On Four Legs

It is tempting to say that isolation is almost complete when one starts ordering furniture online. It began with a casual click, and soon I was adding stuff to my wish list that I had never wished for. This was perturbing because I have not done any shopping online. It was almost like I was building a virtual home; I even found sheets and curtains to go with what I had selected.

Within minutes I realised I had no space to set up a home in what is already a home. All this would have to wait till I was ready to discard the old. There was, however, one item I did need. A table. A work table. I barely use the one I have because the chair is broken. The normal response would be to buy a chair to go with what is already there. But, the chair was always with that table, so I cannot use one without the other. I had dragged the dining chair a few times, and it did not go well with the table.

What I required was something that wouldn't claim too much space. There were several that claimed to be happy in little nooks and would not bother me. A whole lot of self-effacing tables were jostling for my attention. I chose a black beauty about whom it was said that it could be moved anywhere and could fold. Such humility was rather becoming. I immediately placed an order.

To digress a bit, I like a work table to swell voluptuously, its girth overwhelming in its protectiveness. If it is quirky, so much the better. I really like this one above because there seems to be nothing else. It is like a whole world in the space to roll arms, run fingers, pat, lay down head, dream, awaken.

Then, I also like a table to have clean lines and leg space. Being a bit of a collector of junk, there should be no place for me to stuff things or I'll have to elbow my way in to type or doodle. This one is nice except for the motherboard and printer.

But, my moveable feast did not look like even a facsimile copy of either. I awaited it as one does glad tidings. You know it is good news, but there is still some trepidation. The trepidation was not unfounded. A heavy package arrived where I expected a quiet visitor swaying on legs that were meant to move.

After cutting through paper and bubble wrap, what I found were several screws, a flat board and stilts. There was a manual with images of how to get this thing to be of any use. I thought I was making life easy for myself — ordering this to reach home, to be able to use as soon as it arrived. As it turned out, I had to 'make' it.

Placing all the parts before me, I tried to figure out what went where. The screwdriver wouldn't fit into the screws, my hand kept slipping, one leg that I managed to position ended up looking like a barrel of a gun facing me. My back and hands were aching. And to think the table was to help me get rid of these aches.

After an hour or so, I decided that I did not have a way with the screwdriver. The manual too was quite half-hearted. Instruction manuals usually are. I put all the parts away in a bag, telling myself that I'd go online to check how to fix self-effacing tables that move. What I found instead were other tables, lovelier than mine, more reasonably priced, easier to fix, if at all.

What had made me select the first one I set my eyes on? It is an old habit. And having made a choice, I begin to believe that the object's and my destiny are intertwined. The object ceases to be just an object.

As I look at the desultory bag with the table, I wonder whether I am giving it short shrift by not creating it. Whose fault is it that some things are not meant to come whole and it is up to us to give them the shape they were ordained to be? And I think about that wrongly-positioned leg that pointed at me — that was not ordained, it would have been my recreation of it.

It is better that I wait awhile. One day, soon, I might find the light or a screwdriver that does not slip from my hand. One day, I will put the pieces together because they are now mine.

© Farzana Versey

Umbrellas under the sky

The umbrellas are out, and the city weather is such that they only serve as accoutrement. Mumbai rains are more about tarpaulin sheets as awnings; water collected in little pools is muddy, dirty. Yet, there is something uplifting about grey skies and a downpour. I know this is a luxury only those who have homes and windows can afford. I know that newspaper pictures showing slum kids enjoying the rains are really about the water they rarely get to see. I know.

Back in the days, it was the mother of one such kid who sheltered me from sudden showers. I was walking to school, and had conveniently ‘forgotten’ to carry an umbrella. While raincoats were bad enough, umbrellas too conveyed a need for playing safe that my new teenage mind was naturally not inclined to. I stood beneath a tree as the downpour continued. She worked as a sweeper at the school. Hesitant at first (we are a casteist society), she finally asked, “Aaogi (will you come)?” Of course! In the seven-minute walk, she took care to cover me even as her sari was getting drenched. I still remember her face.

A painting by Leonid Afremov

I like faces under umbrellas – they look vulnerable, especially if the brolly is a foldable one. These became fashionable accessories, the two-fold and later the three-fold. Unfurling they looked as though a camel was getting up. Occasionally, they caused embarrassment when they refused to open up or the button got stuck.

My uncle once gifted me a fuschia-coloured one. It was a regular ‘ladies umbrella’, and it always seemed as though one was blushing. The flush of youth, the carefree gait as though one owned the damp roads that reflected light.

A scene from 'Shri 420'

Romance and umbrellas have a history. Two people sharing an umbrella signals proximity, and also the whole drama of wetness, hair dripping, faces aglow, and the low hum. This scene from ‘Shri 420’ epitomises it. Raj Kapoor and Nargis singing, “Pyaar hua iqrar hua, pyaar se phir kyon darta hai dil…(There is love, and an admission of it, yet why is the heart so afraid of it)” Perhaps because like the showers, there is no “manzil” (destination)?

Chaplin used the umbrella for other reasons

The large black umbrella is ubiquitous in the streets. They may come in different varieties, but the sturdy one with the curved handle stands for the person who has nothing to gain and nothing to lose. It was there is R.K.Laxman’s cartoons of the common man. And it is there in Chaplin, the tramp, the guy who does not think about winning or losing, and bumbles his way through life that is often slippery. And slip he does, rain or no rain. It also acts as a crutch, something to hold on to when things go a little wrong or one’s own resolve is a bit shaky.

The black stands out against the mélange of colours, not only of other umbrellas but also of the shades that dot the Indian landscape, from paan spit to dead flowers, to neon clothes, to kitschy posters.

Umbrella tree - street art

This piece of street art is not Indian, but such a fine tribute to the umbrellas that have been a part of my monsoons. Some were lost or got stolen as they stood propped up outside stores or in buckets…and some just closed themselves on me.

© Farzana Versey

Euphony

Music is in footsteps eager to reach you, the bell ring, the sound of whispers in ear, of knuckles unknuckling lazily, the swish of clothes, of laughter, and the name being called out. Again and again.

Music is windows rattling, wind knocking, thunder, rain, the splashing in pools of muddy water, the gurgle of drains, of gumboots plodding, the towel drying wet hair.

Music is opera, the gut-wrenching cry of unspeakable sadness, of stories that never die about people who always do.

Music is the church choir, stiff collars scraping necks, throats belting out hymns in sync, the uniformity of consent, of community, of togetherness.

Music is the huge temple bell rung just once to announce arrival and once more to depart, an offering to an idol created by the cadence of hands.

Music is the azaan, the call of the muezzin, especially at dusk, intoned like the sun cooling off, like air trapped in the hollow of cheeks that breaks free and escapes into the sky.

Music is the symphony of an orchestra where hands seem to quiver. Of the soloist at a pop concert who has to match voice with attitude, timbre.

Music is the turning of the pages of a book, of scratching out words with a pen, of sketching on rice paper, of the fan blowing into face, of lips puckering to blow away the strands of hair.

Music is distant traffic at night, of the phone on silent and a call with a name so familiar you divert it to voice mail so that you can listen to the sigh.

--

© Farzana Versey

Sunday ka Funda

I think about the sea often. But, it struck me that when eyes are described in Hindi or Urdu poetry, there is a reference to them as possessing the depth of the river: "Jheel si gehri aankhein". How deep are rivers?

Do they too cause little storms? Or, is their tranquility enough to shake us up, wake us up...to dream a daydream?

Listen!

How independent is independence?

Emotions can be infectious. When one listens to the sound of music, however loud, however remixed, from street corners and shanties, it is difficult not to at least hum along and somehow join in.

Today, it was relatively quiet. There is one 'celebration' spot across the end of the lane, which would be a few meters from my gate. That is where almost every occasion calls for songs. I waited to be awoken. It was only after breakfast that I heard the first strains:

"Ae mere watan ke logoun
Zaraa aankh mein bhar lo paani
Jo shaheed hue hai unki
Zaraa yaad karo qurbani

What do we remember most about this song? Ask around. They will tell you that Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had tears in his eyes when he heard Lata Mangeshkar singing Pradeep's lyrics.

India got independence from British rule; this song was penned after the war with China. The China that ambles across our borders.

This song is a paean to the sacrifices of soldiers. In the past few years soldiers have been killed along the LoC, even when there is no war; they have also been killed by their colleagues or by a gunshot aimed by themselves.

"Jab ghayal hua Himalaya..."? The mountains are not wounded. The wars are between pundits in studios, politicians hawking their wares.

I am dry-eyed.

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I don't watch the speeches from the Red Fort on August 15th. However, it is interesting to see the reactions. The prime minister is not going there to clear the air or solve the country's problems. There are 364 days in the year. He is, or ought to be, speaking on behalf of the country, not the political party he represents. Unfortunately, that does not happen.

It is no surprise, then, that the wannabe candidate of la-la-land, Narendra Modi, chose to hit out at the Red Fort speech even before it was delivered. He said that at the Red Fort there would be only promises whereas here — in Bhuj where he was addressing the youth of his state — there would be talk about the work that has been done.

We have seen how his devotees (and he is a god whose clay feet they refuse to notice) have the gumption of passing off sleek buses in China as a model of ones in Ahmedabad to show 'development'. So blinded are they that they forget that India does not have left-hand drive vehicles and it is easy to catch the lie. Or perhaps it is audacity. They do not care.

Just as Modi himself does not. Minutes after the PM address, he sniggered, "Media channels said this is PM Manmohan Singh's last speech from Red Fort but he said he has miles to go, which rocket will he take?"

It is not important whether this man understands Robert Frost's poetry. It is a sophomoric dig, and that should tell us a lot more about him than industry-sponsored speeches.

I have just read the transcript of the PM's speech. It is mostly homilies. In a country where people are now battling with disease, illiteracy, and the rupee being worth one-sixtieth of a dollar and onions at Rs. 60 a kilo — we are even gearing to import it from Pakistan (tears without any skirmish!) — Dr. Singh offered chicken soup, not medicine. What we need is not just medicine, but inoculation. If we don't, anyone with ambitions will pose as a healer. We don't recognise quacks easily.

---

Yesterday afternoon, there were cops near a shopping mall. Lounging on uncomfortable chairs, looking tiredly as cars broke signals and pedestrians skirted cars.

I read in the papers there were 721 sensitive spots. 721 spots in Mumbai alone. 721 spots where terrorists could strike, whereas right under the nose of the cops anyone could have been killed by a passing vehicle with a cocky driver behind the wheel.

---

So many free things available — electronics, clothes, cosmetics, edibles, travel, even ads for losing kilos "free".

How many people earning an honest living would be beguiled by all this and bought things they might not need. Did they think about the freedom struggle? Did those corporates and retailers?

---

What we get free makes us indebted and enslaved. We are all still colonised in some way or the other by commercialism, bigotry, prejudice, casteism, communalism, elitism. So how independent are we really?

© Farzana Versey

Sunday ka Funda

These days, everybody seems to be friends with everybody else. And they all find how alike they are even as they merely click on 'likes'.

The friends I have shared the best moments, and understanding, with are very different from me. There could be shared values, even preferences for food, films, books, music, art. What is different, then? It is the way we look at these. It is the ability to complete each other's sentences not because of agreement, but the warmth of serendipity.

Years ago, I had written a few words here and I shall repeat some..

A friend who comes and goes is as much a stranger...a friend who takes another for granted is behaving in a strange fashion...a friend who has to keep several considerations in mind to keep up the friendship is a stranger...a friend who you are close to physically but cannot share things with is a stranger...a friend who inhabits your mind but not your heart is a stranger...a friend you feel for but can do nothing about is a stranger...

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Sometimes we don't realise what nostalgia means to others, especially when nostalgia is all they have. I continue to question expat experts, but today I will share this little film. I won't call it a commercial, for it is the story that matters. Also, I am sure there are many reading this who think of their mother as their best friend. I do.

Call me soppy, but I had to blink away the tears. Maybe, it happens when you chop okra...



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Image: Rediff, courtesy a link sent by a rather unfriendly friend!

Sign Qua Non!

As with any written word, I am intrigued by signatures. My own has caused banks and other institutions much confusion simply because I 'forget' a turn or twist there, or am in such a hurry to put my stamp on paper that the pen overtakes, leaving behind unwanted slashes and mysteriously-placed dots.

Yesterday, while doing the needful, as the bureaucratic term goes, I decided to first give it a dry run. The back of a used envelope served as my zone of experiment. My work looked quite tidy, which surprised me, and fairly aesthetic, which did not!

So, how does it say anything conclusively about me? It is quite possible that my aesthetic sensibilities have become more compact. But, outside of the confines of a signature, I can appreciate the scattered, expansive, and bohemian as much as the minimalist. It could be in art, music, theatre, literature, or even everyday living by way of clothes and food.

Does a signature reveal or deceive, as in put you off the scent, to prevent forgery, to guard oneself?

The ‘messy’ signature of Jack Lew was in the news recently. President Barack Obama has nominated him as US secretary of treasury. If confirmed, his signature will be on every new dollar bill.

A report said, "Obama later added that Jack has assured him that he is going to work to make at least one letter legible in order not to debase the currency..."

While the "series of spirals" do look unusual, how would it debase the currency? Does anyone even look at it closely? In fact, its idiosyncrasy could well make it recognisable and prevent against fakes. The President did joke that had he seen this, he might have decided against the nomination.

I am told that some companies check on signatures when they hire people. Apparently, it is a good enough gauge of personality. Even if it is, individuals in a work environment need not be identical to 'who' they are as opposed to 'what' they are. Situations throw up challenges that test one's mettle and occasionally force one to go against type.

Not being an expert, and clueless about him, I'd still take a go at Mr Lew's signature in the spirit of fun.

To begin with, it looks like a pair of his own glasses reflected on a glass-topped table. He gives the impression of being gregarious, but soon clams up. Is ready to extend himself if there is a defined goal.

He seems to like eggs, curvy women, and perhaps Woody Allen films. He reads Harry Potter when no one's looking.

And chances are that he'd like seeing the Olympic rings in a laughing mirror than at a stadium.

Is this about Lew or about me? Or, a perception of a perception? I guess, it's time to sign off...

Mind It

Still from 'Life of Pi'

"He wants to see the actor's mind in a shot." Actress Tabu said this about Ang Lee who has directed her in 'Life of Pi'.

It was so beautifully put, but what does it really mean? Is the actor's mind reflecting the character or her/himself? Or, is one superimposed on the other? 

Can one see a thought? If so, then the actor contemplating the motives and behaviour of the character would be methodical rather than spontaneous. Is thought not instinct?

You might suggest that premeditated thought cannot be instinctual. But, is there no lapse between thought and action?

Say, we play several roles in life; some we 'perform' because we are directed to - by precedent, norms, or for specific reasons. Is our failure to do so adequately a failure of thought or of action?

Think about some disabilities where the mind is hampered by lack of motor movement. These are unfortunate natural or accident-induced circumstances. However, even those of us who are not so restricted find that we cannot always act out our thoughts. Our thoughts are dependent as much on the manner in which they are received as on how they are conveyed. So, do they remain our thoughts anymore?

If the other person could see our 'mind in the shot', going by Ang Lee's expectation, then would we necessarily be understood? How often do we tear our hair in frustration that what we seek to convey has either been misinterpreted or whooshed past without even a moment of being acknowledged?

Can you read my thoughts? Routine question. But are you reading your own thoughts while trying to decipher another's?

Recently, someone sent a message in response to a call I made. It said, "I wanted to thank the thought." Was my act removed from my thought? Or, does the thought hold greater validity? Had I not acted upon the thought, would a person know? Can there be more than one thought for our actions and many ways to act based on one thought? 

If you can see a mind, then you are probably seeing not just what is but what might have been and can be. Mind or minds?

(c)Farzana Versey

Just a touch of faith...

Never seen the Taj Mahal like this. Pic Hindustan Times

Of the first time I am supposed to have heard the azaan, there is no recollection. It was whispered in my ear as a newborn. My memory isn’t that great. The complete azaan is a full-throated call, every syllable enunciated with as much power as preventing an echo from falling off a cliff. You do not need to understand the language, and you must suspend the ‘yours and mine’ to be able to just listen to the sound. Think of it as thunder, of waves lashing, of a cry, of laughter. Of thoughts unspoken.

I know so little about religion that once when I was at the health club while travelling, and I needed to get to one of the machine, a man on his knees was in the way. I went up to the reception and asked, “When will this guy finish his yoga?”

“He is praying, ma’am.”

I had failed to notice the prayer mat or his hands on his ear. When he turned to the left and then the right, I thought it was an asana. Was I entirely wrong? If prayer is meditation, then it does not matter what you call it. I hasten to add that I know what a namaaz is. It was just the thought of seeing someone there, in my space, so to speak, that confused me.

This year during the month of Ramzan, I heard no azaan. It wasn’t something I was aching to hear. Just the thought of having heard it in days past made me wonder – crowded areas, traffic might well have drowned the sounds. Back in the early days, when one of my relatives fasted, along with the azaan call to prayer, I used to rush to look for the light bulb in a building across. It was an indication that it was time to break the fast. I felt no guilt that I had not been on an empty stomach, but did feel elated as I watched those who had stayed hungry bite into a date and eat slowly, waiting for tongues to form liquid to swallow.

Ignorant as I am, nostalgia is my shelter. Each morsel of life I take is celebration, each morsel I have denied or been denied is a lesson about vacuums, emptiness.

Here is a poem by Gulzar that conveys my thoughts:

Sparsh

“Quran haathon mein leke naabeena ek namaazi

laboun pe rakhataa tha

donon aankhon se choomtaa tha

jhukaake peshaani yoon aqeedat se chhoo rahaa tha

jo aayaten padh nahin sakaa

un ke lams mehsoos kar raha ho

main hairaan-hairaan guzar gayaa tha

main hairaan-hairaan thahar gayaa hoon

tumhaare haathon ko choom kar

chhoo ke apni aankhon se aaj main ne

jo aayaten padh nahin sakaa

un ke lams mehsoos kar liye hain”

My rough translation:

Touch

The blind namaazi brushed the Quran with lips

Kissed it with both eyes

Touched his forehead to the ground

With such faith

As though the verses he could not read

He could feel with a mere touch

Confused I left

Confused I pause

By kissing your hands

Touching you with my eyes

The verses I cannot read

I can still feel them

Eid Mubarak…

For those who came in late, for more of my memories More than a moon

Sunday ka Funda

I did not learn to cook from her. I did not learn to embroider like her. I did not learn how to keep things in place like her.

She would pack my school tiffin every day with as much care as a gift. She embroidered my ordinary bags and even sandals to make them look different. And, she kept things in place. She still knows where I will find what I have lost. I lose a lot. Have lost quite a bit.

And, yes, there are quite a few errors I make. Quite a few years we were in another city, sitting in the lawn of the hotel, and bumped into one of my old acquaintances. We asked him to join us. He was already with a glass of wine. I ordered a Pina Colada much to her displeasure and within minutes I was blabbering, giving away too much. Without saying a word, she gestured that I pass the drink to her, and she gulped it down. For someone who did not drink, she remained sober!

As I’ve said often, music binds us. Our voices are different, but when we sing together they coalesce in the air. The song I will post today is not an uplifting one. There is a special reason for it. Whenever she sang it, and she had learned it all from Radio Ceylon, as a child I would start crying. Nanima would reprimand her, “Kyon rulaa diya isko (why did you reduce her to tears)?” It is a song where the woman is asking god, “Kya mil gaya Bhagwan mere dil ko dukha ke, armaanon ki nagri mein meri aag laga ke (What did you get by hurting me and turning my land of dreams to ashes)?”

Things are different. Now, when I sing such songs, there are tears in her eyes, especially that couplet from one of my favourite ghazals: "Ghamoun ne baant diya hai yoon aapas mein, ke jaise main koi loota hua khazana tha (Sorrows have distributed me amongst themselves as though I were a booty they had snatched)"

Songs of pathos always convey more than just that. It isn’t about sadness. It is about understanding that there is more than sadness…it is the music of the soul when it has a lump in its throat.

Film: Anmol Ghadi

Singer: Noorjehan

Music: Naushad

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And to show another aspect, here is an old post: Conversations with my mother

Dil abhi bhara nahin: Dev Anand

Evergreen, evergreen…how many times has one heard and read the word to describe Dev Anand. When he died last night at the age of 88, still brimming with ideas, this would only make the evergreen tag squeeze in more adamantly.

No one noticed that his hair looked awkward, his skin sagged, his scarves and jackets sought to cover rather than make a statement as they had done earlier, and his lips quivered when he spoke. He had grown old, but was holding on to a shaky pillar to build foundations that would not last. His later films lacked panache, they flopped. He said it did not matter and would go on to his next project.

Did it really not matter? This was a man who was completely a people’s person – from his stylised acting to his flashy clothes, he wanted to be noticed and accepted. But he too fell for the evergreen image that was built around him.

A few months ago on a talk show he spoke about how even today there are girls who would be quite willing to get close to him. He was not gloating, and it is entirely possible that aspiring starlets would want to use him as a stepping stone. Yet, it was a sad moment. Sad to watch him regurgitate a fantasy, even if it was real.

His reality was often a fantasy. Some have called it optimism.

I first watched one of his old films on our building terrace. There was a projector and a bedsheet served as the screen. The movie was Hum Dono. We got two Dev Anands. Imagine seeing these delicious black and white images from what seemed a distant past under a starlit sky. Already a film junkie, these moments became part of my non-formal education. It helped when the family would recount their first exposure to the particular film. Or how my mother on her first English film outing, a Gregory Peck movie, was so angry that the Hollywood star was “copying hamara Dev Anand”. The fact that it was quite the opposite did not make a difference to her.

That Dev Anand overdid it was an intrinsic aspect of his persona. He hammed, but delightfully. He made you believe that he was like this. And you know what? He probably was. His body was perpetually leaning towards some unknown person or a far-away place. His neck performed acrobatics. He was like a tableau – every part of him, every expression, a stand-alone performance put together on one stage: himself.

As an actor, he would perhaps qualify as the first real urbane urban character of post-Partition India. He even pronounced his name in a posh manner: Dev-er-nun. He took to Bombay and portrayed it in such an uninhibited manner. Think of Taxi Driver where even the streets looked chic in the dark. He was a man who loved beauty. I would not call him an aesthete; his idea of pulchritude was of polish and varnish. Not quite superficial, but most certainly overt. He did show criminal characters and even portrayed them, but they were charmers. He showed poverty, but no real dirt. This was not his scene.

As director he took greater control, and he stuck to his urban concerns. Again, he did not delve too deeply, although Hare Rama Hare Krishna is indeed a landmark film. When he played the Professor Higgins part in Man Pasand, it did seem like reality for once. He had created quite a few female actors – Zeenat Aman and Tina Munim being the most prominent.

Again, in recent interviews he talked about how upset he was when Zeenat Aman chose Raj Kapoor. For him it was not about a role, but some sort of betrayal. His affair with Suraiya is a fascinating example of how he would go against type when he wanted something. It is said that she would sneak out and they would meet quietly, away from the prying eyes of her conservative mother. The man who one would imagine shrugging such inconveniences off – “Har fikr ko dhuein mein udaata chalaa gaya” (I smoked away all worries) – seemed to understand the delicacy of such shackles, as in his beloved singing “Chhod do aanchal zamaana kya kahega” (Let go off me, what will people think?), but not without a riposte: “Inn adaaon ka zamaana bhi hai deewana, deewaana kya kahega” (this world too is crazy about just such tantalising excuses, so what’s a crazy man to do).

It was clear that he was a romantic, but pragmatically so. Not one of the Alps types, he wooed women through the haze of cigarette smoke or a curl of his lower lip. The music in his films was essential, not merely to take the story forward but to help us stop and look at what else he could do. It was in the song sequences that he shone best and was a natural at.

There are several, but I want to stay with these two.

The romance:



and

The optimistic angst:

Teri duniya mein jeene se, tau behetar hai ke mar jaayein
Wohi aansoon, wohi aahein, wohi gham hai, kidhar jaayein

(It is better to die than live in this world
With the same tears, the same sighs, the same sorrows trailing where does one go)

Just watch him. Does it look like he would want to give up? He is addressing god, but his demeanour is challenging. And the child’s musical interlude – innocence? Hope?

Post Script: I cannot end without mentioning that sometime towards the end of 2000 I got a hand-written note from him saying that he enjoyed my columns. I wanted to cry because those were days of my tears. I could not meet him, but the words of one of his songs from Hum Dono, the first film of his that I had seen under a starlit sky on a bedsheet screen, echoed how I felt.

Kabhi khud pe, kabhi haalat pe rona aaya

Baat nikli tau har eik baat pe rona aaya

(I sometimes weep over myself and sometimes over what’s happening to me

And when I speak about such sorrows, I weep for those sorrows too)

Kitni haseen raat thi - Jagjit Singh

Jagjit Singh was laughing into the mike. It was the laughter of disbelief - an audience so callous, organisers so unthinking that they did not even know how to introduce him.

I too would not be able to, for different reasons. Where would I start? The voice so deep that it was both mountain and valley? Would I call him 'ghazal king' when I have soaked in his film songs, his bhajans, his gurbani?

His is one of the finest nostalgic renditions of childhood with "magar mujhko lauta do bachpan ka saawan, yeh kaaghaz ki kashti, yeh baarish ka paani". When he sang "sadma tau hai mujhe bhi ke tujhse judaa hoon main, lekin yeh sochta hoon ke ab tera kya hoon main" it seemed like one's story, and his. Or, "apne haathon ki lakeeron mein basaa le mujhko"...or, "pareishan raat saari hai sitaron tum tau so jao". Do stars sleep? Do they get exhausted?

The hallmark of truly great singers is that they make it look like the words are about them. Jagjit Singh did not play to the gallery, no flourishes; no one danced in the aisles when he sang. He experimented with instruments and tonal quality, but did not lose the spirit of the ghazal. And if you listen to his spiritual songs, he is not whipping up devotion - it is just a quiet prayer whispered in the ear of whatever god you find.

For me, the popular rendition of "Babul mora" has been the one by K L Saigal. It surprised me when I heard the Jagjit Singh version. It has a similar pathos, a tranquillity...he sings it like something is leaving and he is letting go because its being there was precious.

Jagjit Singh left earth..."haath chhoote magar rishte nahin chhoota karte"...

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- - -

And something associated with a personal memory...

Hai lau zindagi, zindagi noor hai
Magar ismein jalne ka dastoor hai

Ravayat hai yeh ke zindagi gehna hai
Ye heera hai aur, issey chaat-te rehna hai
Ke lamhon mein marne ka dastoor hai

Adhoore se rishton mein palte raho
Adhoore se saanson se chalte raho
Yun hi jeene jaane ka dastoor hai
Hai lau zindagi, zindagi noor hai


(Written by Gulzar, sung by Jagjit Singh. Experienced by many)

Like a prayer...

With cucumber pads on my eyes, my head uncovered, nothing to indicate that I was doing ibaadat, I lay down to pray. I do not know many prayers. I depend on memory.

Yesterday was the 27th roza. Except for recollection of days when food was sent to the poor who observe the Ramzan fast, I have nothing to fall back on. It is also a practice to complete the reading of the Quran. For many years someone would read it and the finale would be the last few verses, followed by a fateha. Most of those who read were not supposed to demand money; they got it anyway. One day, I discussed about the purpose it served. The person would be reading by rote, trying to meet a deadline. Even as symbolism this seemed superficial.

It is believed that prayers offered on this day have the efficacy of a thousand prayers. I respect the sentiments of those who believe it because I believe in dreams and illusions.

So when I lay down, I knew it was the right time. Maghrib is special. Dusk comes everyday, but when dusk has a purpose the sun does not just disappear. It leaves a glow.

I had spoken earlier in the day with a friend. She is fasting. She is not religious. As conversation went on, she said, "You know, after a few days of roza you reach a dream-like state, something like sex."

What did I discover?

Cucumber pads on the eyes are soothing.

Lying down and just uttering certain words can produce a sense of numbness – some call it calm.

I smiled when I thought about the conversation with my friend. Did it interrupt the prayer or add to it? Isn’t smiling good?

Hundred was the number I set for myself. I am bad at math.

After completing it, I decided to become corrupt and bribe god. I started in English and then it just sounded better in Urdu/Hindi. I could not decide, so I stuck to the Bollywood ‘Jab We Met’ filmi style. And thought about Kareena Kapoor’s character, who says when you really, actually want something, then you get it.

There are some things I have that I never wanted. Since they had appeared, I tried to make the best of it and gave whatever I could to them. Holding back nothing – not my anger, not my affection, not my cyncism, not my idealism, not myself. After a while, these fossilised and ‘became’ mine. Some people call extra baggage a bonus.

There was a time when I would say to nothing in particular, “May everyone’s wishes come true.” This is stupid. One person’s wish may be to cut the thread and the other may want to sew something. Each removed from the other. So, should we wish for islands?

I don’t know. If there is the sea and a few trees, I suppose this is good enough. I shall write on sand and know that it is not meant to hold my words whether or not the waters lash against it and wash them away.

The clouds write out new scriptures in the skies everyday and every breath exhaled is a prayer…

Sunday ka Funda

It is not always unfounded. When you fear fear itself. There is a reason beneath the skin. I have never been really paranoid, but there was a time in the recent past that shook me up. After that, I have not been the same.

This was not about inner demons. Those are there, will always be there as long as we have a past and a future that runs faster than we can chase it.

I watched this video almost a year ago sent by a friend. I was stunned. So stunned that I refused to watch it again. Until yesterday when I was thinking about my fear and I clicked on the link, at first eyes averted and then saw the images and heard the deep sounds of a part of us that we may not know about. I know. And I too ask:

Is the blame on you? is the blame on me?

Why don't I stay in my own? Struggling

Filling the hole that's through my life

Paranoia – Elsiane

Forgetting a War

Joshua’s lips quivered just a bit. This was sadness that crept stealthily, crushing leaves underfoot but not before the trees had been laden with fruit. Joshua, born into a war, of an Italian Jewish father and a mother from an aristocratic family, had pride as well as curiosity. The Guido and Dora love story was a sacrifice to retain his innocence.

I have read a lot on World War II and seen quite a few films; much of it has had a deep impact. Life Is Beautiful, that I watched again recently, has stayed by my side because it clasped the heart. No amount of fighting and strategy could convey what Guido sought to conceal. For me the film was less about war than it was about peace – the peace within us that seeks order, that thirsts for a few drops of rain on parched earth, that clamours to hold on to clammy palms to share fears and thereby lessen them.

Some had criticised it as being too simplistic. What is not simplistic about deciding enemies and shooting off your mouth and damning whole sections of people only because you need to protect a geographical space? What is not simplistic about control? What is not simplistic about the belief that you are superior only because you belong to a place that seems superior? Think about Chaplin’s brilliant portrayal of Hitler (and a Jewish barber) in The Great Dictator and see how simplistic it can be when the roles are swapped.

Joshua’s education in forgetting is nuanced. It is easy to remember, to learn by rote, to take mental snapshots of what is happening and see the worst in it. It is not easy to watch all this and believe that it is not what it appears to be. If Guido tells his son that some of the things he is supposed to do are games, then games were indeed being played by the big powers, big boys with big ammunition getting into a huddle and forming groups, much like children do at school and in play areas, but much worse. They were not destroying places or conquering them; they were destroying the worth of people’s identities, soiling them with small ideologies. It was a muddy, bloody battle. The family knew it was not a game, but that tank which was to be theirs to conquer symbolised victory over forces stronger.

The father is shot dead, and Joshua does not know about it. The hidden is so much more potent. Why does the child believe his stories for so long? There is only one answer: Faith that comes from love. This isn’t a war story, but a love story where forgetting is more important than remembering.

Joy Maharashtra

Imagine had it not been for today 51 years ago, Maharashtra would have been playing footsie with Modi's Gujarat. On May 1, the separation of the two states took place bifurcating the old Bombay state.

The success of Maharashtra is that the Gujaratis have been such an intrinsic part of it and not just financially, although that is a factor. Mumbai is undoubtedly the fulcrum. It isn't the heart of the state; it is the pair of legs - toned, sleek, long but with calves that curve with mischievous intent, and as the legs cross you get a peek into what it has always wallowed in. Basic instinct.

Of course, Maharashtra is more, and I can think of so many memories.

My Puneri sarees bought from a small shop in Lakshmi Road, often the local nine-yard one that I'd use to get extra pleats as well as add to the choli blouse, buying bhakarvadi, riding the Deccan Queen, eating at Dorabjee's, picking up Shrewsburry and ginger biscuits from Kayani's Bakery and watching 'Ghashiram Kotwal' on its last legs with the original cast as a guest of Dr. Mohan Agashe, who just minutes before he was to perform the lead role of Nana Phadnavis was sitting at the ticket counter.

There was the Osho Ashram and long before I went in, I had watched a man in saffron robes meditating with open eyes at the park- limpid eyes that could be meditated upon. I was called back and returned to the real world of Maganlal chikki saved from Lonavla.

There was the village in Mahad where I had gone with some NGO, and we sat in this huge room on a frayed chatai with men in white topis discussing important matters. We spent the night at a nearby guest house and heard dogs barking. In the village there was a beauty parlour and many young women wore sunglasses; their hair was braided and tied with colourful ribbons. I saw the puppet makers, the dancers, the women who cooked in the light from gas lamps.

There was me hitching a ride on a truck because there was no public transport beyond Uran to get to the rehab place in the interiors where I wanted to pay a surprise visit.

There was the meal of thick chapattis with dry dal and garlic chutney, sitting on the floor with women who were once sex workers.

There was the government circuit house that smelled of old jasmine strings worn by the women who had danced for our fat cats the night before. And then there was fried eggs with soggy toast at 6 PM overlooking the lush greenery that only the privileged can afford.

There was a cinema hall in a small town where we could sit anywhere. No popcorn here but hot batata vadas and chaha (tea).

Tea. Cutting chai that is cooked till it looks mean and dark and is then offered in a saucer, the better if it is chipped.

There was Satish at Ganeshpuri who trapped aliens from Mumbai at the bus stand but introduced me to the cheapest and most delicious thali. There was me ordering poha, palak, roti and puranpoli and shrikhand along with 'rice plate' only to realise that rice plate had almost everything. At night he lustily danced to religious music. His plea was to get him a chance in Bollywood because he could shake his pelvis like Mithun Chakraborthy. He was stuck on Disco Dancer.

There is Bollywood. Nothing comes close and nothing can be further from it. Like Dharavi, it has a little of everything and everyone. It lives on other people's dreams. It lives for the day but will outlast the years without growing old.

I open the cupboard and spot the green and maroon saree and can feel the jostling of people in Dadar where I bought it from and the taste of dahi misal I had eaten later at TT Circle still lingering in my mouth . I touch the soft cotton fabric and it has my history woven in it. The history of a day that doesn't fade.

Sunday ka Funda

True celebration should come from your life, in your life. And true celebration cannot be according to the calendar, that on the first of November you will celebrate. Strange, the whole year you are miserable and on the first of November suddenly you come out of misery, dancing. Either the misery was false or the first of November is false; both cannot be true. And once the first of November is gone, you are back in your dark hole, everybody in his misery, everybody in his anxiety. Life should be a continuous celebration, a festival of lights the whole year round. Only then you can grow up, you can blossom. Transform small things into celebration.

- Osho

I watched most of the World Cup cricket final match on television. It was a delight without all those 'other' aspects. And when the dholaks came out in the street below, I knew that for those who toil at menial tasks, this was not about a big or a small occasion; it was about celebrating. They did not wear bangles in the shades of the tricolour, or dress in blue or have large TV screens or money to spend on alcohol. Their spirits were not even about patriotism. They don't have dates marked on calendars, but then they don't have much to look forward to. So, when such a moment arrives, they just come out. What is there to celebrate, you ask. It is the sounds from their poor hands that bring the rich men's traffic to a halt, that make them roll down their glasses and cheer along.

Around 2 AM, view from my window

It makes me part my curtain of sleep and look down below from the window and although I can see only the lights from cars in the lane, I can visualise those who are walking and dancing with their hands up in the air. This is their flag, their nationalism, their moment.

I did not feel one bit of cynicism last night/early morning because I became a participant in their lives grabbed in such moments. And in that I celebrated mine.

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

- T.S.Eliot (From The Wasteland)

There's no cricket in my soup

Forget the hype about extra local trains, offices working half a day. And let us please try to forget some itsy-bitsy model who wants to strip if we win the World Cup. She says, “I’m a cricket fanatic and I’m a diehard supporter of my nation. India needs a lot of support and this is my way of supporting the team…and I’m doing this to excite our boys to play better.”

What a fruitcake. If she wants to do her bit, she can just get atop a table and gyrate at some of those lounge bars where other ‘fanatics’ are watching the game. They are more likely to get excited. It is insulting to India, Indians and our cricket team that some female who is “confident” of her body can have the temerity to announce that Indians will perform better just thinking of her stripping. I wonder what her exposure has been. These guys have seen many women doing much more, as sportspersons are accustomed to special attention. They'd be more excited if their captain threw off his shirt, as Saurav Ganguly had done some years ago.

Captain Courageous: Ganguly rose to the occasion

Since this model has posed for the Kingfisher calendar, perhaps she should try her stunts at Vijay Mallya’s IPL team innings, whenever that happens, as one of the pom-pom girls.

I also wish people realised that today’s game is not the final. Catching bits on TV has not excited me enough, despite the fennel and cheese crackers. The run-up in newspapers has been asking actors and Page 3 types about their favourite teams. The answer is pretty standard: “I luuuveee India.” And one more thing. I wish people knew that most Sidhuisms (what former cricketer and now commentator says) are quotations. They aren’t original, except that he mauls them. But then, more people know Sidhu than they know Shelley.

And I am tired of watching ‘celebrities’ I don’t know. And just for your information, the street below my building is buzzing; not everyone is cooped up inside.

File photo: Dawood Ibrahim and actor Anil Kapoor
Who wants to be a millionaire?

One more thing. The person who is not there is probably all there. How I miss those scenes from the Sharjah matches where the cameras would zoom into don Dawood Ibrahim in the company of Bollywood stars. Later, even those caught hugging him, denied it. Body doubles? Some said they were forced to be there. Possible. Although, rather surprisingly, he did not seem interested in Pakistani celebrities. Anyway, our stars have moved on. But has he?

Now for the finals at Wankhede, we all know how much money has been spent on the special lights and how Mukesh Ambani has bought three VIP boxes.

I don’t know how much things have changed, besides the cosmetic ones. But sometime in the mid-90s, I watched my first and only live cricket match at the same stadium and even the posh set was excited about Jeetendra in all white, including his shoes.

Let me reproduce a snapshot of those memories, kind of strip mentally:

Ms. Gucci arrived, flashing her gold trophy – a thick Cartier bracelet. Loud ‘whoas’ and ‘shiiiiit mans’ rent the air. But we could not feel the air. We were seated in the member’s enclosure, the one sealed with glass on three sides/

The talk among our august group, and I am sure of those in the private little cubicles flanking us, was about office, the party in the evening or the latest gossip about the other Ms. Gucci and Mr. Hugo Boss. Yet, when the umpire flailed his hands about indicating a boundary, these cats would meow a little prayer and figurines and taweezes would appear from nowhere to make life easier for Indians.

I had stepped outside for a feel of the real action and there was more lust here than that room with a view could ever manage. Our ‘boys’ were the toy boys and totems not because they were necessarily better than whoever they were playing against, but because every bead of sweat, open mouth and heartbeat was paying obeisance to them.

Today, the masses have been sidelined and it is all about the who’s who and what they are wearing.

Incidentally, I am dressed in green! But it isn’t that kind of green; it is the green of sage.

- - -

Update:

- India won by 29 runs. Great. But how does it become "creating history"?

- Pakistani captain Shahid Afridi apologised to his country for losing. If he has to do that then they and not his team are a bunch of losers.

- Two cutouts were in the audience. Wait. They were the two leaders Manmohan Singh and Yousuf Raza Gilani.

- Heard several commentators say we need to win the finals and the cup for Tendulkar. Anyone heard of India?

The Interview

I was on the other side, being interviewed. It wasn’t the first time but I constantly found myself asking the questions inside my head. It’s part of the experiences I have had. So, before I get to me, I shall get to them.

How does it feel to get into the mind of someone, I am often asked. The answer is always: Challenging. Almost all of my one-on-one interviews have been rather intense. It is two people in a room, not unlike the relationship between a psychiatrist and a ‘patient’, except that the roles can and do get swapped. It is amazing how much you discover about yourself in the very nature of the queries you pose. Even after all these years, I like to have some questions ready; there on I take off from the response I get.

Then, a Pandora’s Box opens, and the treasures could be precious memories, newly-formed opinions, or skeletons, and there have been occasions when the person has broken down or felt elated or got angry because what had remained submerged suddenly spurted out. The catharsis was not expected. I still recall this woman quite literally jumping on the sofa I was sitting on, her rage barely contained. It was a large house filled with antiques. Should I leave or leave her alone? The answer came in the form of tears - mine. I sat there, plunging my nails into the upholstery. She had calmed down and reapplied her makeup. There was a smile on her lips and her long fingers touched my hand.

One thing I know. If you are not honest, you won’t get honesty. It may sound strange but I have met honest politicians, or at least whatever was discussed was done so honestly. Recently, I had to make a sort of list of the interviews I have done and the range includes industrialists, gangsters, people from films, academics, science, sports, activism, feminism, theatre, writing, media, astrology, psychology, sexology, religion. These are what may be called ‘names’ in their respective fields, but there have been very many others who were interviewed on themes. It could be a story on beggars or eunuchs or nuns. (Me: “Sister, what do you fantasise about?”)

How much of oneself enters into the subject’s voice? It depends on how the interview has progressed. I do not buy into the theory that one must not express an opinion in an interview. I spend a minimum of an hour and besides the words recorded there are the background sounds and images and my own voice.

“I was looking for your voice,” said a writer-colleague about my book. “It was there throughout but I found it most evident in the section with interviews.”

“But, they were speaking.”

“Your questions were what created this chain and sometimes you’d just move on, almost impatient!”

It was a perceptive observation and quite true.

So five months ago, in October, when I got a call from Khaleej Times (UAE) asking for an interview, I did not at the time know anything about the media there. “Why,” I asked.

“Because of your book.”

“That’s been around for a while,” I said.

“Yes, but it will be interesting for our readers and we will also talk about the other issues you write about.”

She told me she had been “warned” that I was very particular about whether she had really read any of the stuff and promised me that she had and will read more before we met.

I walked into the hotel lobby where we were to meet. My foot was recovering from a fracture so it was in a stopgap air cast. I would have been easily identifiable although the white slacks did cover the pumpkin green cast. No, she did not spot me. I just went up to the lone young woman sitting there in a hijaab. We moved to the coffee shop and the first thing she said was, “I was told you are a veteran.”

“Hmm, well, yes, I guess so…”

“You don’t look…” and the thought trailed off.

I told a media friend from that part of the world about it and asked how one was supposed to look like a veteran and why did I not, and he was quite exasperated, “A normal person would take this as a compliment.”

The interviewer was honest. I could sense it. There were questions about inspiration, the book, my political views, the process of writing, and some fun queries. It went on for over an hour. I did not want a photographer around. Now, I don’t have a portfolio and I took a few self-timer pictures. It shows.

I got a small shock when I saw the paper (it was in the main section and not the supplement and was duly announced in an earlier page). The low-resolution image had been blown up. I immediately knew what had happened. It helps being a ‘veteran’. Most of the quotes had not been carried and it must have been a last-minute decision. People who know informed me that my views are not always ‘proper’, so they had to temper it. Why could they not use a long blurb, instead? It was also referred to as a new book, but again my friend said, “Some people think Anna Karenina is a new book.”

The problem is that if you have been an interviewer for long, you do tend to be understanding: People at the desk only know that chop means chop from anywhere, including have an abrupt end without any context. I was particularly distressed about discovering that I do not read. I do not read maniacally other people's views on the subject I am working on. It does interfere.

This is one more aspect to note. I research a person only to an extent that I know the background or the specific topic of expertise. In my case, I have already spoken quite a bit, written a lot, there are reviews, so rather unfortunately a good deal of that seeped in and the interviewer’s fresh queries and my replies went wasted, except about how the book happened which I have not spoken about yet. Heck, she should have asked me about favourite fragrances or something and there would be more words rather than the grainy picture.

But you know what? Most people don’t care for what you say or how you think. For them a big picture is the big picture. So, text messages were exchanged about how I was in the news. I found it embarrassing, which is why I held back until now. Because now I can see the humour when an acquaintance who does not have any interest in writers or writings had held the paper against the lamp in a Chinese restaurant and said, “Man, I did not know you had been mainlining. You look like you’ve been out of rehab.”

“Hrmph, so has Lindsay Lohan. And I am a veteran.”

- - -

The interview is uploaded on 'A Journey Interrupted blog' here.

Yes, there is a scanned image and I have never mainlined or mainstreamed for that matter!

Rear Rural

Would you buy a tin of cow fart only because you are missing home? As a city person, I cannot digest (oops) this, but is it really about nostalgia? In Germany, incidentally a country known more for its streamlined technology rather than cattle, the £5 product is a hit. The ad says:

“Simply put your nose to the tin and peel back the lid for the authentic smell of the country”.

My experiences with the countryside have been rather interesting, both in India as well as abroad, although at home we just call them villages. I get all excited about the quiet, the pure air, away from the hub, no traffic, simple people, organic food and after a few days I become restless.

The silence isn’t soothing; it is desultory. A nose that has become accustomed to what may be industrial fumes is assailed with all kinds of ‘natural’ smells that may not be as harmless, especially if they are in unhygienic surroundings. I dislike the hub and stay away from it at home, but when I am in this rural utopia and reach the city I want to jump with joy. And I don’t care much for organic food. In a village on the outskirts of Mumbai I have had the most simple food prepared by a most simple woman that gave me a bad tummy and a bad temper because she was so nice and wanted to know why I did not like doing womanly things.

The barking of dogs, the crowing of cocks and shepherds going “harrrrr” as they sauntered off gave me many a photo-op, and a few smiles, but then I wanted the alarm clock to ring. Besides, for how long can one lovingly watch an insect perched on the hand or stand transfixed before a beehive? Honey, I've got the stuff they do. Really. And the special smells did not register, although I am a ‘nosey’ person.

I admit I am a sniffer and in school would go down on buses to inhale petrol fumes. So, you might well shoot back, who am I to question this innovative bottled wind-breaking idea?

I was not buying the fumes or missing them. If there wasn’t a bus around I wouldn’t go crawling beneath cars. One does not need to think much to figure out that this is merely a new market. As the designer of the ‘Countryside air to go’ project said:

“We hope to make people who miss the countryside happy and remind them of home. We are planning other smells such as horse, straw, pigs and manure. But most people miss the smell of the cows in the country, not really surprising as much of the smell is from cows.”

It is pretty harmless, of course. I wonder what happens when we miss people.