humans, the brain and the demeanour to think and act sensibly. The leopard stays true to its nature but do we?

How Austin Stevens helped me

Austin Stevens

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

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

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

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

Cobra sketch by Karen Murray

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

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

Portrait of the Countryside in Winter

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

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

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

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

Movie Review: Passion Fish (1992)

Cast & Credits

Mary McDonnell  (as May-Alice)

Alfre Woodard  (as Chantelle)

David Strathairn (as Rennie)

Written, Directed And Edited By John Sayles.

Running Time: 135 Minutes. 

My Rating: 3½ stars of 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMDb link for Passion Fish  

Death of a Balladeer in Mumbai

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

Dr. Bhupen Hazarika (1926 - 2011)

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

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

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

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

Website dedicated to Bhupen Hazarika 

Wiki's Stub on Bhupen Hazarika 

When keys don’t work

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

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

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

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

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

Tumse Acchaa Kaun Hai: The original Indian tobogganist

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

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

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

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

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

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