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.