Rains … take up any tourist information on Kerala and you would find the “season” to be marked as any time other than June-August. Ironically, this is the “season” when “God’s Own Country” spreads it’s green carpet, literally. It finally took Channel 4 of BBC to film “Rains in Kerala”, to indicate what the tourist misses out on. And then, Alex Frater wrote a book titled “Chasing the monsoon”. I am told that this book has kind of, become a cult classic, in the sense, that it has spawned its own category of backpacker followers, who ‘track’ the monsoon as it hits Kerala coast in the first week of June, makes its way across the plains to reach Arakan mountains in Burma, and all the way back across the Bay of Bengal. But, rain evokes some very special memories.
One did not look forward to rains, as a kid, especially if schooling is done in Kerala. Rains mean that one would have to wait till Onam (August-September, that is) for that new pair of Bata “Naughty Boy” shoes, one could not play during the 1 hour “games” period every week, that one had to get all messy with the raincoat, or be good at a balancing act, if one was adept enough to risk riding a bicycle with one hand on the umbrella and a sackful of bags dragging you back. Rains also meant that the fun involved in walking in ‘hawai’ sandals turned to travails for whoever washed your clothes, for the hawai has this fantastic ability to throw mud onto any portion waist downwards on the backside! Rains also brought ailments in its wake – cough, cold, fever invariably followed that adventurous jaunt in the rain. The explosion in mosquito population, coupled with the predictability (thanks to “another scorching summer”) of our electricity board meant sleepless nights, and that too in non-exam season! How criminal can you get! There was also the problem of pungent smelling clothes, for want of sun, and of course, the mud coloured socks that would be the challenge for any “New, extra power, super white” detergent powder.
But, still I loved rains. The smell of sand that the first rains bring, is intoxicating, to say the least. The small puddles that form in the cracks on the tar roads have this strange colour that no rainbow can match – of oil drops from leaking, creaky vehicles that get mixed with the water. Watching the “crowns” that get formed when large droplets drip down from tree leaves onto already formed puddles was fascinating to watch, especially if one was lying down in the sofa in the front room verandah of our house. Croaking frogs give comfort through the sleepless nights and the already lush greenery glistens with the lustre of multiple rounds of ‘finish’ that the rains keep providing. The movie Piravi (by Shaji Karun, the highly acclaimed Malayalam director - of Cannes fame – if that helps, for the uninitiated!) that captures the beauty of the Kerala monsoon like no other, springs to mind.
Monsoon to hit Kerala with a week’s delay is today’s news – and is a national level headline maker! Here I am, in Mumbai, looking out at the Southwestern sky – no it will take at least two weeks to darken. And rains in Mumbai – a different ball game altogether – trains in disarray, slosh all around and the strains that the city and the people go through in accommodating the poor umbrella! Mumbai, a city where there are islands of prosperity in a sea of poverty, rains deface you (can also be read as clean up!), unlike the gloss that they provide to Kerala.
Meanwhile, I am off to check out “Chasing the monsoon” at the nearest bookshop …!
Friday, May 27, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Exploring friendship …
Well, what’s closeness of friendship? This line of thought took me back a couple of years when I was visiting Belgaum on an official trip. I had reached Belgaum early in the morning and was checking into the hotel, when I spotted the telephone register lying there. On impulse, I checked up for the name Toro, got excited on finding a number listed against the name (blessed is the guy who thought of having entries in telephone registers on last name basis) and dialed …..
Mind has its own flashback mechanism that no director can emulate. It was a rainy June evening, when a bright, smart looking boy joined our school bus “gang”. A brief introduction later, I found this boy with his father come visiting, later on at night, the same day. His father, in the army, was on deputation to the local NCC unit and had got an accommodation close to ours. My broken English was enough to break the language barrier and we were on level playing field, literally that is. From the very next day onwards, there were “triangular” Benson & Hedges series featuring Australia, Newzealand and India, held between the two of us. The venue alternated between Melbourne (the space within our house compound) and Eden Gardens (the open space outside his). Except for the torrential Kerala rains, nothing could break our daily trysts with the gentleman’s game. The rains ensured that we knew each other’s family quite well, for these interludes, usually long, meant some indoor activity or the other. Well, a year just flew by. The second year was less “hectic”, with many parallel friendships getting established, the focal point being this newcomer, who had an intrinsic “pull” quality, but then the bonding between families strengthened, more so given the fact that the family structure, with the match in age, order and gender of the children. The deputation of Mr. Toro came to a close, it was time for them to move on, and on the day they left, a little boy realized how fleeting, attachments like close friendships can be.
The initial flurry of letters and greeting cards soon became a trickle. However, in the intervening period of a few years, both of us religiously sent one another the wedding cards of our sisters, to which both of us dutifully responded with long letters. It was in Bangalore that we met, after about 10 years, and then the pull of the Information Technology sector took him away to the US, while I came to know that his parents were based in Belgaum. The promises of keeping in touch over media like e-mails were never been kept by either party. And then, this unexpected trip to Belgaum happened.
Thank God, the receiver went off hook at the other end, and a lady’s voice “Kaun hai”? Recognition, on giving the reference of name and place, was instantaneous and his mother literally forced me to visit them almost immediately. Having breakfast and talking to her as if the intervening gap of 15 long years never happened, I was getting overwhelmed by the flood of memories. But, being on an official trip, I had to take leave without meeting his father, who had gone on a typical retired life morning jaunt. However, I did compensate by returning early in the evening, and could spend some good quality time with him too.
My friend in the US has been oblivious to this little episode that got played out at his hometown. Needless to say, my “friend” and I have still not gotten in touch, and it has been close to 5 years now. I wonder, we were so “close” then, now, we may not be, but that did not stop the “closeness” I felt when I visited his parents, a couple of years back. Meanwhile, I am looking forward to my next Belgaum trip, or maybe, the story will have its own set of twists and turns.
I am still left wondering as to what “closeness” of friendship means …………
Mind has its own flashback mechanism that no director can emulate. It was a rainy June evening, when a bright, smart looking boy joined our school bus “gang”. A brief introduction later, I found this boy with his father come visiting, later on at night, the same day. His father, in the army, was on deputation to the local NCC unit and had got an accommodation close to ours. My broken English was enough to break the language barrier and we were on level playing field, literally that is. From the very next day onwards, there were “triangular” Benson & Hedges series featuring Australia, Newzealand and India, held between the two of us. The venue alternated between Melbourne (the space within our house compound) and Eden Gardens (the open space outside his). Except for the torrential Kerala rains, nothing could break our daily trysts with the gentleman’s game. The rains ensured that we knew each other’s family quite well, for these interludes, usually long, meant some indoor activity or the other. Well, a year just flew by. The second year was less “hectic”, with many parallel friendships getting established, the focal point being this newcomer, who had an intrinsic “pull” quality, but then the bonding between families strengthened, more so given the fact that the family structure, with the match in age, order and gender of the children. The deputation of Mr. Toro came to a close, it was time for them to move on, and on the day they left, a little boy realized how fleeting, attachments like close friendships can be.
The initial flurry of letters and greeting cards soon became a trickle. However, in the intervening period of a few years, both of us religiously sent one another the wedding cards of our sisters, to which both of us dutifully responded with long letters. It was in Bangalore that we met, after about 10 years, and then the pull of the Information Technology sector took him away to the US, while I came to know that his parents were based in Belgaum. The promises of keeping in touch over media like e-mails were never been kept by either party. And then, this unexpected trip to Belgaum happened.
Thank God, the receiver went off hook at the other end, and a lady’s voice “Kaun hai”? Recognition, on giving the reference of name and place, was instantaneous and his mother literally forced me to visit them almost immediately. Having breakfast and talking to her as if the intervening gap of 15 long years never happened, I was getting overwhelmed by the flood of memories. But, being on an official trip, I had to take leave without meeting his father, who had gone on a typical retired life morning jaunt. However, I did compensate by returning early in the evening, and could spend some good quality time with him too.
My friend in the US has been oblivious to this little episode that got played out at his hometown. Needless to say, my “friend” and I have still not gotten in touch, and it has been close to 5 years now. I wonder, we were so “close” then, now, we may not be, but that did not stop the “closeness” I felt when I visited his parents, a couple of years back. Meanwhile, I am looking forward to my next Belgaum trip, or maybe, the story will have its own set of twists and turns.
I am still left wondering as to what “closeness” of friendship means …………
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The day I saw an Iranian movie … at last!
“Made by Women” film festival is currently on, in Mumbai. The highlight of the first day, for me was the fact that an Iranian film was being shown. My introduction to Iranian films has been limited to the name Mohsen Makhmalbaf. With the opportunity of watching a movie by the great man somehow eluding me, imagine my horror on realizing that even his daughter Samira, I guess, has made films. That is when I realized that my backlog of Iranian films might just be too much.
After a hectic day at office and literally running away, to be on time, I found myself standing in the movie hall, which was screening a documentary titled “My Body”. Mumbai being Mumbai, had come in hordes and every single seat had been taken. This 30 minute documentary captured the essence of how one’s appearance and body features are considered to be liabilities, in comparison to others. And the delight a woman has when her daughter says that babies choose to come down to earth on finding the “right” person. But then, that story is for another time, this one being for the Iranian movie.
The movie is titled “The Day I became a woman” and has 3 stories. The first one is about a small girl of 9 years old who wakes up to find that she has become a “woman” that day, as per her grand ma and her mother. The girl, named Hava is keen to go out and play with her friend – Hassan. However, the grand ma and mom forbid her from going out. After much pleading, the grand ma allows the girl to go out, subject to the fact that she reaches back before “noon” (the girl was born at noon, and hence would complete 9 years by noon!). The grand ma tells Hava that she should come back when there is no shadow for the stick, when placed on the ground (metaphor for sun being directly overhead). The kids on the beach trading the beautiful plastic fish for Hava’s chador (scarf), Hava checking for the shadow of the stick every once in a while, speed of exchange of the lollipop between Hava and Hassan, as time draws to a close, are all captured elegantly and matter-of-factly, on film. The boys setting off with the chador as sail and Hava being taken away by her mother are very poignant scenes, perhaps indicative of the freedom that males enjoy compared to the restrictions imposed when a girl becomes a woman.
The second story is about a girl (around 20’ish) by the name Ahoo cycling herself away from all the societal strings imposed on her. The camera work is stunning, to say the least, beginning with the deer and pigeons that get scared by the animated shouting of the man mounted on a horse galloping at tremendous speed, until he comes up on the hordes of young girls, riding bicycles. The black of the burqa contrasts with the deep blue of the ocean. The bursts of speed that Ahoo gets are probably symbolic of the dollops of energy that Ahoo gets on successfully ignoring the pleadings of her husband, the priest, her father and her tribe. And finally, she stops … and the story is left at that.
The third story is about an old lady with a horde of boys gorging on a shopping spree. The comedy in the portrayal does not dilute the impact of the statements of the lady that she had all along wanted to enjoy life and that “they” did not let her. The music, the merry making of the boys on the beach and the caring black boy all enmesh well into the script. At the end, as expected, the director tries to interweave Hava and Ahoo into the old lady’s story. But, it is commendable that this is done without any pretext or justification, with the director careful about not trying to give any “answers”, so to speak. The name of the old lady – Hoora being revealed at the fag end of the movie compared to Hava and Ahoo being revealed in the very first scenes, is also striking.
To me, it seemed as if the director was trying to say that the process of denial starts with a girl becoming a woman (story of Hava), and all her life, she tries to escape from the trappings imposed by the society, ultimately she may not be successful in this (story of Ahoo). Finally, it is when one is as old as one can get, that a woman is able to enjoy whatever she dreamt of, all her life (story of Hoora). By then, she does not have anyone to enjoy these with, and is beginning on the journey towards completion and fulfillment of life.
All in all, the first taste of Iranian movie was elixir for me. Makhmalbafs et al, where art thou …!
PS: Later on, I realized that this was in fact Mrs. Makhmalbaf first movie as director and that credit for the script goes to Mr. Makhmalbaf himself!
After a hectic day at office and literally running away, to be on time, I found myself standing in the movie hall, which was screening a documentary titled “My Body”. Mumbai being Mumbai, had come in hordes and every single seat had been taken. This 30 minute documentary captured the essence of how one’s appearance and body features are considered to be liabilities, in comparison to others. And the delight a woman has when her daughter says that babies choose to come down to earth on finding the “right” person. But then, that story is for another time, this one being for the Iranian movie.
The movie is titled “The Day I became a woman” and has 3 stories. The first one is about a small girl of 9 years old who wakes up to find that she has become a “woman” that day, as per her grand ma and her mother. The girl, named Hava is keen to go out and play with her friend – Hassan. However, the grand ma and mom forbid her from going out. After much pleading, the grand ma allows the girl to go out, subject to the fact that she reaches back before “noon” (the girl was born at noon, and hence would complete 9 years by noon!). The grand ma tells Hava that she should come back when there is no shadow for the stick, when placed on the ground (metaphor for sun being directly overhead). The kids on the beach trading the beautiful plastic fish for Hava’s chador (scarf), Hava checking for the shadow of the stick every once in a while, speed of exchange of the lollipop between Hava and Hassan, as time draws to a close, are all captured elegantly and matter-of-factly, on film. The boys setting off with the chador as sail and Hava being taken away by her mother are very poignant scenes, perhaps indicative of the freedom that males enjoy compared to the restrictions imposed when a girl becomes a woman.
The second story is about a girl (around 20’ish) by the name Ahoo cycling herself away from all the societal strings imposed on her. The camera work is stunning, to say the least, beginning with the deer and pigeons that get scared by the animated shouting of the man mounted on a horse galloping at tremendous speed, until he comes up on the hordes of young girls, riding bicycles. The black of the burqa contrasts with the deep blue of the ocean. The bursts of speed that Ahoo gets are probably symbolic of the dollops of energy that Ahoo gets on successfully ignoring the pleadings of her husband, the priest, her father and her tribe. And finally, she stops … and the story is left at that.
The third story is about an old lady with a horde of boys gorging on a shopping spree. The comedy in the portrayal does not dilute the impact of the statements of the lady that she had all along wanted to enjoy life and that “they” did not let her. The music, the merry making of the boys on the beach and the caring black boy all enmesh well into the script. At the end, as expected, the director tries to interweave Hava and Ahoo into the old lady’s story. But, it is commendable that this is done without any pretext or justification, with the director careful about not trying to give any “answers”, so to speak. The name of the old lady – Hoora being revealed at the fag end of the movie compared to Hava and Ahoo being revealed in the very first scenes, is also striking.
To me, it seemed as if the director was trying to say that the process of denial starts with a girl becoming a woman (story of Hava), and all her life, she tries to escape from the trappings imposed by the society, ultimately she may not be successful in this (story of Ahoo). Finally, it is when one is as old as one can get, that a woman is able to enjoy whatever she dreamt of, all her life (story of Hoora). By then, she does not have anyone to enjoy these with, and is beginning on the journey towards completion and fulfillment of life.
All in all, the first taste of Iranian movie was elixir for me. Makhmalbafs et al, where art thou …!
PS: Later on, I realized that this was in fact Mrs. Makhmalbaf first movie as director and that credit for the script goes to Mr. Makhmalbaf himself!
Monday, May 23, 2005
An 80/20 riddle got solved
A 20-year-old mystery has finally been solved. Some would say that it is an 80-year-old mystery. For me, however, it was a 20-year-old one. One night, my parents and sisters woke up to screams of “Tutenkamun, Tutenkamun”, coming from an eight year old boy. No one had a clue to what this whole nightmare was about.
The cause of this hullabaloo at night was a little snippet about Tutenkamun’s excavation that came in a Malayalam children’s fortnightly called “Poombatta” (translated as Butterfly). Does any kid read anything other than Tinkle these days, I ask?
The sands of time in the valley of kings in Egypt revealed the hidden treasure and mummy of the boy king Tutenkamun who died an untimely death, barely in his 20s. The snippet mentioned that whoever was associated with this excavation, met with an untimely death. Fascinated that any kid would be by anything that had a ring of mystery to it, this particular story had the “twist” that the cause of the death of the boy king also remained unexplained.
It finally took National Geographic to clear the mystery. Last week was “Pharaoh’s Week” on Nat Geo. One of the episodes, rather a docu-feature ran to more than 2 hours, wherein the investigation was on 2 points – “King Tut’s curse” and “How did King Tut meet with his untimely death”. The fascinating story would amaze anyone interested in history or archaeology, especially Egyptology. Ultimately, the conclusion reached was that the man behind the excavation (Lord Carnarvon) apparently died of natural causes. And in typical Nat Geo fashion, although no conclusion could be reached about the cause of the boy king’s death, by a process of elimination, it was narrowed down to a combination of factors – a fall from chariot resulting in multiple fractures, and probable battle wounds getting aggravated over a period of time.
Thus, with new age technology including CAT scan unravelling an age old mystery was attempted, painstakingly.
Fortunately, my sister too had read the little snippet, and her faint recollection of the name made the elders in the house heave a sigh of relief, for they could at least solve the mystery of where the name of “Tutenkamun” came from, that night!
The cause of this hullabaloo at night was a little snippet about Tutenkamun’s excavation that came in a Malayalam children’s fortnightly called “Poombatta” (translated as Butterfly). Does any kid read anything other than Tinkle these days, I ask?
The sands of time in the valley of kings in Egypt revealed the hidden treasure and mummy of the boy king Tutenkamun who died an untimely death, barely in his 20s. The snippet mentioned that whoever was associated with this excavation, met with an untimely death. Fascinated that any kid would be by anything that had a ring of mystery to it, this particular story had the “twist” that the cause of the death of the boy king also remained unexplained.
It finally took National Geographic to clear the mystery. Last week was “Pharaoh’s Week” on Nat Geo. One of the episodes, rather a docu-feature ran to more than 2 hours, wherein the investigation was on 2 points – “King Tut’s curse” and “How did King Tut meet with his untimely death”. The fascinating story would amaze anyone interested in history or archaeology, especially Egyptology. Ultimately, the conclusion reached was that the man behind the excavation (Lord Carnarvon) apparently died of natural causes. And in typical Nat Geo fashion, although no conclusion could be reached about the cause of the boy king’s death, by a process of elimination, it was narrowed down to a combination of factors – a fall from chariot resulting in multiple fractures, and probable battle wounds getting aggravated over a period of time.
Thus, with new age technology including CAT scan unravelling an age old mystery was attempted, painstakingly.
Fortunately, my sister too had read the little snippet, and her faint recollection of the name made the elders in the house heave a sigh of relief, for they could at least solve the mystery of where the name of “Tutenkamun” came from, that night!
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