tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68582199650406100072024-02-08T11:36:24.942-08:00Just Like ThatRandom reviews on things I observe and the experiences I have. They are not meant to jeopardise anyone, as the title suggests they are spontaneous and most times could be even unimportant.Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-84628703249234094042015-03-31T04:09:00.001-07:002015-03-31T04:09:13.492-07:00Maybe it’s Also About Making Voices than Only Choices<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes,
the Vogue Empowerment video was definitely skewed, it only spoke of sexual choices, in
relationship, outside of relationship, with respect to consent, judgment of
women on the basis of her choice of sex. Yes, it was largely about issues
related to sex, her presence within a relationship and even about the
misconstrued idea about fidelity and extra-marital affair. Yes, she does not
for once talk of a woman’s identity in terms of her professional choices and
the sexism and bias she has to face in every such professional endeavor. Her
choice to be part of something she believes in, or her choice to not coerce to
the hegemonic decisions imposed on her. Her choice to follow a field or belief of her choice, and how choices are created or exercised, (but then the video was a 'short' film) The fact that the video is commissioned
by Vogue makes it even more suspect. A magazine that only speaks to rich women
of a particular class, a magazine that is abominably responsible for creating
impossible beauty standards and then naturalizing them as desired. For
airbrushing women and photoshopping their airbrushed skins to remove any speck
of reality from it, and then making women aspire to these ‘models’ of beauty,
perfection and ideal. And basically creating beauty and presentation as the
only relevant qualities to possess in life for any women, that which defines
their worth and respect in society. What is also extremely problematic is this
extremely niched and ideologically and even ethically misguided magazine
appropriating images of tribal or poor women in their video, only through their
photographs taken in various other magazines, never once bothering to engage
with them more personally. There are unarguably several problems in this video,
and the video makers, Homi Adjania, and its participants who have otherwise
come out strongly to talk about women’s issues so long as pertaining to them,
have to be informed of the people that might have been offended by their
apparent “goodwill” message in the video. Yes, they have to evolve, develop
their stunted knowledge and advised to move beyond this arrested rhetoric of
sexual choice. But to call it sick, I personally feel is highly discouraging,
condescending and even mean. Their perceptions are limited, misconstrued and
ill understood, however, I also believe at the same time that the intention per
se is not worth admonishing and dismissed. It is playing the intellectual card,
discriminating on the grounds of understanding the subtle nuances better than
the others and then instead of helping them to understand it through
constructive criticism downrightly berating them for what it was seeking to
stand for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Don’t
get me wrong, I am not in favor of Vogue and the kind of lifestyle and thinking
it endorses. I think it is ethically callous and irresponsible for them to
create unreal standards of beauty and direct all their content space towards exploring
the means and methods for women to become prettier, attractive and be more
presentable in world, and constantly reiterate through such limited approach of
the paramount importance of these categories. But there are arguably such
people too who might buy Vogue not to get ambushed by its obscenely impossible
beauty standards but to take tips of fashion from it or maybe get the right
kind of makeup or hairstyle. Now would you also tell me, that these women who
invest their energies in only trying to look great, and define their lives
around that, have to be berated, bullied, and reprimanded for having interest
in things that are more superficial, or would you rather instead try to
convince and educate them? When we speak of Feminism, we often forget that
there are several women who refuse to even acknowledge this term, and we often
give a simplistic argument for them being stupid for not understanding the
political implication of the term, and therefore being too naïve to understand
their own complicity in patriarchy. We often overlook the fact that they might
have felt doubly bullied, if at all they tried to appropriate feminism and side
with its politics without completely understanding it, both from the men who
wrongly interpret the cause and action of feminism and in fact by the better
informed and educated feminists themselves who are more readily given to
condescension that is available to them through the power of knowledge and
information. “Knowledge is power” Foucault has famously quoted, and power is
toxic, it is the bane of human existence. While we always wish to locate the
negative exploits of power in the ‘other’ we often overlook our own implication
in this power game: in our own exploits of power to assert an ego, an identity
that sometimes is also limited to self-fulfilling agenda for identity and image
formation. Feminism is definitely not merely an intellectual movement, and if
it remains to be, it will surely be a defeat of its very founding purpose. But
before we go ahead to convince men to understand it, we, who consider ourselves
intellectually more nuanced, who have understood the political nature of the
power of knowledge and knowledge making, who have sisters, mothers, aunts and
friends who don’t understand their own subjugation in several relationships
with the men in their lives and have consented to this subjugated status are to
be taken together to see the fruition of feminism in its principal. Political
movements such as these should be inclusive and cannot be formed with the ‘us’
and ‘them’ categorization. What we are resorting to then is another kind of
parochialism, an intellectual parochialism, which might not be seemingly threatening
enough yet because it is in its nascent form of development. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Adichie’s
novel, <i>Americanah</i> is reflective of
this age of heightened intellectualism, that instead of including everyone into
a shared dialogue of political issues such as gender, race and class are
engaging in exclusivist opinion forming. The dedication to these causes is
rather zealous and often times encroaches the territory of one category over
another, by imposing the vocabulary of one over the other, often confusing the
pragmatic and essential difference between the two and thereby problematizing
the politics of both the categories. Her protagonist, Ifemelu is in fact
disillusioned to the armchair activism practiced by her boyfriend Blaine, his
friend and his sister, who are supporters of the larger cause of racism, but
are individuals are mean to Ifemelu and dismissive of her opinions funnily
enough about her own experience of racism in the country. She discusses race in
her blog, while Adichie discusses gender in the narrative surrounding Ifemelu,
trying to understand it through its interactions with the overlapping category
of race. <i>Americanah</i> beseeches its
readers to extend their perceptive and interpretative capacities to allow a
holistic overview of a situation and stock taking before making hasty judgments
and commitments to an issue without much deliberation. In this age of
heightened political awareness and a social rewarding and positive
reinforcement of appreciation for having a politically “correct” and “proper”
opinion has further caused for a non-committal hypocrisy to emerge, that is far
more corrosive to any political movement than outwardly and visible opposition.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There
is in fact overabundance of opinions, an excess of political stances, and at
the same time a dearth in willingness to listen, to converse and to form a
dialogue. What such an environment then creates is a confusion of excess information
with an ever decreasing compassion for those who do not understand the nuances
of certain political subtleties that are so imposingly naturalized into us as a
norm that we often don’t even consider it abnormal or out of the ordinary to
consider for a deeper intellectual engagement. It is also an age of heightened
ego formations, with social media platforms such as facebook and twitter being
the narratives of our stories, the stories of our lives, opinions and
perceptions. We have friends who are often not really friends, acquaintances
from different caste, class, creed, gender, race, religion, etc, relatives,
both younger and older to us, our teachers and our students, and this forms a
very diverse and intellectually varying salad bowl. And while I strongly
believe it is a medium of empowerment, I also believe it is one of the most
rapidly actualized social revolution. Democratization of information and
opinion formation has inarguably given space to people of a certain class with
access to internet, and with this newfound platform they should exploit their
rights to voice their opinions. But what we also should have learnt with this
freedom of intellectual articulation is compassion, and the age old wisdom and
virtue of listening. What the blitzing speed of internet does is rush us up to
make a response in time enough for it to be heard and acknowledged. And this
divests it with critical understanding that comes with involved engagement with
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What
we all must remind ourselves is the simplicity of the principle that infuriates
and agitates us: the denial of individuality, subjectivity, agency of
self-articulation and even compassion towards difference. This is common across
our tirade against issues related to sexism, classicism, racism, caste-ism and
other isms. The separate identity markers of class, race, caste are always in a
palimpsest with the issue of gender, simultaneously working, and therefore
calling for a differential model of understanding, instead a strait jacketed
approach; but the basic and the simplest kernel of the matter remains to be the
same: lack of understanding and compassion and a disavowal of the voice of this
‘other’, as also imposition of one ideal of thought over another. I am often
asked what makes academics useful in the world, what can a few writers who are
spatially, temporally, geographically, socially and culturally separated from
their readers might have to offer in contemporary times? Do the conferences we
hold, the seminars we attend and the papers we present and publish have a
bearing in the larger cause of a contribution to humanity by virtue of which it
might be deemed as a legitimate payable profession? I say yes, because of the
only reason that we have an access to a wider knowledge base than the others,
that through our readings we might have equipped ourselves to make more
informed opinions if not always more correct. It might not be the duty of an academician
to give answers to society’s problems, nor would s/he like to assume such a
self-aggrandizing role of being the ‘unacknowledged legislators of the world’
as Shelley quoted in his <i>Defense of
Poetry</i>, and credit might be given to them to get over this self-assuming
authority over opinion formation or even legislation. But it is certainly the
expectation from an academician, by the very virtue of the essential purpose of
the field itself, for a pluralization of opinions to exist and converse with
each other in a dialogue to allow new ideas and approaches to emerge. And in
this light the response of a few academics to the mistakes made by the
filmmakers of the Vogue Empowerment video or the ‘India’s Daughter’ documentary
earlier this month has been rather disappointing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
am very certain that the voices we are so readily eager to dismiss as naïve and
incompetent, often do not want to remain so, if sufficiently and
compassionately directed (that is if one really wishes to do so, and also allow
them a chance), they might consider an alteration in their approach, a more
nuanced and a more informed manner of looking at things and being conscious of
it in the future. It might not materialize, they might not listen, but then, to
have a constructive dialogue is to allow for change to be conceivable. But to
deem them irremediable is a defeat of the very purpose of raising awareness.
While voicing resentment is absolutely necessary, this resentment should not
become exclusivist and solipsistic. If we wish to mobilize on issues such as
feminism, we might just do disservice to the frail attempts by movies as the
one made by Vogue, or the documentary about Nirbhaya that was similarly
vehemently criticized earlier. While the information reservoir of both these
filmmakers might be limited, and their commissioning authorities extremely
suspect and cringe-worthy, I am merely thrilled for them to at least start to
begin making the noise with the platform given to them. We as literary and social
critics can in fact make for these misguided and flawed attempts more pruned,
and self-conscious. The ‘us’ and ‘them’ parochialism then based on the relative
access to intellect and information of one group over another has to be given
up in the favor of extending the boundaries of the ‘us’ to include as many
people as possible for social change to be possible.</span></div>
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Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-12096588172632174352015-03-07T23:48:00.000-08:002015-03-07T23:48:22.752-08:00I Want to be Fearless, but I Fear and therefore I Speak: "India's Daughter's" in Perspective<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So Leslie Udwin arrives in India on the behest of BBC to do a story on the Nirbhaya rape case that happened on 16th December 2012 and led to nationwide shock, bereavement and agony which translated into protests and strong demands for the death penalty of the accused. After over 2 years since the incident, one of the accused has committed suicide in official records, one is in juvenile court and another 3 wait for their court hearing. The court that was supposed to handle this case was supposed to be a fast track court that was only fast enough to make a charge sheet in just 17 days and in sending one of the most devious perpetrators to the juvenile court for the mere technicality of his age. It has been 2 years since, the fast track court is still in the process of hearings and has given the accused such lawyers as obnoxious as the guilty themselves. The BBC documentary titled 'India's Daughter' appears in the wake of thi<span style="font-size: 13.6888885498047px;">s lackadaisical approach to justice. What has garnered the attention of people with regards to this documentary is the statement made by one of the guilty, Mukesh Singh. It is his utter lack of guilt or any conscience that has shaken up people, who are now feeling too scandalized for having to listen to a demon, a monster. Was it necessary to publicise it this way? Was the shock deliberate? More importantly, the question that we should ask ourselves and the question whose answer the I&B ministry has already decided by banning the video, is the relevance of watching this video. Should we then watch Mukesh Singh and his lawyer spew their sick views on this documentary? How important is it to really know their viewpoint? Where are they stemming from? </span></div>
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Yes it might sound condescending coming from a woman of non-Indian descent. It might also seem unfair and problematic that there is an underlying "civilizing" vocabulary that goes along with this video. But, the truth is that despite the uncomfortable undercurrents in the documentary it has brought back in the limelight the movement that was started back in 2013 and eventually buckled not for lack of will but for sheer exhaustion. No, not all Indian men think like this man, but there are so many who do and the number sure matters.<br />
There are still several, not excluding the members of our own families who horrifyingly echo some part of these unfair statements, 'It's you, who has to take care of your own safety. Be safe', say the patriarchs of my family advising me to return home by 9 o'clock latest in the interest of my safety. They are scared they say. Yes, their fear is justified, but how do we tackle this fear, by not addressing our own complacency, our own contribution to this thought process, but by taking the easy way out, oppressing the woman sitting at home, forcing them to abide the 'rules' and be at home, in the interest of their 'safety'. It is much easier to close your eyes and hide in a hole then take on the David versus Goliath fight. The women want to fight, and they do. There is solidarity, but its pathetic and obnoxious to see how ill supported it is. I'm not saying women need men to take up their issues or speak for them, but when half a population, and that which is unfairly more in power positions, doesn't wish to contribute or even discuss, it does not help, but only hinders.</div>
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Why those who are not in support of the documentary to be aired wish it to be banned is that they have always separated themselves with the perpetrator. As if he belongs to some underground hell hole that spurts up such demonic creatures to perpetrate crimes of unspeakable brutality. The fact that they look ordinary, have an ordinary voice and are more importantly human, and someone amidst us is what is causing the discomfort. The fact that they are echoing the sentiment (whether emerging from fear or a will to control) of countless Indian men and women, both in power and in our society at large is something which is even more disturbing. That he speaks in the language of some of our national and religious leaders who people willingly support is what is a very rude wakeup call for all. A forced self introspection that is discomforting, uneasy, self aware of its complicity in the rape culture.<br />
Now I wonder what if this documentary had been made not by a foreign woman but an Indian man. How differently the media and the so called nationalists respond? We often ask if we need someone to come from outside to speak on issues so intrinsic to us? If rather we should have our own agents talking about them. But the truth remains, that for whatever reason she was granted access denied to others, and while people only talk of making a documentary, her movie has been made, it has brought the discussion to the fore again and if we want to take it to a larger audience beyond just media we ought to watch it. It might disturb us, discomfort us and shock us. But it is precisely for these reasons that the movie should be released and watched, not in isolation on private internet channels but on TV, hearing our demon speak, echoing ideas that our religious fanatics uphold. It is possible we are being seen under a lens of racial bias world over, but it is not completely untrue that the justice has been delayed and countless more cases remain pending too.</div>
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Yes it is named 'Indian Daughter' but rather than getting into the political discussion of the term and taking away from the urgency it demands, we need to have ourselves wake up to the discomfort of living in a society where rapes are not merely numbers but an everyday threat to all women without exception. To understand that maybe the title is politically skewed and merits debate, but what is more important is to bring this constant unaddressed unnerving attitude of a patriarchal system in purview. Finally it is the environment under observation that merits more attention than the lens itself. People should watch, introspect, and offer to help and support rather than either withhold freedom of women or believe that only a certain class is under threat. There is no denying that there are rapes in the name of religion and caste and they are equally horrifying and condemnable, but it is this attitude of complacency and seeing women as the site of violation to "teach a lesson" that has to be probed. There is much talk of education, but I feel, basic human empathy is all that is asked of and required when issues such as these are raised. Yes, this selective anger and revengeful attitude is as alarming as any other sweeping perception on women's safety and their agency to the urban space, but what is also important is to speak, to debate and to begin to change. For this alone, the documentary should be released by I&B. So that people can start to be speaking again.</div>
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Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-206825638071196792013-06-17T12:50:00.001-07:002013-06-17T12:50:31.661-07:00Empty Verses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Words rendered empty</div>
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Mumblings gurgling out</div>
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Voice, just an echo</div>
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A faint murmur </div>
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Can’t say, a sigh or gasp?</div>
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Vacant thoughts </div>
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Edging closer to numbness</div>
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Defeated silence</div>
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Crouching with diffidence</div>
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In the farthest corner,</div>
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Of the darkened chamber.</div>
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Spewing nothing.</div>
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Arrested gapes </div>
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Swallowing the vacuum </div>
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Eating up the hollows</div>
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Voids filling up cavities,</div>
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Of begotten memories</div>
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And dried up passions.</div>
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Eroding with mercy</div>
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Wearing out with an ease</div>
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That reeks of gutting melancholy</div>
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Au revoir to the agony</div>
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For one is bid for other to beckon,</div>
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Asking hollows to vacate</div>
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And hollows to fill</div>
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The barren insides </div>
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Of the masquerade </div>
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Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-35166561740680546512012-07-28T05:25:00.003-07:002012-07-28T05:25:42.751-07:00Freaky Friday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A story inspired after a lunch at a restaurant. Is purely coincidental and a figment of my imagination. If you find it objectionable or unacceptable, do let me know. Hope you enjoy it though.</div>
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<b>Freaky Friday</b></div>
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The tables were laid out, the restaurant empty, their table
booked. He scanned the length of the restaurant to look for her, trying to
place the pictures of her he had seen online on the one or two faces that were
present there. She sat there grim and brooding in the farthest corner of the
room, scarcely visible from where he was looking. He asked for Sophia and was
directed to the table that had been booked for them. The restaurant had an
eerie feeling about it, despite the staff being cordial and warm there was a
general sense of coldness in the air, he couldn’t tell where it came from but
was sure he sensed it. The restaurant despite being on one of the busiest
streets was particularly deserted, except for two tables. He wondered why
despite all that space in the restaurant she would choose to occupy the
farthest and least visible corner of the room. He guessed she’d have been a
regular and therefore had her space marked out for the sake of comfort and
convenience. He cleared his mind of these banal observations and followed the
waiter. The waiter pointed to his table and left immediately. He located the
corner and saw that that the table had been laid out for two, but he could see
no one. Joshua was a little taken aback. He turned around to the waiter to ask
if she was still expected or if she had excused herself to the loo, but to his
surprise as he turned, the waiter had disappeared and there was no one in
sight. Not bothering to walk the entire length to the reception he turned back
to make way to his table, she was there now, basking in some strange sort of
spotlight that encapsulated her petite frame. Her body spoke of a languor that
comes with sitting in a place for a long time. She looked up and smiled and
extended her hand for a handshake. Joshua pleased to have finally met his guest
forgot about the intangible sequence of events and shook hands with her as
cordially as he could. But as soon as he shook her hand there was a shudder
that ran down his spine, but suspecting the air conditioning for the chills he
ignored and made his way to take a seat next to her.</div>
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The food was ordered and they began to chat. It all seemed
alright to Joshua, only his deepest and most poignant instincts told him that
despite everything seemed to be normal and ordinary there was some external
force, unknown, unseen, unfathomable, that was giving him creeps in the guts of
his stomach. The food came, they finished eating, but the conversation
continued. Joshua felt that Sophia’s face went pale very obviously more than
once during their conversation for no particular reason, and she was oblivious
to these external physical changes to which he was the only observer sitting
right across her table. Finally he gave to reason and thought that it could be
resulting from her white silhouette. She looked good in white but he wondered
why she would wear all white to a lunch, for some reason it seemed a little out
of place and unconventional. Suddenly she picked up the butter knife and began
playing with without any cause or reason. Then she started rubbing it around
her hands as if trying to check for its sharpness. The reflection of light
coming from the knife blinded Joshua in the eye, for a moment he thought that
this was not a restaurant, nor the woman sitting across her was the Sophia he
had lunched with. It was as if he was teleported to some other world
altogether. There was darkness all around, as he tried to grope into the
darkness he realised that some weird stink pierced through his nostrils, it was
too pungent and he had never smelled anything like that ever in his life. As he
regained his sight all he could make of the space around him was the rudiments
of an old deserted attic with butcher knives neatly placed on a table right in
front of him. And there she was Sophia, in her all white dress, her long
tresses curling down her waist and she was turned to the fireplace, as he
neared closer to her, she was still playing with the butter knife, only now she
was polishing it over a knife sharpener and trying to shape up the blunt butter
knife. </div>
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Joshua didn’t understand what was happening, where he was,
where the restaurant had disappeared or if all of this even real or just a
figment of his fertile imagination. He couldn’t make sense of anything. He finally
went up to her and placed her hand on her shoulder so that he could turn her
around and confront her with all the strange happenings. As soon as he turned
her...her eyes shone like diamonds piercing his own, and he could feel another
flash blinding his eyes. The next moment he began to hear his name in a dull
repetitive chant, sounding like one of those ominous pre-sacrificial humming
and chanting. Joshua felt a tingling feeling racing down the length of his
spine and found himself trickling of sweat and fear that not only chilled his
spine but ran through the entire length of his body having its source in the
pit of his stomach. Then he felt as if he was being anointed before being
sacrificed to some supernatural deity, the chanting too grew louder, only now
it was not similar to the initial humming and chanting, but was broken un-simulated
and anxious. Sophia approached him, with the sharpened butter knife and began
tapping it on his cheeks. Joshua let out a blood curdling scream of fear and
shut his eyes out of fear. When he opened them again after the shock had
subsided he found that he was lying on the floor of the restaurant was
wriggling in uncontrollable concussions and was sweating profusely, the cold
hands that he felt on his face were that of Sophia trying to wake him up. He
looked around, the attic had changed back to the restaurant. The waiter who had
showed him his table was standing over his head with a glass of water. They all
told him how he had suddenly passed out without any cause and that they were
extremely worried about him, that he had been shaking wildly, was mumbling his
own name in some sort of half sleep. Joshua took hold of himself, got up, and
excused himself to the washroom. There he washed his face, wiped it clean, came
out, asked for the check and offered to drop Sophia. </div>
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During their drive to her house, they didn’t exchange a
word. He was uncomfortable with the idea of being in such proximity to her but
thought it was only decent to drop her home after the fiasco at the restaurant.
He asked her if she was embarrassed considering she visited there often, to
which she said she had never been there before today. As he drove closer to her
house he sensed the same chill, but he ignored it thinking of it as an aftershock
of his convulsion at the restaurant. The roads were deserted, covered with long
pine trees on both sides. She asked him to stop at the solitary bungalow that
was at the end of the road. He looked at the house, it seemed old and deserted,
he saw the name plate, it was tattered and carried number 13 on the name plate
with no name underneath. Then he noticed a light on the top floor that must
have been the attic, it seemed like a light coming from a fire in the fireplace.
He mentioned it to her and she appeared quite un-alarmed about it. She thanked
him for the ride, he turned his car around and looked out the window in order to
wave a final bye, he saw her turn about and again saw her eyes shining like two
solitaire diamonds. Again a chilling fear gripped him and he raced his car back
home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he reached home, he slumped back on his recliner trying
to make sense of the happenings of the day. All of the parts that were
supposedly in his dreams had felt so real and he had experienced the same fear,
the same chill when he was dropping Sophia as when she had drawn closer to him
with the sharpened knife. He shrugged off the spooky thoughts and got up to
check the calendar to check for something, suddenly he noticed that today was Friday
the 13<sup>th</sup> and that it was circled in red, and underneath, it was
written, a date with your fears!</div>
</div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-25210146581378677102012-04-15T14:54:00.000-07:002012-04-15T14:54:29.826-07:00The Gilded or the Sordid, never the valid<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just like that was supposed to be what it reads, and I was supposed to be honest and diligent to it. I apologise, mostly to myself for not committing to my own voice. The opinions had to be unapologetic free flowing and casual, and given the kind of blabbering I can manage in a day and with a troubling mind that would cease to work itself out and even in the subconscious find expression in countless dreams everyday, coming up with an article of my and other’s interest wasn’t quite such a task. In fact like in all other things of creativity (in which I involve myself in a non committal mediocre fashion) writing was suppose to flow affluently from a person who claims a degree in English and would soon be pursuing masters. Its amusing when my friends believe I ought to be a writer because I am doing English major, only a fool otherwise would invest in a stream that is one with lesser economic returns and is pursued solely as interest (they must read my blogs to revise their opinions). I am often told I am lucky for pursuing what I am. Now this really puzzles me, is this appreciation for someone who has responded to her seemingly true calling and has taken the resolute decision of taking it up and being diligent with it, or otherwise its a well guarded and well garbed scathing taunt, telling me you there have been complacent (and also apparently less smart) enough to pursue an education that is likely to fetch lesser returns in a world driven by the rat race of money making where a person is asked what s/he does followed by the uncouth ritual that impeaches decency to ask of your package next. This still can be explained, I am pursuing what I am passionate about ( passionate is a handy word for engaging in a profession you enjoy doing, and are relatively more driven towards, because honestly even the most exciting jobs can give you a bore like the blog was fun and not burden, but whom am I kidding).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes it is my passion to read, and while it may be yours too, I am slightly more inclined and bolder to give my choice a chance. Now this article may seem as justifying my choice for a course that I chose out of will (well also because I was hopeless at maths, and science wasn’t quite my drill) nonetheless, I just wanted to register the kinds of responses that I get for pursuing it, which are of a range that stretches from hilarious and ridiculous to strange and a few times disgusting. Being an English graduate I am supposed to be an excellent editor, as also I am supposed to be good with writing formal letters, the inability of which, at home, is frowned upon. I am either told that my language is too direct or else it has too much literary ornamentation, I can’t seem to strike the right chord. Yes, i can’t I am sorry I was not taught to write official letters in my literature class. The next attack is launched when I sometimes can’t get the accents of some foreign actor/singer correct. I am immediately given a disconcerting look as if menacingly taunting, “you call yourself an English enthusiast, really? You presumptuous smug, check ya’self”. Yes I did, while you were straining every iota of your grey matter to catch each line of the movie, I was wondering if there were any accented men or women, children or aliens that I grew up with to be flawlessly accustomed to foreign accents, the answer was no, wait a second, aren’t you more of Macaulay’s lost progeny than me?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am as much a cast out as an overly thinking person as someone who doesn’t at all. Since I am a book reading individual, I am immediately slotted as a type, geek, bookish, introvert, and even insidious (because I think too much!). What I say has to be perpetually far fetched, over the fence, and a flashing of my classroom theories. The world is my oyster and my lab and I am only allowed to play with my ideas as long as I don’t subscribe to them, because that would be threatening, wouldn’t it? Well I am quite an example for the nomenclaturing gurus. I fulfil all their said traits, and a few others I know do too. But I know enough who would prove as lively (pun) examples for their skewed theories as petty prejudices. When I argue, I am always already too implicated in theory, very opinionated and therefore either snubbed or disinterestedly given into. Yes, I am all of the above and sometimes wrong too, but aren’t you too sometimes? Why phrase me when you do the same. Yes I am a slave of words, for it is language that drives all our interactions, and in a world which before hearing me castigates me as imbecile the farce of intelligibility has to be employed to say the simplest of things that don’t go through thick skins who are accustomed to fancy gargoyles that are empty of integrity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And there are some others yet, who accept me, despite all the apparent misgivings about me being a spoilt brat who by virtue of her field of interest is by default implicated in a life of social, cultural and religious transgressions, in the name of the field being a feasible career option. I am told that it would be easier for me to cook, bear children and look after them if I took an easier job that comes with this field. It is here alone that I am ranked higher than women of other professions who have equal or even more grit than me to follow their passions, that I would be a better vassal to my family and my children. I am even advised to take professorship because they see me as a bright individual and a sharp intellectual or they have any faith in my communication skills but only because it would make my life easier than women who are more ambitious. My virtue therefore is my ostensible lack of ambition. Yeah that’s quite flattering! It is not what I should do because I am perceived to be good at it, but because while at it I might get the chance and time to be better at other things I wobble with right now. However, when the professor argues at home, she’d be asked to shut her books, her dream land and engage with reality (the house hasn’t been dusted, woman, whose got time for your feminist rant)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Who knows, I might make something of my life, even teach if things fall in place and I am able to remain focussed. But it would not be because its an easier option, not because I want to set people’s perspectives right, or else commercially justify the viability of literature, but it would be for who I am, what I believed in all these years and what I’d like to see myself doing as I grow older. I may sit at home and very well do what most homemakers do, but that wouldn’t stop me from asserting myself and speaking out, from reading, from understanding lives, from dreaming.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-80926512094560143052011-07-28T08:31:00.000-07:002011-07-28T08:31:27.058-07:00Life out of a suitcase: Journey into the times of my yore!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As it occurred to me that any series is most successful in its trilogy, I seek to bring an end to my travelogues, also realising that although I take great pleasure in commemorating each of these eventful trips by recording them as memoirs in my blogs, I have also found that since I always knew what I was about to write I have found myself incessantly delaying it for no good reason. So not having enough to divulge I bring my travelogues to a closure, and what better trip to end it with than the town which is not only famous in the entire world for its luscious and savoury alphonso mangoes but also happens to be my birth place. A town where I had my first conscious memories, a town that had only been hitherto in the subconscious recesses of mind, constructed only through the broken memories dimly aided by old pictures that piece the blinking reminiscence together and make up for an empirical evidence for our presence there. When at the tender age of 3 I left the town, I had promised myself that I’ll preserve its memories in my head so that I don’t forget where it all began, not knowing in the slightest that I might actually get a chance to revisit it almost 18 years later, as if to acquiesce that three year old’s wish to actually permanently etch the memory in the mind by an actual revisitation. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We had never set out to visit Ratnagiri initially, it was more of a detour trip, the trip was actually to Goa, which coincidentally, although not as importantly enough is my brother’s birthplace (excuse my vanity; I am the author of the blog after all and besides we have no memory of living there). At the time of booking the tickets when we were almost set to book the air tickets back from Goa to Delhi, my mother suggested why not check the Konkan railways that we had heard about so much ever since we left that part of India. I could understand her insistence on checking out considering the countless times she had recounted to us the giddy and motion sickness laden road trips she had to take from Ratnagiri to Bombay in order to visit her parents. Although I sentimentalise over it now, honestly I wasn’t too excited with the idea, because it took a day away from our stay at Goa. But our mother had her tricks at place, and she used the emotional ticket, evoking our dormant nostalgia for that peaceful, blissful town and levelling down our brimming enthusiasm for Goa, which we had already visited once before. She got us all excited telling us we could go to the house where I was born and my brother began to go to school, where we spent one of our most precious, innocent and evanescent times of our lives. This was quite enough for us to reconsider the plan and we decided to set out for a déjà vu that seemed promising enough. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We had the most wonderful 4 days at Goa that hardly need any description because I wouldn’t be able to add anything that hasn’t already been dished out by travel enthusiasts and travel magazines and in comparison to their accounts my own would sound rather dull and bland. I believe it’s not too important either because everyone going to Goa has almost the similar stories to share and similar places to rave about. In fact as much as I would have enjoyed myself in Goa, the two following days heave stronger in profundity and significance. We made way to Ratnagiri on the morning of the 5<sup>th</sup> day, still finding it difficult to leave Goa, not quite still realising the overwhelming experience that awaited us. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So we arrived in Ratnagiri after a short train trip of 4 hours or so, it was evening time, we reached to yet another shanty hotel (ill luck in terms of hotels never seems to be absent from any trip, this one had been booked by a long lost family friend who had still been living there, but ironically in Delhi at the same time as we were there, such is life!) After freshening up we realised there was nothing much to do in that town that almost seemed as if halted in time. My parents remarked that they hardly noticed any significant changes from the time they had left it almost 18 years back. The town seemed to be lying dormant as if still stuck in the early 90’s when we had formed memories of having lived there. As we took an auto and made our way through the squalid homes, we could see the way my mother was getting all excited, because if any of it made absolute sense to visit the town once again it was only for my parents, and maybe even my brother who remembered some things at least, nonetheless our heart beats were as racy as that of our mother. It was as if we were taking a plunge into the past, digging up memories and images that seemed almost from a previous birth. Since we left the town when we were still very young, the images were hazy and muddled, almost like those foggy scenes shown in bollywood movies to indicate something paranormal and mystical. As we were inching towards the house I was born in and in the courtyard of which my brother played bat and ball and hide and seek with my parents while I rocked in my cradle, we had an intense experience of a déjà vu, like we had been here but could not fully recollect how and what of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">To our enormous surprise, as we stepped out of the rickety auto that drove at snail speed as if divined to orchestrate the climax of the scene, we saw that the house where I was born, where my brother played and wandered, where my father learnt his love for gardening and my mother battled snakes and other such creatures of peril, was just about the same as it had been left 18 years ago. I wondered if the marvellous and the magic realism that people write about could really exist. The house looked as if waiting for us to witness it for what it had been. It was as if the promise of retention that I had made to myself had been shared by the house and it had kept its word to uphold it. We squandered about the house for a little while, then tried to open the front iron gate which did not budge even after much effort, so we climbed over the fence and sneaked a look at the insides through the broken windows. It wasn’t that great an experience for me as for my brother, who had memories associated with each room of the house, as he peeked through the broken windows, he was not only emotionally astounded but was choked and overwhelmed with a nostalgia of a lost time, a lost age. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As if by another play of the marvellous, we forgot to bring our cameras, that has never happened in any trip before, (except for the Khambat trip of course but then we had never intended to click pictures on that trip anyway) It was as if the house wished to be recaptured in memory and not in digital pixels. We took pictures from our cell phones, promising to preserve this last reservoir of memory. And at that magnanimous moment in the grip of emotional welling up my brother made a claim that he would buy the house someday, even if it didn’t fetch him anything, he would buy it to preserve it in both memory and in actual physical terms. Moving on from his fantastical ideas, we checked if any of our old neighbours still lived. The ones living just next to our house still lived there, they too had aged like us, but still seemed as if stuck in time like the rest of the town. They expressed great surprise on seeing us, but since they were not on excellent terms with us and were not the socialising kinds, they couldn’t match our excitement or our sentimentalising. Some of the members of the family had passed away, and some other married and therefore had moved on. My brother reminisced how he used to fetch packets of sugar by prancing on the little bylanes that had been now concretised. All nearby structures had changed except that house, that reservoir of our past. So after we all let out our final Sighs! and oohs! and aahs! we finally decided to move on realising there was nothing much to do there after all. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The next day we made way to Ganpati Pule the place that we had planned to visit because there was otherwise nothing to do in Ratnagiri than commemorating our past. So we set out to the temple which is both really famous and still not very well known, but its arguably the most wonderful road trips that I have ever taken. The beaches were pristine, untainted almost virginal. After returning from Ganpati Pule we realised we’d have been such utter fools had we not heeded to the pleas of our mother. So other than savouring the plush beaches and quaint churches of Goa, in that trip we reconnected to our pasts, making its link stronger in our present lives, I realised the place of my birth was not just another weird name on the Birth certificate but an actual town that was both peaceful and tranquil, that Ganpati Pule and en-route was one of the most scenic beauties I could ever witness in my life and also it reaffirmed the old belief that mothers are always right. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The places I have covered in my trilogy of the travelogues are really not exceptional, I may not even over enthusiastically recommend these to anyone, especially not Darjeeling of course, but these have been trips that have had the most significant bearing on my life and despite their brevity have in fact survived longer than other fleeting, although enjoyable escapades. One was about a quaint unknown town in western Gujarat, another a mortal combat for life, food and Mp3 and the third a revalidation of my past, my childhood. Although, these have been subjective pertaining to individual experiences I hope you enjoyed reading. I might come up with another new topic of discussion next time, a little impersonal this time, until then ‘Au revoir!’ </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-22832766035359194872011-07-08T11:41:00.000-07:002011-07-08T11:41:38.392-07:00Life out of a suitcase : Travelogue 2<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So as a part of my travelogue series, the next city, or trip that I am going to introduce you to, is the one that we had very enthusiastically and earnestly planned in the wintry month of November. In fact it was our most earnest trip ever, considering the time that had been spent planning it and the extravagance of wild imagination invested while we mentally charted through the picturesque and beautiful landscapes of Darjeeling and Gangtok planning to visit these shrines of nature that had been thus far only witnessed from enamelled and glossy post cards and annual calendars. The green of these pictures had mesmerised us so that we almost felt as if it were calling out to us, the call had to be responded (also since the LTC had been due that year) so despite my initial reservations of taking on yet another mountain hiking, leg cramming hill station trip we nonetheless settled down on making a once in a time grand visit to the far east of our country, that secluded part of India that is only Indian by virtue of boundaries, and imaginary at that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So we set out on a trip to Darjeeling/Gangtok in the early chill of winters around mid November. We had strategically planned our visit after diwali in order to avoid large flocks of tourists who brim and crowd the first rows of almost every sight-seeing spot as if reaching there, marking their presence and capturing it on camera was the sole purpose with which they had set out on their entire tour, after all covering each and every nook of all the tourist spots mentioned on the tour guide is a must if one has to eek the absolute benefit of a pre-planned tour. We could have chosen a tour plan but chose to do the exploring bit ourselves, only if we had chosen otherwise. Presuming this to be the best time to visit a hill station and with plans and hopes of being able to spot the snow covered peaks of Himalaya we set out for our trip, not knowing in the slightest of what awaited us on reaching there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we took the Jalpaiguri Rajdhani Express and treated ourselves to the continual services offered from the pantry of Rajdhani Express, the regular servings of timely snacks, soup, dinner, dessert and breakfast the next morning kept us busy and literally full throughout the journey. On reaching the Jalpiguri station we made the most erroneous choice of the entire trip. Gangtok and Darjeeling were equidistant, our trip was a 6 days affair and according to plan we had to halt at Darjeeling for 3 days before making way to Gangtok so that the trip could be on a upscale, with the relatively lesser beautiful place being followed by the one that was slightly better. We headed to Darjeeling in a pooled taxi with another family. So after almost 5 long hours of merry go round around the hills of west Bengal, and having spot the toy train at several places and cursing ourselves for not having opted for it while we had a chance we finally reached Darjeeling around late afternoon. Before entering the city our cab along with those that had left with us at the Jalpaiguri station were stopped at the mouth of the city. The deal and the prime reason for our trip to be the antithesis of what had been cheerfully planned was that the entire city had been called for a Bandh due to internal factions and civil turmoil. The Gorkha land issue was the pin that deflated our balloon of excitement and made this trip something to remember for lifetime for not so happy reasons. If i am to plot a line graph of the relative disastrousness of some of the bad trips we have taken, this one would be serving itself at the highest point. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As if the Bandh was not enough to squash our hopes there was news of tourists being apparently under the target of the protesters. My father got back some awful news of someone being stabbed in broad daylight, whether this happened for real or was amongst the several fallacious rumours doing round they didn’t tell him but it was enough to terrorise all of us. With our hearts in our mouths and our hands squeezed in our pockets we precariously stepped out of the cab so scared and bewildered as if right on the target. Spooked out as we were our father took us to the nearest and also unfortunately and presumably the stingiest and the most rusty looking inn of the entire city. He had been so freaked out with the talks of men with daggers that he didn’t risk walking us even a few meters to consider better options. So despite our constant ranting and reluctance we made way to the inn half heartedly. The shanty rusticity of the inn was draped in bright hues of red blue and green, the colours however did hardly anything to alleviate our dampened spirits. To add to that was the unbecoming and unpalatable food that the inn owner provided us that night. The inn otherwise had no catering facility and we couldn’t have stepped out for the fear of being stabbed to death (well the intent is not to gross out my readers, this was what they made us believe the situation was). The bitterness of the entire land was as if poured into that dinner that night, my brother says he can never disassociate a nauseating giddiness with the memory of that night. I had heard olfactory senses make way for associative memory but apparently the pungency and repulsion of the taste buds have a more lasting effect. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The next day was also called for a Bandh, the tourist guides, whose daily bread depended on the tourists, had the slightest concern for their livelihood, and declared with an audacious smug that the city was still closed to visitors and civilians. Their pale, dirt smeared faces as if glared at us with a mocking surge as if reminding us of the neglect that we inflict on them. One could almost sense their disapproval for our utter disregard of them as part of the Indian State. We nonetheless lanced our way out of the safety haven of the dingy inn and found a cafe that could provide us with some edible breakfast, lunch, evening snack, dinner, all meals in short; choice remained as elusive to us as the green valleys of Darjeeling that we had set out to see when we had the trip planned. The third day, my father desperate to make something of the LTC tour, went to one of the cab drivers and had to literally almost bribe him with extra money and sponsored lunch so that he showed us at least some part of the Bandh-free Darjeeling. So an entire day was spent visiting the rather average, but nonetheless exceptional (by tourist standards) tea gardens, a little venture at rock climbing on a mere 10 ft <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wall (well we did something at least despite the bandh!) and a visit to the local monastery where we spotted little monks who were exceptionally cute. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The same day we were also advised to take a cab to Gangtok because there was no political turmoil there and also the passage to that state had also been almost clear in the last 2 days. The next day as we packed up with our hopes soaring high so that we could make something of our poorly trip, we were told that the passage to Gangtok had been close and for the sake of our safety and well being we must at that very instant head back to Siliguri, a city unheard of otherwise, situated in West Bengal. All the mighty plans to visit Gangtok went amuck, I and my brother pulled the longest face we could and amidst ceaseless whines were shoved into the cab that took us to the plains again. The 5 hour merry go round was more nauseating than before now. As if the bitterness of that horrid inn food mixed with the bile of dissatisfaction was churning in our stomachs to give us belches of unrequited anguish. What was worse, was that in our cab we were accompanied my two Sikkimese men who wouldn’t stop raving about the beauty of that state and how it was so much better than Darjeeling well, they did nothing to cure us of our acidic belches full of discontent, they could have only heightened the agony. So we reached Siliguri and so trembled we were by a possible unrest there as well we lodged ourselves in the nearest available hotel (although choice would have not been unavailable, but that is luck we say). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So we dumped ourselves in another hotel of a city which we would have never planned to visit in an entire lifetime, even if we had pledged to do a Bharat Darshan of sorts. Clumsily sacked in that lone town of West Bengal we spent the rest three days cursing ourselves for having made the “3 mistakes of my (trip)”, the first being, setting out on a trip to one of the most sensitive parts of India without making sufficient enquiries about it, the second, not taking the cab to Sikkim from the Jalpaiguri station in assuming that any trip should successfully alleviate itself (ironically it did so but in only alleviating our melancholy) and finally in not leaving Darjeeling while we had the chance to do so only because we couldn’t wake up on time (fathers don’t scold you for nothing for being lazy bums). The soapy saga doesn’t even end here, as a perfect complement to the utter disastrousness of the trip, my brother forgot his Mp3 player in the shanty inn of Darjeeling and what is worse we have by hand of fate or by technical ghastliness lost all our pictures of that trip taken from our digital camera and saved on the C drive of our ill-fated computer (because every time you run the damned machine it needs reformatting). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">However, we procured the Mp3 back from the inn owners through courier which resurrected our faith in humanity (pardon my exaggeration but the magnanimity of the trip demands it). Someday hopefully we’ll also recover the lost photographs, the only memoirs we retain of that ominous trip (other than the bitter taste of the inn food, of course, that still belches up when we recall the whole experience). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-20503668627132742062011-06-17T04:06:00.000-07:002011-06-17T04:06:06.419-07:00Life out of a suitcase<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In the span of the 20 or so odd years of my life, I have taken many a trips with my family to various places around India. I have never had the opportunity to visit any place outside of India and although I’d have loved to do I hardly find myself regretting it. My father’s job with his various transfers and the LTC’s he is entitled to every 4 years have facilitated an eventful life which other than the hardships of a life on a move have also made it possible for us to visit different places and not only live there or observe it, but to imbibe and inhale the various customs and idiosyncrasies particular to a certain place. I am not denying that some of these trips have proved to be failures and have ended up disappointing us bitterly but they have not failed to reveal to us a part of India that would not be made available to us but for these various planned or unplanned and impulsive trips we have taken. So I dedicate some of the following blogs to the places I have visited and the impression they have left on me while I just splattered through their streets not knowing that these fleeting moments of glee or dejectedness could actually stand the test of time and be as fresh in my memory as if it were just from yesterday. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I may not have been to all the best possible and sought after places in India, but to those I have been to have been etched in my memory and my conscious forever. And it might sound poetic and lyrical but it is indeed true that every city has its own life breath and fingerprint, peculiarities, distinctive places to visit whether or not a tourist city. Every city will have a quaint temple, mosque, gurudwara or church which the city people swear has its feverish following and is significant in one mystique way or another. In a country like ours where mysticism is not a taboo but a celebrated preoccupation we can never run short of it and it is wondrous to see how almost every city thrives on it and would have accompanying stories that amend to the mysticism aroused. Besides all this mystic charm, every city harbours a set of people that are characteristically distinct from those in other parts of the country. Being a multilingual and multicultural society this discrepancy within even similar religious beliefs is not a thing of surprise. We have made trips to certain places where few would have considered going to, one of them being a suburb town/village called Khambhat, Siliguri in West Bengal where we had to escape to when there was political turmoil in Darjeeling, to Ratnagiri, place more remembered for its mangoes than being my birthplace and several such cities that don’t even mention in people’s bon voyages.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’ll begin with a city that will most unlikely feature in any tourist catalogue or in the anecdotes of people who have visited several cities. I remember the modest house and simple attire of Hasib Bhai in Khambat, it was difficult to believe that he had been an exporter. He had three sons all of whom engaged in their father’s business, all married with wives that were both modern and yet subtly so. All his sons had been educated and had had a taste of the city life and yet chose to take refuge in the weighty tranquillity of their hometown. He introduced us to his business in polished stones and how Khambat was famous for natural stones dug out from the pit of the sea and had a huge demand in international market for home decor, as jewellery pieces and for several other ostentatious purposes for which the West has a fancy due to the oriental and exotic feel that is associated with them so that they are adorned as carefully collected relics in the systemized European houses. As we visited the marshy beaches which were highly unsuitable for anything other than salt cultivation because of the uncanny saline deposits, he told us how, Khambaat was one of the biggest salt suppliers of the western coast. He then took us to the cottage mills of the city to show us one of the oldest occupations that had stood the test of time and had been passed on from ancient times to the modern, viz., the art of making handmade silk and in that remote village/town of Khambat we were surprised to find south Indians who had housed themselves there centuries ago and were now meshed with their surroundings making you wonder with disbelief if they could really be called south Indians at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The government guest house where we were put up was a lone colonial squander that stood out amidst the placidity and the murky ordinariness of the rest of the city, looking nothing short of a haunt from the past qualifying itself to be the stage of some nerve wrenching horror flick with its measly staff of two odd looking senile men. I’d be lying if i said that i didn’t feel freaked out sleeping in that old rickety place even while with my family. This eerie looking staff however was very efficient and industrious and attended every complaint whether it be of the fan making squeaky noises, to the A/C that puffed more than it cooled or to the disoriented and dislodged geyser in the bathroom that needed immediate attention with utmost urgency and alacrity. Despite or maybe because of its remotedness the people in that town had been given to a warmth and hospitality that is rare in the urban cities. One is treated not with servility but with an air of familiarity that is more becoming and comforting than pretentious deference. The morning breakfast and the late evening dinners were met with a geniality as if these men were grateful to us for bestowing them with human company in that otherwise shanty vestige of the British, perhaps the only building other than the deserted and rather ignored wobbly church in the city square. Sitting in its cosy rooms as we snuggled in the blankets me and my brother squealed with excitement about the quaintness of the city and its potential to be the site for a racy thriller or a queasy morbid horror masterpiece, its Gothicism inspired both awe and terror. Maybe that’s why I could never get the picture out of my head despite the fact that we have no photographic memoir from that place, if it exists in my head it does by virtue of its distinctiveness that engraved itself into my memories so that i don’t have to even strain myself to remember the picture almost 8 long years since we took that 2 day trip. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The other thing that was noticeable in that romantic other-worldly town and about the people over there was that you could never tell what caste or religion the various people belonged to. Despite the horrendous and disastrous riots that gripped the state into a bloodbath in 2006, the town showed not even minor signs of religious animosity or bitterness. The city was an exemplum of communal harmony, its people just thankful enough for their daily bread than care for rooting out each other’s guts for difference in religious loyalties. These people were not atheists because, other than the sorry church, the mosques and temples were flooded with people in the mornings and evenings and both commanded equal visits from the forlorn tourists who’d visit the city by mere chance or fluke. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So we came back with several stones. Stones to be used as showpieces, stones to be set in leather threads and worn around the neck, stones to be worn as bracelets believed to control blood pressure, diabetes, cancer, and behold, even AIDS (how, is still mystery to me), stones carved in perfect spheres believed to have soothing effect by lulling you to sleep if you rolled them consistently over an hour and stones that had no specific use but were brought because of the charm they exuded. And besides these also with the knowledge that life existed out of the racy conundrum of the urban cities in which we have entangled ourselves, that one could be at peace and be content with whatever one has like Hasib Bhai and that one could retain their basic nature despite the adulteration and the corruption of the world that chooses to see itself as more modern. The visit gave us several stories, various souvenirs and a memory that still holds itself as I pass it over to my readers. </div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-35060677192962837192011-05-16T11:02:00.001-07:002011-05-16T11:02:35.769-07:00A Romantic Affair with memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I heard Joan Baez sing away the other day, memories bring diamond and rust, I have no old lover, nor a romantic affair that can bring back its memories, but I do have romantic affair with old memories themselves. Memories that peep out of old dusty cartons, throwing up flashes from the distant past that have been long forgotten and got over with. I have a romantic affair with all these memoirs from a past life which has been left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An old dress that you no longer fit into because you have grown older, the old notebooks where you scribbled nonchalantly and had silly remarks made by friends on the pages that have now turned yellow. Photographs do rekindle moments and memories but only of the time when the picture was clicked or of the people in the picture generally. However, what lingers on as definite etches in the mind are these mementos from a life that appears almost a light year away now. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being in a transferrable job, my father often makes us move from one house to another, sometimes even to different cities. In this flux what is retained with us of each house, each city and each neighbourhood is these random items we might have collected over years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So yet again these old boxes have come out to haunt me. I have never regretted moving to so many places, it is difficult initially and to be honest we crib a lot for the initial few days, but it has taught me to learn to make homes out of all these houses that we have moved into, making them our own for the brief period that we get to stay here.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">An old school t-shirt where people wrote how they are going to miss you and that you have been special, an old scrap book where you and your friends have scribbled the silliest of things and now get too embarrassed when you mention it; the yellowed and dusty school photograph in which once you could tell the names, surnames and even roll numbers of most of your friends, a pack of crayon colours your mother got to keep you busy in the summer break, the jumbo colour book where some pages are beautifully and sincerely painted and others are left in a lazy give away and half hearted way-I found these and a lot more in my old boxes. Add to these countless copies of tinkle magazines, tinkle digests, old borrowed Archies comics, reader’s digests and several other magazines collected over summer vacations and at other times of the year. Greeting cards bought and received on birthdays, anniversaries and father-mother-son-daughter and all other concocted days. My father asks me what should be done with these, there’s a suggestion that since I don’t need most of these there should be a way to do away with them. But even if I part with these assorted items that I have collected over years, will I ever get over the memories they entail. Good or bad, they are a part of me and define who I am today. In fact I am quite glad we move so often how else would I get a chance to revisit my childhood and recollect moments from school and my homes that have not only taught me how to live life but also to cherish it. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother takes out a small teddy bear and tells me how I had thrown tantrums to get it, as I dig further I find my old Barbie’s, if you ask me I can give you several reasons why I hate the idea of the Barbie now, but at that age it was every girl’s fascination and each Barbie had a story of how and when I procured it. As soft toys and Barbies kept appearing from the cartons so did my childhood, and with it the stories that my mother had to tell. Some were got by my father for he went on long tours outside the city, some by my mother to award the successful completion of an academic year and some others on special occasions like birthdays or Diwali. I never played with them as such except for the Barbie, cause Barbie actually made you believe you could be anything in life :P but they still were my possessions that had to be preserved and also guarded when raided by rowdy grizzly cousins. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then there are the shells that we collected from the beaches of Goa, and even though they are broken and of no aesthetic or other value, they are still carefully carried from one house to another for they are souvenirs of the amazing trip we had there and the fun we had while collecting them. There were books too, lots of them, books that I read and loved, books I bought and never read and books that I had exhausted and could still read one more time. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finding certain things, that you had momentarily forgotten or had regressed in the memory, gives you a sense of pleasure that is unmatched and irreplaceable. The romantic idea of living on the move, out of the suitcase, life being a journey and we being voyagers and the motif of constant flux then seem more enigmatic than the boring monotony of everyday life and may cause you either to philosophise or otherwise inspire enough to share it with others like I am doing now. The fact is that I was so overwhelmed by the whole experience, of realising the fact that my stay at my current residence is another stage another epoch in my diasporic life that I couldn’t resist talking about it. </span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-56328709361740516542011-05-12T10:24:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:52:12.969-07:00The Exam-Summery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So after more than a month of sabbatical I return to my blog, and I must say I really missed blogging. In these days when I could not blog, sometimes due to a wrecked laptop charger or at other times, due to overload of work (you can’t expect yourself nor bring yourself to write just anything after keying in close to 30,000 words for your term papers). But it feels good to be back and I have promised myself that I will not take such long breaks unless necessitated by exams or ill-health or other electronic glitches which have become a commonplace for my laptop.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, as the sultry scorching heat of May approaches and threatens to dry up my thoughts along with my cognitive potential, blogging is one respite that salvages by giving me a chance to exercise my brain that is shrinking every minute. Sometimes I wonder if this lethargy of mind is because of lethargy of the body or vice versa, well either way, it is obviously not helping and definitely not desired. A few days before one of my friends complained about every corner of her house feeling like a blast furnace, and I couldn’t agree more. And much worse in such situations is to write exams, straining every grey cell and each muscle of your body to keep on moving despite the sweltering heat threatening to take charge over you, so that you want to throw away your pen, pour that water bottle over your head and declare in a shrill shriek, “I can take no more, I know what to write so could you mark me on my knowledge?” If you are in an approved degree college, however, this doesn’t work. You still have to sit through and rummage your brains to complete the rest of the paper somehow. I wish Einstein had tested his relativity theory on the hapless exam takers who have to go through this torture in the months of unexceptional heat and sweat. I am sure he’d have answers that would have corresponded to his theory to the wee bit. Every minute counts, and so does every word even if it slithers across the sheet as the invigilator is pulling the sheet away from you.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have always wondered how some people manage to finish the paper before time. However, after much contemplation I came to the conclusion, that these early birds who finish the paper while others still have their noses buried in their papers are generally of two kinds, one are those, who know exactly what to write and how much of it and so do just that and finish on time. The others, after having spent enough time roving their eyes here and there, observing people, after several failed frantic and desperate attempts at using vile means, having exhausted their capacity to use other means to while time, or have just laid their weapons because of the futility of trying out any foul means in the presence of the invigilator. Examinations are a part of the conspiracy of a defeatist world, where the paper setter invariably knows what you left for studying, what was the question you prepared on the first day of the 4 day break and the answer you just saw before entering the exam hall and now despite innumerable frustrating and self defeating attempts you can’t seem to remember. In fact I often feel exams are a way to test how you can still manage to survive three hours of this gruesome mental crusade and are able to retain your sanity and good belief amidst such debilitating and overwhelming circumstances that incessantly go against you by the cruel work of fate.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The worse being, you look up having given up all hopes of ‘passing with flying colours’( or any colour for that matter except obviously the ‘red’) and look around trying to find a camaraderie, a companionship in your suffering and sadly find almost everybody else writing so feverishly as if earning extra life points with every written word. And as you skim through the classroom searching for a soul-mate whose condition is as dreary as your own, you find in the other corner of the room some other cheeky lost soul whose also looking up and running his eyes across the room, but before you can meet his eyes and exchange a mental hi5, the kid gets himself busy again, leaving you alone to resume your penury. Finally, it dawns upon you that you have come to write an exam and not a thesis on the report of human behaviour in examination halls. You grip the pen firmly determined to get a go at the last answer you know, but don’t want to write for some no god forsaken reason. However, as soon as you get at it, the invigilator announces in her shrill voice that only about 5 minutes are left.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The world comes crashing down, the illusions of time are shattered, the relative theory requires to be turned around its head, and in what seems like a race against time, you wonder if the limits of 5 minutes can be stretched. Suddenly, everything starts running in your mind, but alas all in a haphazard manner in random order of importance and priority. You begin eating up words, believe that you have already written something when you have not, and the conclusion is never out of the mind, because the teacher taught, never leave the answer without concluding it, you may fudge the other portions, but conclude!</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And after all the tussle against time, escaping the hawk eyes of the invigilator to catch that one word from a friend that reminded you of a whole answer, and through the several bouts of water gulps between answers to give yourself time to recollect and reassure yourself that all’s not lost, you somehow finish your paper, with random scribbling across the question paper, with doodles, remarks about how you don’t get a word and random calculations of the anticipated marks taking up the entire body of the blank space on the paper. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But what pervades all these dismal details, is the joy and the exhilaration of getting free, rather getting rid of an exam, a subject, of something that wouldn’t haunt you for some time at least. As opposed to some people, I never relook at the paper, what’s done is done and now will R.I.P. I can’t fight the determinism and fatalism that is entailed in exam giving, and so I submit almost unquestioningly to this barter of knowledge for marks. </span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-48841549476710976772011-03-27T08:45:00.000-07:002011-03-27T08:45:53.107-07:00The Annual Homecoming<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I try to fight the mosquitoes away, I am reminded of our old ancestral house in a suburbia village in Rajasthan, of the name Raamganj Mandi. A village/town so small that most trains would swish past its rather forlorn and empty station, so cramped that you had to squeeze your way into the by lanes contesting space with motorcycles, cows, goats, and little children fooling around the streets. A visit to this place was part of our customary yearly visit to Kota to where the rest of the family (other than my grandparents of course) had moved to in the name of progress and development. However, none of our trips would be over without getting an attendance check at our grandparents’ abode. Although we loved our grandparents and they doted over us, it is still difficult to convince children from urban metropolis to live in a suburban semi-village-setting for a whole week. My grandfather being strictly old school, we didn’t have a running television, the one that was available would be lying in one corner eating dust as if it were an article from Arabian nights, almost ancient, archaic to say the least. I am not sure if they still own it, but if they do I am sure it would be a collector’s item, like those 19<sup>th</sup> century Rolls Royce cars adorned in the palaces of Rajasthani princes, much less in worth though. Despite, the protests from our grandfather we would still put it on in his absence. The fact that it even showed the screen covered with a zillion black-white dots, was no less than a wonder. Then we would fiddle the knobs of volume and channel tuner as if rubbing Aladdin’s lamp (yes, the Arabian Night trope continues). Then suddenly the DD channel would show up, with the characters swaying to and fro to perhaps to some inaudible platonic tune of spheres. And for some ill play of fate they’d always be showing The Ramayana, and our grandmother, otherwise pretty dormant and droopy would be instantly alerted, in fact almost inadvertently and much to our displeasure, our tirade and adventure with the tv had to be given up for her to watch the ‘Holy’ show. As if the Lamp had its own will. Not that we were not religious enough or were averse to the bemusing tales from scriptures, but for kids of the age of 8 to 10, religion is fairly in the deep abyss of the immediate conscious. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On some days we would visit the neighbours who had the privilege of a cable connection, which seemed like an oasis in the desert. However, paradoxically we would go to their place to watch tv and end up doing everything else but that. We’d chat with the women of the house, play with children of our age group and make boats and sail them in the open water lanes running outside the house. And we would notice how our grandmother had devised a unique setting where she would socialise with almost everyone from the village sitting on the porch of the house. From the daily vendors to maids to neighbours to relatives, everyone was greeted from the alley of the porch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Having nothing better to do we would run to the kitchen to see what our mother was doing, which was being invariably busy in her share of household chores. There was no point looking for our father, he had way too many old cronies and relatives to attend to. These trips would always be made in the summers and Rajasthan is sweltering and scorching hot in this time of the year. And with no generator in the house, the coolers were as good as mere blowers. The electricity would come and go as if it were mocking us, making us realise indispensability of luxury items. It is here we learnt that watermelons can be cooled in the kitchen sink and that hand fans are multipurpose, they fan in air and fan out mosquitoes. Since electricity played peek-a-boo now and then, even the tv would be inaccessible every few minutes. Me and my brother would lurk around the house aimlessly, me, with mostly a copy of Tinkle in my hand and my brother busy with a rubber ball or a catapult that he might have picked up at some odd station, trotting along with our father who often got down at stations in order to fetch some munchies to cope with boredom. There was also an old carom board in the house, and we’d always need to hunt for it; for the set of cousins who had visited before us would always hide it before they left, and there was also an old pack of playing cards. Now the ace in the deck of playing cards and the striker in the carom game would be perpetually missing. So we would wait for our father to go for a market trip for groceries and other items so that we could tag along and make arrangements for the frugal means of entertainment at our disposal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">However, the trips wouldn’t be all that bad, we had our share of fun times too. In the afternoons when our mother would get free, she’d play a round of carom or a pack of cards with us. When she we got tired she’d put us to sleep with her stories, stories of rabbits and squirrels living in secret burrows, with lots of munchies like cakes, muffins, ice-creams, chocolates sneaking theirway in and out of their boarding trying to escape tigers and lions. She would create an alternate world and we would always have appetite for more until she’d scold us and forcibly put us to sleep. Also since our grandfather had his own farms we would visit his ‘khet’ on his bicycle and the enthusiasm and alacrity with which he would show us his crop would make us want to leave everything else and become farmers ourselves, there’d be tractors bullocks, cows, buffaloes. Daadi would make makkai and saag for us (all from the ‘khet’), she’d bloat us with milk and butter, and there’d be no dearth of gud and ghee and lots of love poured into all of this. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then there’d be the excitement of bathing from the huge cemented tanks that were filled up with tube wells, and the several stories that us cousins would pass each other that the tanks had no abyss and we could drown in them if we fell into it. Surprisingly, our trips never coincided with that of our cousins, it would have been much more fun otherwise; in fact I sometimes even wonder if the trips were strategically designed by our parents to avoid the rancour that we might create as a group. Anyway, the trip made us realise the importance of our lives in the cities and the comforts that we usually take for granted, it made us aware of the fact that alternate means of entertainment could be sought when tv wasn’t an option. It exposed our mother’s creative potential to us, her ability to make her own fables and create a world out of her imagination, more beautiful and vivid than any story book with pictures. It showed us that new friendships and affinities could be formed even at the most unknown places and lastly it gave us a home to go back to for us diasporic people who’d have to constantly keep moving by virtue of a transferrable job.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-64125641429111729202011-03-20T05:11:00.000-07:002011-03-20T05:11:05.745-07:00The Angoor that didn’t taste sour<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I know it’s not convention to write the review of a movie that is about 40 years old, but since i have watched this movie as a part of my paper in class for translational studies in JNU I could not help but pen a word or two about it on my space, my blog. I am talking of this hilarious laugh riot and delightful piece of work called Angoor directed by lyricist/director Gulzaar, who in his impeccable style, and neatness only matched by his own immaculate dressing, has made the bold attempt at adapting the Great Bard himself (commonly known as William Shakespeare to the world). Most obviously neither Gulzaar nor the Grand Master himself, need any introduction. I know most of us have watched this movie at some point or another irrespective of the era we are born into and the kind of cinema that is fad in the contemporary times. In fact it is much rather the simplicity and directorial nuance with which this movie is made that one finds lacking in today’s cinema. For those who are not aware, the movie is a direct adaptation from Shakespeare’s play, Comedy of Errors. Despite the fact that Gulzaar in the very first scene pays his due to the playwright and also acknowledges his source when I told some of my friends that I am taking Angoor as a discussion for translation most of them reacted with surprise. It is perhaps because Gulzaar has adapted the movie so well and in the process made it his own. Nowhere can you see the overbearing presence or the anxiety of doing justice to the playwright. However, the movie is as much appropriated in the Indian socio-cultural context as it is alienated from the times, and the place it is adapted from. It is as much attached to the original as it is free as an independent work of art. All in all it remains to be a 2 hour 10 minute entertainer of splitting laughter and situational humour.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is quite surprising how a play written in the 16<sup>th</sup> century and performed for the European audiences in the reign of Queen Elizabeth is so easily adaptable and reproducible in mainstream Indian cinema and not only works well but can be recorded as one of the most successful comedies ever; so much so that it has been loosely copied as late as the 90’s in a very shoddy movie otherwise, viz., ‘Bade Miyan Chhote Miyan’. If you strain yourselves the pair of similar looking men, the instance of mistaken identities, and the confusion resulting from that, followed by a misgiving about a jewellery piece are all picked up from Angoor. While the original shows men in believable circumstances where the mistaken identities can be accorded to a certain logic, David Dhawan’s movie goes berserk with Govinda and Amitabh Bachhan (and sadly so) bobbing around in multi coloured attire that is a sore to the eye and looking nothing short of smug and overconfident buffoons, reattempting the classic, however the director appears only too earnest in his endeavours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, then to surpass or even stand shoulder to a man of excellence like gulzaar is quite a task. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No effort has been spent or wasted on any magnificent sets, locations, or even costumes, it wasn’t even found necessary. The introduction of the bhang element makes it characteristically Indian and adds that much required theme of madness that gels perfectly with the events that unfold. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Its heart warming to finally watch a movie, that is successful in making the audience laugh and strike that perfect note without cheesy and corny slapstick dialogues nor any banal or forced attempts at sounding funny (as is the case of most David Dhawan movies). The actors slip into the characters with an ease and grace that makes them a delight to watch. The performances are nuanced and well scripted. All the chief protagonists, viz., Sanjeev Kumar, Deven Verma, Moshumi Chatterjee and Deepti Naval put on a show that didn’t let a single moment be dull in the movie. The scenes that I found particularly funny were the ones with the squeaky crooning of ‘Preetam aan milo’ that wouldn’t escape your mind even as you finish the movie and get on with other things. The fact that the movie is only 2 hours and 10 minutes on screen the scope of being tired and disinterested is tactfully checked. All in all I am glad that I was made to watch the movie for the presentation that was thrust at me last week. But all the more it was an absolute pleasure to watch the movie. While researching on the movie I found out that there are attempts made for its remake. Lets just hope that the new makers don’t make the Bard turn in his revered grave.</div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-32953604300246845172011-03-07T10:53:00.000-08:002011-03-07T10:53:26.742-08:00The Space Wars<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I took a metro ride the other day (now don’t get alarmed this is not in sequel to the previous article, I don’t seem to have the Indian cinema mentality to cash in on the tried and tested over and over again, so coming back) I found myself plugging in my head phones to the exhaustive list of 5 songs I had in my playlist. In a journey over 50 minutes I heard these 5 songs over and over again. The point is that this is no handpicked list of my favourite songs ever, nor am I particularly crazy about any of them, it’s just that my memory card is out of order and there’s no radio on my cell. But again, despite being nauseated with even the most beautiful tracks I kept listening to them, as I fidgeted in my seat with a book of short stories in my hand. So what was I doing exactly? Besides, shutting the world outside I was defining a private space that I didn’t want the others in the metro to impinge. I have observed several men and women (women more than men), especially those who regularly take the metro, doing just about the same. Do you think that all are great music lovers, even if they are I read it more as an exercise in making an invisible bubble around them and marking their space.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you look around the struggle for space is everywhere around us. In fact the most primary struggle that defines our lives is that of negotiating our spaces. As much as man is a social animal, like any other animal it likes to demarcate its space, its territory, in mannerisms that only differ from the animal kingdom in varying degrees of politeness and sophistication. It’s everywhere around us, when it comes to spaces nobody is kin. Whether you are a sibling, parent, friend, partner, colleague (more so if you are none of these) one needs to categorically define space. One of the most strongly felt, although, also one of the most polite struggles for space is the one where you civilly try to parley the armrest that is common for two chairs. The one who wins in this silent war of dominances enjoys the privilege of that little extra space and establishes his pre-eminence in this short lived conflict. In trains I have seen people literally stretching themselves(pun intended) to the limit of taking part of others' seats so that you don’t impinge on the space allotted to them according to their seat numbers. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It begins right from the earliest days of childhood, the young infant wants to be held by some and not by others, it is s/he who chooses whom to bestow with its grace, it knows its toys from that of others and holds onto them dearer than life. When you are toddlers and go to school for the first time and get your benches, there begins your first ever struggle in the public sphere. Some want to sit inside because they don’t want to be disturbed, some outside so that they don’t feel inhibited. The left handed have to have that extra space to place their hands, some like a particular place in the class and even make an attempt to colonise it with their names. The struggle continues all through school life, the strife in the playfield, the hegemony on the swing and slide, the ‘it’ and ‘non-it’ groups. And then the epic war of spaces between spouses. I wonder if Adam had given Eve her due space and let her be his equal, we’d all not be in this post lapsarian fallen world, fighting our guts out with each other over issues of space. Most relationships see their end for this lack of understanding each other’s space culminating to separation where all they finally acquire is space for themselves and nothing else.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite the fact that our ancestries have lived in joint families, with several <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>other things we have also adopted the liberalist humanist living ideals of the American way of life, where the teenager makes it clear to his/her parents in their characteristic accent, “Mom, I need my space.” As much as we would want to say that to our parents (with or without the accent) we cannot. Even if the mother gives in, there is your brother/sister to tackle and the constant inflow of desired or undesired pack of relatives that have no regard for your strategically acquired privilege. However, to no good avail. The illusion is shattered and we are made akin to the reality that we need to share that space.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We accuse the western nations to be colonialists but to think of it we are all little imperialists ourselves. We want that particular side of the bed, that pan-view chair on the dining table, that window seat in trains, buses and planes, that nicest parking space in the colony parking (our society just finished allotting parking spaces to each flat by marking lines recently). And if you are wondering why I suddenly came to discuss space, it was only after yesterday when my brother physically dislodged me from his side of the bed citing that it is his area no matter what, that I landed upon this issue as a topic for discussion. So while I invite you to my space as a blogger, I am at the same time trying to figure out the way to get around and contrive it from my brother.</span></span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-86741279084384430532011-02-28T07:53:00.000-08:002011-02-28T07:53:34.696-08:00A day in the life of Delhi Metro<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The phone rang, I was still half asleep, it was my friend on the other side. In an excited high pitch tone she asked me to hurry up and make it to Cannaught Place in Delhi by an hour cause we were to meet and she had limited time. Getting to Cp in an hour would mean, to get up, brush, attend nature’s call and bath, all in a matter of 15 minutes (humanly impossible) followed by an almost sprint to the metro station, bypassing the semi molesting check by the women guards, getting the bag cleared and then making a dash to the stairs leading up to the station. All that done and in an almost a blow to your panting, losing breath efforts you see the metro you wish to take gliding away with people from within passing that sadist smile making you aware of your failure in the game called, ‘survival of the ‘swiftest’’. Once inside the metro begins the game of exchanging gazes. The fact of you being an object of observation fully dawns upon you once inside the Delhi metro. As if the semi-molesting guard woman who checks you at the entrance had not done her bit, there’s another eye scanner you are put through by your fellow passengers. The girls might scan you for your clothes and men? Well they really don’t need a reason.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well now that we have a whole compartment to ourselves, women can breathe easier (both metaphorically and literally). However, earlier, the mere task of getting into the metro made you feel as victorious and triumphant as Alexander himself. Being short in height by conventional and all other standards, I have had some terrible experiences myself. Standing amidst tall towering men I have had to struggle to find place to perch my feet and contest for the limited breathing space with my fellow passengers. And then the nose lacking the necessary filter for foul smells and pungent odours, there is not much one can do but to incorrigibly wait for your destination. Then there’s another struggle for holding on to the handles meant for support, well for those as short as me, we have to make do with body balance, stretch out your feet wide, arms on side, and pray that the metro doesn’t take abrupt screechy halts.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, direct your attention to the people around and you might earn yourself a little entertainment for no cost. Wailing babies, men sleeping and even snoring even while standing, people with headphones in their ears harmonically bobbing their heads, conversations of last night’s match, the latest movie, who died and made a comeback in the daily, share market, love, friendship and the usual cribbing about the Delhi weather which is more often than not disappointing and debilitating. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then a look at those who are regally seated; they appear to almost recreate the look of a peaceful serenity that Buddha would have reflected under the tree where he got enlightened. If getting in the metro was Alexandrous, then getting a seat is like a colonial conquer. Those who are left standing are the damned lot who curse their Karma for being so unfortunate as to not get a seat. Over the months some even devise a scheme of prowl and vigil and sneak a seat when it is vacated on the rarest of occasions. It’s a 3 step deal: look, lurk and grab. However, the calmness and contentment of those with seats is fairly short lived, because invariably there’d be someone to dishevel their god-sent peace, trying to adjust his/her ass for that little extra space left in the otherwise packed bench.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, despite all this and more, metro still remains to be the most preferred medium of conveyance. It’s air conditioned, takes lesser time to reach any place in Delhi and is a much better alternative than the overpriced autos and the much maligned blue line. So I brace myself, walking to the women’s compartment with a cheerful gait ignoring all the snide looks that men pass at any women for stealing away the special privilege of reservation. But do I care? I deserve it for all the lecherous and scathing glances I have endured and besides I have a friend waiting, who'll leave if I don't reach on time. :P</span></span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-3949482727430524182011-02-21T10:12:00.000-08:002011-02-21T10:13:26.715-08:00My first poem in public domain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">For lack of anything substantial to write this week, I decided to post a poem I penned recently:<br />
<br />
My heart Sank<br />
<br />
My heart sank, sank a little<br />
It skipped a beat, a thud too fast<br />
I was into it for a moment<br />
Just a tiny moment of a welled up heart<br />
Now the furore is over<br />
The storm has died now<br />
Just a soft lull lurking <br />
That has left a pang behind<br />
My heart sank, sank a little<br />
Thoughts of the yonder prick the heart<br />
Standing at crossroads, a lost life<br />
It will be regained though<br />
Soon I will resume my path<br />
But the seething pang doesn't wane for now<br />
Because it is indeed true that<br />
My heart sank, it sank a little<br />
</div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-51695089246026211902011-02-14T04:47:00.000-08:002011-02-14T04:47:35.058-08:00For the business called Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay on the day of Valentine when I should be out there giving out and collecting roses I am sitting at home, reading Zola Neil Hurston’s, Their eyes were watching God, so much of this blog might appear as ranting of someone who couldn’t find anything better to do. But I am no great fan of PDA’s and think it evil to commercialise love. This year I got aware of the weeklong celebration of the most awaited and most touted day of the year. And mind you each day, with the exception of the hug day and kiss day (that come towards the very end and does not require any money spending), is in fact instrumental in augmenting and facilitating various markets that sell expressions of love on their shelves. Whether it is chocolates, teddy bears or roses, the celebrations and their rituals make sure that you spend well to make sure that your little darling doesn’t feel left out. And not participating in any of these is a carnal folly for all those deeply in love(?) Well who knows real love or not, the rituals can’t be done away with. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few days before Hello Delhi carried an article about how people are tossing out moolah to make that day special for their beloveds, from fancy and flashy limos to extravagant and expensive helicopter rides over delhi( wait! Over delhi? To look at what? Flyovers, unfinished metro work, the holes dug up by dmrc, the mind boggling traffic? Or maybe to get away from pollution for some time, but at a whoppy price of 90k, No please thank you I’d like my cola and popcorn in a movie hall please.) and for those who don’t wish to spend so much the red, pink bazaar is at their service. It might be clichéd, but it still seems to work well. As if the red coloured heart, the pink teddy bear, the done to death lines of love in greeting cards and red roses can swear everlasting love better than anything else. There was never a trading fest like the Valentines, where so many markets flourish at the same time, the confectionary, the greeting card business, the soft toy company, the rose market. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s surprising how some clichés don’t seem to have an expiry date. Year after year shops are adorned with stuff that almost everyone person is gifting one another. It is said that the language of love is common, but it was never said that it’d be also expressed in same words, and same sizes and colour. It’s amazing how people suddenly rediscover, (or are forced to) their love that had been regressed to the recesses of their minds. Sitting at home, and brooding (like I am) has almost become a taboo. If I have a girlfriend or boyfriend I have to take him/her out even if it be out of compulsion, cause it is all in service to the late St. Valentines for whom we do not give a damn otherwise. And love has to be expressed on this day because a day for this purpose has been assigned. The markets thriving on love and feeding on amorous affairs in fact make the average mind believe that it is important to express love on this very day and also with the assistance of the required apparatus that they have at their disposal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a friendship day too, which celebrates friendship and companionship and mate-ship, etc but since the relationship is not as fussy as love and since it is not a one to one arrangement, the whole affair is a lot lesser in complicatedness. Shoddy pieces of plastic or rubber wrist bands are all that you need to wrap up the whole affair with. Roses, greeting cards, and the teddies do not feature, not raking benefits for anyone and therefore the day is much less revered than Valentines. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, now that the rant is over, A Very Happy Valentine’s Day to each and all and May you all have a nice red-pink and happy day, while I bargain for cheap roses, so that I can give a birthday surprise to my father who happens to have his birthday a day later. </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6858219965040610007.post-4579585202684467632011-02-07T05:24:00.000-08:002011-02-07T05:24:49.303-08:00The Cabaret of Indian Award Functions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thoroughly enjoyed this year’s filmfare awards. Why? Because I was happy with who won the words and was satisfied with their selection and heard myself saying that it was the perfect choice? Not really because a day before the awards I gathered who all had won awards in the newspaper. So what made the show happening for me? The performances, the hosting of the show by ranbeer and imraan, (who still loom in the shadow of the shows put up by their senior counterparts, shah rukh and saif) or just looking at the beaming faces of all the film stars present at the mega event? But as a matter of fact I enjoyed any other award show as much as the grand Film fare affair, although the attendance at the film fare out does any other award function. So what is it that makes it outshine the other award functions, merely the fact that it’s in its 56<sup>th</sup> year and is associated with the oldest and the most popular film magazine of all times? With a dozen of other award functions that appear before and after Film Fare, the mega award ceremony seems to have lost its sheen. If u are berated and not acknowledged at one award’s function some other award function can very well come to rescue and if you happen to be the ‘it’ thing, they might go so far as to come up with a new category altogether that might be befitting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">While awards are meant to be recognition of outstanding achievement and performance in cinema for a given year, given the commercialisation of Indian cinema and the market forces that operate it, awards have been only reduced to an exercise in encouragement of new comers into the industry or the legitimisation and reaffirming the status of the veterans. Although the only salvaging grace of Film Fare is that being the oldest award function it has to bear the onus of excellence and, even if in mere semblance, has to wear the facade of fair play and egalitarianism. It would be no wrong to say that the bollywood industry is no less than a feudal setting where the sections of performers and artists are stratified and there is a clearly marked hegemony. Where excellence is determined by popularity and impartiality is traded for alliances. While the Film Fare still maintains a set standard of democratic decision making and also goes so far as to declare its jury that can be held accountable, most other award functions squirm through this exercise without announcing the jury and also manage to distract the audiences by the dazzle of a spectacle on stage. While the Film Fare this year felt responsible to award movies like Udaan that had accumulated international recognition albeit, at the same time it also felt the pressures of recognising the big players of the industry, viz., the Karan Johar Camp and the Salman Khan brigade. Also, since the Film Fare comes after a few awards have already appeared the anticipation for the awards have a great bearing on their decision making. The other award functions are not even worth mentioning because they are solely driven on PR and marketing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In midst of such commercialisation and capitalisation, the film industry has been reduced into a huge estate where people pool their money and success is the stake they bank on. Movies like Om Shanti Om will go down in history as one of the most popular only on the basis of the commercial success it raked notwithstanding the shoddy direction and poor performances. There is no surprise that it might have even garnered some awards to its credit had a bigger commercial success, 3 idiots wouldn’t have stolen the limelight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The awards therefore are mere celebrations of the completion of a successful commercial year at the box office, boosting the new talent, patting the success of the seasoned, just in time before the closure of the official financial year in March, where the bollywood income and its stakes are finally filed.</span></div></div>Suniti Madaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05754636647970189828noreply@blogger.com0