Back in the game

It's my last week at ET and I haven't felt so guiltily happy in a while. Why? Because I have learnt that I am not cut out for a mundane nine to five - something I knew back in school anyway. It took me a year and a half of mental loitering to arrive back at square one, with no greater capabilities but feeling all bright and sprightly for no clear reason.

I shouldn't be too sardonic here, the past one year was a terrific experience. I think I'm a lot more likeable now, so what if my bank balance hasn't been replenished generously in ages.

It's good to hear the clink of old pieces between my fingers and frown down at the long neglected green chessboard I bought in Sri Lanka and my sister trimmed to the right size with a sharp cutter that I was too clumsy to handle precisely. The white ones are a sickly yellow now and I can't remember what happened to the black king and why only an amputated stub of his crown remains and pokes my thumb.

More than any of that, it's good to feel my mind working. You can actually feel your mind working. If you observe yourself carefully you can feel the exact speed and depth at which you are thinking and calculating and you can narrow your eyes and block out the room and the noise from the hall and feel a heat rising up in your head, and see clearer and more than you could a minute before. Or, if you're in one of those frustratingly indisciplined moods, you can try to squeeze your mind in one direction but it slips out like the mercury I used to try to squeeze in my palm when I was a kid. And then it runs helter skelter or stops deceptively for a second, making you believe that you can now tame it before you realise that you've been dreaming and what is that silly smile on your face?

I love the adrenalin rush as much as I detest the absolutism of that life. I love the fact that I am going to be that girl, that girl who has a vast blank sheet before her but doesn't know what to write or how to walk on it without spoiling it and who is both scorned and envied because I can search for what I want without settling for less for as long as it takes me and certainly longer than you, you conformist.

Loneliness

So yesterday was hopefully my last night working late at the office, although I kinda liked those midnight cab rides through shockingly empty Bombay streets.
There's this one guy who was in my cab every night. He's handicapped, and I've seen him in one of those claustrophobic cubicles. He would be assisted out of of the car by the driver every night, lean heavily on his crutch while trying to keep the door open, turn around and gruffly say good night to the other passengers.
I was watching him yesterday, and suddenly felt sorry for him, sitting alone in his cubicle, hobbling alone down the lane that ends in a row of dilapidated buildings. I wondered if he would be greeted warmly by his children at home, and whether any woman had been attracted enough to him to bear him children.
But who was I to feel pity? A person can be perfectly healthy, have a swankier cubicle and a lot of friends and I'd still be unsure if he'd get a hug at home.
These are lonely lives, and every small display of affection counts!

Mahabalipuram illuminated

It was the goats we saw first. Silent, statuesque, skinny-legged silhouettes on top of a gigantic bas-relief. Who knew that goats sleep standing up.  

I had giggled on the way as the moped whined under our holiday weight. It swung erratically through the street like a sulking pendulum. Head ducking, sarongs blowing, cobblers pounding, beads rattling in my face. It was dusk and the hawkers had turned shrill.

We almost overlooked Arjuna’s Penance. What kind of a UNESCO World Heritage Site stands abandoned at the roadside anyway? He had to show off his new Nikon, so I got off and shuffled about while he struggled for his shot in the dark. And there I had an epiphany.

“Shall we try flashing the headlights on the stone? The elephant carving is worth capturing.” Uh oh. I knew that look he gave me.

I, who had never touched a two wheeler of any sort, found myself accelerating the moped and holding on to keep it from shooting off with me. Click click click. He looked at me and we both laughed gloriously.

It was my idea to rent the silly thing as well.

Manderley

‘’Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’’ This is the opening line of ‘’Rebecca’’ by Daphne du Maurier. One of my favourite books, its text is beautifully, hauntingly sensuous in its description of Manderley, the country mansion where the heroine lives. From the time when I first read it in my early teens, I longed for a home with such mystical magnetism, a home hewn out of wilderness. My desire saw light a few years later when we built a house outside of Pune, on a densely wooded hill. It is called Girivan – the forest on the mountain.

It’s been three years since we moved in, but the anticipation of driving up to the house never grows old. The car snakes up a zigzag road that abandons all pretence of being tarred as we go higher and deeper. Deeper into the tangle of trees and shrubs that can swallow up the road at the slightest negligence by the pruners. And just when you begin to wonder if you’re lost, the yellow house rapidly mushrooms out of the greenery like a large toadstool in a flat clearing, discovered by a child much to his delight. Rising up, yawning wide.

The tiny white tiles of the terrace shine as we pull up. They trail off into a graceful S-shape along the curved walls of the house. When there is a breeze, you can hear the light sound of the wind-chime. Otherwise a drowsy stillness hangs in the air, heavy with the smell of a million leaves and wildflowers. The dogs bark and howl and generally create a racket before attaching themselves to your heels.

Columns of potted bougainvillea draw you towards the entrance, their white and pink blossoms bending in welcome. A lofty door awaits your knock. There is time enough to trace the grain in the wood while the translucent coloured-glass inlay glows invitingly with the light from within. Somebody is leisurely walking the length of the house towards the door. Watches have no place here.

The door is thrown open to a vast hall, stretching off into a corridor at one end. The high ceiling is intersected by trusses – vestiges of past styles of architecture. Familiar symbols of comfort dot the room. A pale green sofa here, a fading patterned rug there. Tea is served in a friendly-looking mug, always on a coaster.

Evenings warrant a stroll in the sweeping veranda overlooking the valley. The pillars are wrapped in climbers that swing like trapeze artists and perform a wispy shadow-dance on the ruddy terracotta flooring. Some tiles are glazed with unseemly paint – a memorably disastrous experiment.

Your walk leads you onto a square deck jutting out over the garden like a strong jaw. Lingering echoes of countless gatherings, conversations and parties are trapped within its railings. The last light of the sun kisses it softly, leaving it faintly warm as it retreats into the flaming sky in the west. You can fully feel the absence of buildings and smoke when your eyes reflect this uninterrupted melange of hues.

The garden which looks so pretty and cultivated in the day wears an entirely different cloak at dusk. Its grassy undulations swell and dip away suddenly like ocean waves, hiding the creatures of the night from view. A bamboo thicket in the corner sways in the now-strong breeze as its slender leaves flutter like the long, extended fingertips of a wood-nymph. They beckon upwards.

On summer nights, mattresses are laid out on the terrace in a row. The time has come, as Lewis Carroll said, to talk of many things. The wind brings folk music up from the villages in the valley, the hills all around bearing silent witness to the communion. Bit by bit, voices dwindle and you slip into a blissful reverie. Fireflies become stars and stars become watchful. The night gathers you up in its arms, and you float on the wind. This time, there is a definite tinkling of the pipes of the wind-chime, each producing its own sweet distinct note. A palm rests on the smooth tile, and breathing becomes steady.

Morning rushes into your senses with the sharp scent of wet earth being watered by a gushing hose. An orange orb is creeping up the sky from the east. Bathed luxuriously in the diffused glow, you stretch contentedly like a cat. I am at Manderley. 

Summertime Greens

The last time I was a complete imp was at my grandma’s house in Jabalpur. Mummy, as we affectionately called her, had all her grandchildren over during the summer holidays through the 90s. The bungalow was one of those perfect structures that gave us cousins ample spaces to play and hide in. We jumped, ran and swung from the little bridge arching over the rolling garden till it started to groan and bend. At the end of the compound was a rock waterfall, hastily dismantled one summer when a family of cobras emerged out of a crevice. Our hearts broke when we heard that we couldn’t hang out under the cold stream in our underwear anymore.

The indoors held one prime attraction – a magnificent waterbed covered by a soft green velvet spread that defined my childhood. Sunk cosily into a corner, I would drift off into the world of make-believe. Dolls, jigsaw puzzles, my grandfather’s books and a Mario console bordered my consciousness.  

Afternoons were the most magical time, when the dozing adults were safely out of the way. Lights were turned off and the house was ours. Our mouths stuffed with supari stolen from the crystal jar in the hall, we would stretch out on the green mosaic floor under the gentle spray of the humming water cooler. When tea-time approached we were hauled out onto the terrace to peel peas or perform some other mundane task. Looking back, that was fun too.

Mummy died in 2003 and we all grew up as well. The house was renovated, and I think the waterbed began to leak soon after. But I still carry the feel of the velvet and the coolness of the green room in my memory.

Re'porting

When you trudge up to your room at 9pm with sore heels and perspiration sliding down your neck, you know it's been a productive day in Chennai.

Not that I achieved a lot. We had gone up to the port to interview a bunch of guys who run a sport fishing club. Fishing, by the way, is not as simple as it looks. It took the combined effort of 3 of us novices to reel in two Great Trevallys (which we released back into the water before they became fish-not-flapping).

It was a brilliant evening to be out at sea, medium breeze and very little light filtering through the heavy clouds. The boat circled a random sunken shipwreck with its mast sticking incongruously out of the waters, schools of mackerel swarming around it. Did you know that little fish sparkle when they jump out into the pale light? It was mesmerising, I wanted to dive overboard and swim with them. 

The spray of our speedboat was fast, cool and never got boring. It cruised past an endless stretch of breakwaters, and turned back when the coastguard's boom resonated through the air. Our hosts instructed us to stow away our equipment when the police boat approached. We needn't have worried, the Indian police is the same everywhere - just trying to show who's boss. 

I longed to go further, break the law, go into the unknown. I tried to imagine Kasab & co. navigating stealthily towards shore. Their intent notwithstanding, the idea of using the ocean that way was thrilling. Even more thrilling was the thought of ancient seafarers just taking the wheel and slicing their destinies through the waters. How were these enormous expanses tamed?

Further towards port, there was a magnificently tall multi-pulley system lifting heavy containers off a large freighter. On the other side was the unmistakable grey hull of an Indian Navy ship. Oil tankers, British vessels, American vessels. The tiny figures on those ships seemed to be from a different plane than the one I live on. And these are not even the greatest vessels in the world. Man-made wonders! There was a tinge of disappointment in realising that I would never be a part of creating any of this.

Being a journalist would be a sorry consolation - atleast I can live such experiences vicariously. I might get a visitor's pass to a gated community.

The shore looked pretty as we approached. The entire skyline was made up of dozens of identical cranes piercing through the sky. They arched over Chennai, saying yeah baby, we're the ones that invisibly make things work for you middle-class joyriders. Metal has never looked that beautiful and strong.

A huddle of fishermen's boats formed the last frame of the pictoric experience as we drew in. The laughing boys called out as they emptied their swollen nets. We waved. They waved. Everybody waved.

We all were feeling mighty pleased with ourselves for some reason, so decided to walk on the Marina instead of hurrying back to edit our recording. 

The Marina beach is filthy. But then again, if I lived in a hut the size of my bed, I might not care where I shit or throw my trash either. 

We walked for an hour or more, sampling the standard beach fare of boiled groundnuts, bhutta and lousy Chennai chaat. Our whistling, wandering sojourn ended at the lighthouse, which is really not as interesting as it sounds. We scurried quickly through the spooky deserted local train station and were soon on our way back to the hostel. Grimy hands clutching handrails, earphones tuned in and eyes staring vacantly through the windows. Our homecoming at the mess lived up to the standards of the day - hot mini uttapams with yummy tangy chutney.

And my bed felt really soft when I sank into it that night.

A Family Girl

Sometimes I really wonder why God is making us act in this colossal circus. Just yesterday I was stretched out on the deck and contemplating the mountains which have begun to seem as though they belong to me, an extension of my home. Now I find myself sitting in strange house next to a perpetually blaring television opposite a well-meaning lady who is surely going to kill me with words over the next 10 days.

It’s the peak of summer and I am wearing a full length nightsuit because the sight of my skin is offensive. I have just returned from a rather stressful and unenjoyable walk in the neighbourhood market where I was subjected to curious stares and ''accidental'' brushes despite the dupatta covering my shoulders and making me sweat like a pig.

I am staying with relatives thanks to the ''hazards'' of Delhi, even though I dislike being surrounded by family, gossip, emotions and social events during tournaments. I have taken a favour, a subtle agent of dependency, and hence I do not have any option but to wear a plastic smile through the monologues on spirituality and culinary skills. In any case I have been given ''good sanskar'' which would not permit me to walk out on a kind, affectionate elder person no matter how tedious their conversation or how strong my desire to ARGH.

How on earth do people get so thick skinned that they continue their drone while you’re clearly busy doing your own work!

I have spent a lot of money on soaring air fares to play this tournament because I have a specific career goal and a deadline for completing it. There are several reasons why I need to complete it – self-esteem, status, obligations to loved ones, and ''practical'' benefits.

I would much rather be learning paragliding at Pavana lake right now, cruising in the free sky where there is no danger of encountering unpleasant people, protective people, ambitious people, practical people, rules, targets or boundaries; but how will that help me in life?  

Am I the only cold, ungrateful wretch who resents these norms or does everybody secretly have bouts of wanting to break free of all commitments?
The lady's husband has just gone out to bring me ice-cream although I did not ask for it. Now I feel ashamed. 

Scent of Freedom

I miss desperately the reckless early days of my bloom.

Perched on a bike, legs firmly wedged around the variable male figure in front. I miss the slight twist of his fingers that left a roar of energy in our wake and a euphoric laugh emanating from within me. The playful clasps and pecks, conspirational grins at traffic signals. A wind that unabashedly whipped around my skirt, much to the raucous amusement of our fellow bikers. Staring into the twinkling eyes of the other dolled up, interchangeable girls. Knowing I was one of them, and getting high on the blatant, mindless, EXHIRALATING pursuit of sensuality.

Those painful whiplashes of carelessly brushed hair were worth it. The speechless, awesome fear in high speed was worth it. All for one thing – NOT KNOWING. Uncertainity. Unpredictability. Not knowing what I would be doing in 2 hours. Where I would be sleeping in 6 hours. What I would be telling mom in 10 hours.

We could easily have hit a bump in the road and been thrown out under a truck, smashed into ignominious oblivion, a testimony to irresponsible, immoral teenage behaviour.

But we didn’t. We had some of the best nights of our lives. Of my life, at the very least. And then we grew up. Or I did, at least.

And it’s not cool to want to be like that anymore.

Face Off

It's impossible to get lost in Gibraltar. Unless you miss the Rock, which can happen only in one case.

It's pelting rain and screaming gale when the cabbie stops in front of the hotel. Come on in, darling. The eastern prude in me flinches, and then I flush on realizing that it was a harmless greeting. I climb in, and the banshee howls in protest at my escape from her clutches.

Thank goodness for taxis on little islands with wind velocities that pitilessly pound a 48 kg frame. It's all very well to stroll through daffodils in the springtime, but I get my dose of romance in a bus driven by a man with an uppity Oxford accent who lapses into impassioned Spanish at the slightest provocation. Welcome to Gibraltar, potpourri of cultures.

The lighthouse at Europa Point is craftily designed to arouse wistfulness. Standing on the rocky shore, I look across continents and imagine the ships sailing in from Spain and Africa in the days before visas were invented and travel depended upon an itinerary. The UK visa in my passport feels terribly limiting. I doubt any other building would have done the trick.

I hop onto another bus which takes me to the main street. Tax free shops! Delightfully distracting. I count the number of women in thigh-high boots. Nearly all. What a clown I'd look like strutting about in those on sultry Indian roads.

There's a blown glass exhibition and workshop at the plaza. Hmm. White men at work are hardly arresting, lacking the earthiness of their darker counterparts. But the vases are. They stand regally in icy aloofness, already so different from the younger ones sizzling with desire to be moulded in the workshop. I trace the swirls and whorls of colour on the smoothly fashioned surfaces, and the lightness of my pockets weighs me down.

The next bus never shows, so I walk. White limestone looms large at every turn. The locals probably stopped seeing it long ago. It's part of the sky now, ''constant as the Northern Star''. It is lit up at intervals, by massive floodlights from below. But every now and then, the Rock presents a dark face, whether by artistic intent or error of omission.

It's impossible to get lost in Gibraltar. Unless you miss the Rock, which happens when you look up at a dark face. The wind whips tears out of me as I stare into the blackness and lose my bearings.

Then a monkey calls, and I know there is something behind. Thank goodness for life on little islands with pitiless wind velocities and towering black patches.

The Song

Viva la Vida - Coldplay

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
Once you go there was never,
Never an honest word
And that was when I ruled the world

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become

Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field

For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

Island Etude

With a lot of things, if you don't do them now, you will never have the opportunity again.

When a film makes you want to go through the oft-ignored credits list, you know it's got something to it. Island Etude is an unassuming Taiwanese film about a boy called Ming (Ming-hsiang Tung) who takes a week-long bicycle tour around Taiwan. At the outset one becomes aware that this is going to be an extremely calm story with no dramatic incidents or twists apart from the constant turning of his wheels. Ming is shown to have a communication handicap, but his easygoing personality invites chance encounters with a host of people he meets along the road... right from an enthusiastically helpful film crew, to a spoilt ipod-waving teenager to a free spirited Lithuanian model.
His trail cuts though a slice of Taiwan's culture and society, exposing him and the audience to local customs, folk art and religious values. Ming discovers the wistfulness of a schoolteacher and the brave suffering of the unemployed aged, experiencing the emotions they invoke but breezing past before they can drag him down.  His aimless determination to carry on through rainstorms and searing hot sun is heartwarming. The point of his travels is to travel, giving a whole new meaning to the act of cross country biking.

The thing that really stands out and makes the film, is the cinematography. Cinematographer Huai-en Chen has also written and directed this film, and there is a harmony in the interweaving of long still shots of the landscape and soulful background music devoid of any lyrics. The characters are realistic and likeable and the actors are without any frills or larger-than-life qualities, leaving it to the scenery to dominate.

Ming's journey is almost entirely coastal, but the sea never gets monotonous with its brilliant sheen, dull mist or crashing white surf engulfing the scene at different times of the day. The setting is essentially modern, with an an endless stretch of developed highways running along the coast. The two are juxtaposed very delicately, one memorable example being where Ming meets a foreign model who is stranded at a railway station, and helps her find a train. In the brief interlude before the train's arrival, they walk on the beach, lie on the rocks and laugh together despite not understanding a word the other says. The ''Pacific wind'', a recurrent theme in the film, runs through her hair and gives it a life of its own. Then she turns around, and is suddenly the only alive thing against the backdrop of a colourless cement factory with tall, grey, unshakeable arms blocking out the sky.

The soundtrack doesn't make that much of an impact, barring an obnoxiously loud score for Ming's quick escape from a pair of cops after assisting some philosophy-spewing wayward youths in vivid graffiti-spraying. The closing song, performed on the shore by one of Taiwan's most famed singers, is a moving tribute to the land and the ocean. The poetry was effectively conveyed even through subtitles, which is saying something.

If somebody were to ask what the film is about, one would be lost for an answer. Island Etude may not pack a powerful Hollywood punch, but it is a 2-hour visual extravaganza that must be watched on a big screen.

(Film screened at the Pune International Film Festival 2010)

3 Idiots

What is it about Aamir Khan films that makes them special? There are better actors. There are definitely better lookers. Is it the freshness Aamir brings to the screen, or just good choice of scripts?

3 Idiots does justice to all the hoopla created by the Khan tag and corny pant-dropping promos. An entertainer at heart which also serves as a brutally frank agent for the social messages Aamir likes to spread à la RDB and Taare Zameen Par, it overflows with youthful humour which mercifully steers away from slapstick and vulgarity. The ''scientific'' prank played by Aamir (Rancho) on his senior during ragging sets the tone for the lively engineering college hostel life while giving a glimpse of the character's mental dexterity and manual deftness. He embodies this out-of-the-box inventor/handyman culture - an original and attractive quality for a Bollywood hero. Sharman Joshi’s (Raju's) comic timing is expectedly good, but Madhavan (Farhan) is the pleasant surprise package in his new simple college-boy avatar in contrast to his image as a heartthrob for hip-swaying South Indian heroines. His frozen facial expressions are guffaw-inspiring in the wedding crash scene when they are caught by the lip-curling Boman Irani.

The towering Irani plays the tyrannical college Principal with a priceless scowl perpetually plastered on his face. The film follows the 5 Point Someone storyline loosely, which has predictably given birth to spats between the crew and author Chetan Bhagat. Intellectual property rights aside, the two works of art can’t really be compared since the book challenges academic conformism but focusses more on the romance than on performance pressure and its consequences. Chatur Ramalingam (played by Omi Vaidya) is a great addition to the cast; his inherent slimyness and grovelling invokes your distaste very convincingly. Also, Kareena Kapoor is a different (read more likeable) kind of female lead from the stuffy Neha of the book.

The director Rajkumar Hirani (of Munnabhai fame) takes a bold approach towards certain scenes such as the miserable squalor in Sharman Joshi’s  house. By shooting the house in black and white, followed by seemingly offensive jokes on the poverty of the situation, the otherwise depressing scene takes on a light-hearted, matter-of-fact air. The boyish banter at the end of the scene is a relief – this moment would have been a glycerine freemarket if it had followed regular Bollywood patterns.

And just as you’re smiling at the realism being showed, it’s murdered by an avalanche of tears. The ''last half hour'' has rightly attracted oodles of criticism for the all the melodrama it contains. Aal was not well. Is mass appeal important enough to stretch and twist a story into ridiculous detours and knots? Well, it must be. The film, as it has been said above, is an entertainer first and foremost. But one wonders why audience intelligence must be underestimated every time. Rather than pandering to tearjerker requirements that are totally out of sync with a story’s spirit, a film should aim to raise the bar or change the face of ''entertainment''.

But in conclusion one must praise the shots of the experimental school in Shimla towards the end, which redeem the quality of the story. The inclusion of this scene, depicting oddball mechanical contraptions being used for local indigenous activities such as shearing sheep, gives a sweet and not too unbelievable finishing touch to the philosophy of creative teaching and learning. Another creditable attempt at merging mainstream and social cinema by Hirani and Aamir.

Act 2010, Scene 1

All in all, that wasn’t too bad. The partial detachment was compensated by a monopoly over photography rights, furious leg-shaking (MJ, you owned this year), a satisfactorily chic outfit and gallant young men. Photography is the new purdah. Gazing through a lens and fiddling with the many buttons earns one the right to aloofness. (Perhaps it's time to learn how to actually do it properly.)
The fireworks were beautiful, I looked up at them with my naked eyes, festooned in a vivid masquerade. The first shower of gold sparks brought on startled tears which I held tightly within closed lids. A sigh escaped reassuringly at the realization that the phone was still at my ear. The notorious New Year's Eve network jams had spared us. 

Coffee on the deck. We tear our hearts out longing for that which lies beyond our four walls. But the coffee on the deck smells good, and the terrace beckons. A brief huddle on top, laced with forbidden pleasures and the orgasmic shock of cold wind on tired cheeks. Then ten unsteady feet stumble back inside.

2010. This year I will

Make one heap of all my winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss
And if I lose, start again at my beginnings
And never breathe a word of my loss

To chances!

Stretched

I dreamwalk out of the extraordinary house into the ordinary world, to an ordinary flat, to snatch a few hours of nothing.

Silent spaces hold a comfort that kind words lack. Here I feel strong, unfettered, despite the fascinating despair that mounts as the hours of nothingness dwindle.
Here I will examine my heart strings, test them, lick them, selfishly soak up and revel in every emotion they ooze forth, before I go back to the house that is a home.

Word Has It

 I made one of my sporadic visits to amazon.com yesterday, only to find myself looking at something called Kindle instead of the usual recommendations. Wow, I thought. Finally a technology for bookworms. I was getting tired of the monopoly boys enjoy over techie conversations as they brandish cool phones and music players. All of amazon’s ebooks contained in a slim booklike device, accessible from anywhere in the world. It struck me as the perfect gift for a certain relative whose nose is always buried in some new buy with a boring academic title.

I was a bit startled to find a feature on the very same product in today’s paper. Digital reading devices seem to be all the rage. But a spasm of panic gripped me when I grasped the author’s gently warning tone. The enthusiastic quotes from publishing houses did little to pacify me. Everyone is nodding approvingly at the prospect of digital solutions taking over every aspect of human life and culture. We evolved from papyrus and vellum to the printing press, and now it’s time to embrace electronics. The wave has not yet reached epic heights, but once this baby is combined with a phone and mp3 player, it will capture all markets and imaginations completely.

And the big question is (well, for me atleast), will this eventually phase out books as we know them? A world without the printed word is inconceivable, blasphemous. Imagine not having a bookshop to browse through on rainy days. No matter how elegant Kindle’s leather jacket is, the worn gold-printed covers of the classics on my bookshelf beat it hollow.

And what of special copies? Fine editions? The book you lent to a friend and miss till this day. The favourite novel you thumbed through countlessly till its dog ears became a permanent fixture in the universe.

Kindle has a capacity for 1500 ebooks at a time. Which of these will be marked as special to the reader, and how? Which will bear coffee stains that make you frown, or fond scribbles from aunts that make a slow smile spread across your face?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for radical revolutions. If your brat is the sort of kid who won’t want to soak up literature unless he can access it by pushing a few buttons, by all means give him an eReader. If you’re a professional on the move who needs volumes of ready reference material, this one’s definitely for you. Kindle supposedly uses a papery background and inked font for its display to make its readers feel at home. A French publisher CafeScribe has invented add-on stickers with a ‘’musty, bookish’’ smell. There will be plenty of takers for these – readers sitting hunched on airport chairs clutching their Kindles, dreaming that they’re curled up in the armchair in their study.

But I will never for a moment allow myself to think that I’ve reached the pinnacle of bibliophily just by acquiring this device. Because my Shakespeare collection was handed down by my grandfather.

Madam

The Thackeray Tigers can roar all they want over outsiders, the Marathi manoos and Sachin. A manicured little kitten just stole their thunder, and one bred in their backyard no less.

News channels flashed today’s headlines in bold – Smita Thackeray set to join Congress. I failed to appreciate my parents’ interest in the bulletin. Smita Thackeray who? I asked. And was rewarded with disdainful looks and muttered remarks about ill-informed aspiring journalists. I scurried off towards my PC in shame.

Google images show a surprisingly polished woman in her 40s. I was expecting something rawer, befitting the impression of the Thackeray clan I have in mind. No amount of hairstyling and jewellery can hide the strong Maharashtrian features though. A quick biography check reveals titbits of her past. The unlikely marriage of a receptionist and the son of a political family. Sorry, THE political family. The transition from a trouser-wearing metro girl to a sedate saree-clad bahu. The matrimonial mess. A loser of a husband. Estrangement.

And then the unbelievable stroke of fortune – Balasaheb’s favour. A series of tragedies and defections in the family that catapulted her to the post of favourite. From lowly Smita Chitre to Madam Smita Thackeray. The old man held his daughter-in-law close to his bosom. Some feel it was too close. Character assassination, she dismisses.

It was opportunism at its fiercest. Imagine you are a young girl with high ambitions born into a simple family. Imagine you are married into a house way above your league. And then your husband walks out and leaves you to the wolves. Except that the big bad wolf isn’t that bad. He’s actually pretty nice to you. Yeah he’s a little off his rocker and all the intellectuals despise him but girl, he gave you shelter and respect. And a surname. THE surname. You've come this far, now why not go the distance? You only live once.

People fear you. Powerful men make things happen, just to please you. A hint is enough. Hi-profile parties have your name on the guest list. Film production lines open up. Release dates are magically adjusted for convenience. Land is gifted. To be used for cultural activities of course.

She must have counted her blessings every single day since Jaidev Thackeray abandoned her. But somewhere along the way, she might have realised that her benefactor was not the only shiny penny in the world. Who knows, maybe even a womanly prick of conscience every time the Shiv Sena launched yet another violent campaign in some part of the state. No friends inside the party either. No woman with her cold intelligence would bank on a future surrounded by conservative Sena henchmen who would like to pack her off to the kitchen with a mangalsutra weighing down her high-held neck.

So she learned English. She learned poise. She made her contacts. Securing her future. Just in case. I dabble in different ventures so that I earn and leave behind a legacy for my kids, she says. The vulnerability shows through in the interviews.

Smart move, Madam. As you sow, so you reap. She was refused a Rajya Sabha seat and an assembly election ticket by her family. And the kitten is mewing angrily. Interjected by praise for the Gandhis and contempt for the aggressive new brand of pro-Marathi politics. I still respect Saheb, she announces. Saala sasura, her attitude conveys.

The Congress is waiting with open arms and a big grin on its face at the thought of weakening the Thackeray support base. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Bubbles

Double click to the past. 4 days before d-day. Someone threw his dignity to the winds to make someone smile. I play it on mute. The scene calls out to me with a faraway echo. The room suddenly morphs. The smile returns.

A flood of images hitting the brain like acid. An unbelievable phone call. A shriek of joy. Racing footsteps matching a racing heartbeat. Euphoria.

A swelling bubble of emotion. May your tribe increase, bubble. Another time window opens. Blowing through the ring of innocence. Laughing together inside a warm cocoon.

She was, is, and will be loved.

Night Unending

His feet were heavy. They stumbled uncertainly alongside his companion’s, which were as weary. They stopped awhile, and stood silently surveying the still darkness that enveloped them. That stillness of the Sahara, which is so terrifying in its potential to develop into a violent Sirocco sandstorm, and even more so in its tendency to remain impossibly unchanging.

Long separated from their group, for eight days they had endured the harsh interiors of the desert bravely. Now their shoes were worn, their knapsacks and empty flasks abandoned, and their bodies were swaying in the cold wind - but yet another night challenged them. It did not matter that they did not know their direction. It did not matter what the hazards of venturing into the black wasteland in this fatigued state were. Their intelligence had been beaten down by the elements, and they were brought to a primal awareness that their only goal now was immediate survival. They were existing only in the hope of finding water - that oasis of nectar that would pull them through the hours of the night. Then they would rest, oh how sweetly they would slumber! But not now. Not yet.

They trudged on steadfastly, listening for sounds of desert life. A rustle here, a shuffle there, but when they turned it was as barren as before. The man’s mind was beginning to conspire with the night to play tricks on him. Time and again he spotted a sudden gleam behind a nearby dune, and shouted to his younger friend,

“Look! Over there!”

Then they would stagger towards it, their hearts pounding with anxiety, only to discover that it was just the moon in a malicious mood, driving them to insanity even in its soft light. At such times the man looked up into the jewelled canvas above, and felt that this same night sky which had so often inspired reverence in him was now a fearful enemy, an alpha predator in this wilderness.

After what seemed like an eternity, the two travellers reached a large boulder and leaned against it for support. The dust clogged their nostrils, and they drew their jackets tighter to keep out the biting chill. A familiar shape on the other side of the rock caught the boy’s attention, and he gasped in disbelief,

‘’Cactus! My God, it’s a cactus!’’

It was like manna from heaven. They scrambled towards the cactus quickly and began tearing its prickly sides apart with their fingernails; they were close, oh so close! Alas, the sickly plant had suffered just as much misfortune, for its stem held no water. The men slumped against the rock, licking the blood on their fingers. They were both struck by the same idea at once, and began rubbing their hands against the spines of the cactus. Then they raised their palms to their lips and drank. The man vomited onto the ground before him. The boy fainted.

When he regained consciousness, the man was already a few metres ahead, crawling on all fours. The boy followed suit. In reality dawn was only four hours away, but they had no knowledge of anything but the present. They inched along slowly. The pain in their limbs was much worse and their eyes were closing. Their tongues were hanging out, begging for a drop of that elusive elixir of life.

The man crawled along for an hour, and just when he had reasoned that they were following a path not tried before…..that there was a way out of this black hole, a way back to humankind…..a whirlwind of sand rose before him. The dunes shifted their positions. There was the night mocking them. Try again, it said. It was a hopeless game with Nature, how could the mortal fight the all-consuming?

The boy gave a low guttural moan, and lay back on the ground panting. Then he began to laugh. He did not have the energy, and the sound came out in breaks. He laughed for five minutes, then slipped into a delirium, doomed to enter the dark abysses of his own imaginings and never return.

The man twisted his body and watched the boy. He had been trying to keep the last ounce of humanity in him alive, but the laughter had confused and frightened him. He looked around into the vast emptiness once more. His own head was almost touching the ground now, his body was completely dehydrated and ready to join his friend in the same fate. It had not worked, he thought, the night had let them down. The night had been cold, cruel, and unforgiving to the lost travellers, he numbly asserted to himself. His head dropped.

A few minutes later he looked at the figure of the boy again, which was now quite still. A sudden tenderness overwhelmed him.

‘’What has the night done wrong? After all, it has only put him to rest. It will look after him until he is ready to rise and start anew.’’

A slight smile spread across the man’s face. He was not being conquered, he did not need to be conquered. He was walking towards the gates himself, his arms outstretched towards the peaceful young boy.

The fragile human body drew its last breath of air, and surrendered to the unending night.

The In-Between

After years of intellectual brooding, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s better to have a mediocre imagination. I am constantly surprised at the ease with which the vanilla crowd waltzes through life. I would like to have a head that is too small to play host to the never ending hesitations, spates of boredom and wrestling matches with myself.

I would like to be an obedient robot who walks away with all the glory while the messed up rebel glares at me from a lonely corner.

Killa

One of the best parts of Diwali in the wonder years was the killa. Everyone would head for the muddiest corner of the compound/garden and fight over the most ‘’moist’’ and malleable bit of earth.

I remember stealing bricks from neighbouring construction sites to build the foundation, making flags with twigs and coloured paper, and nagging our moms to buy us chitra or the little clay warriors to perch on the fort. The gaudier the paint, the better. There was an unmasked delight in making a ‘’secret tunnel’’ through the fort – for purposes that are mysterious to this day. This dash of adventure inevitably led to a tumbling of the bricks and sharp scoldings for dirty fingernails.

The killa tradition is still alive and kicking in Maharashtra, and has become consumerist like everything else. Now we have readymade forts for the readymade generation, but the assortment of Lilliputs remains the same over the decades – Shivaji, Laxmibai, villagers and cattle.

Readymade killa - quick fix for the lazier brats

Marathi Maanoos