Magic Realism

Read about it here.

Time too had waited

Time too had waited with me

Watching life move on, from a corner.

For you to come along

Hold my palm

And help me continue my journey

Wonder why…

Wonder why some mysteries remain unresolved

Some truths never unraveled

Questions go unanswered

If they add charm to life

I could do with little less of that charm.

Practice

A few days back I made a long face in front of an online friend using emoticon saying that I wasn't getting a sentence as good as I wished. She reassuringly said: “you'll get it, just keep trying.” Next she typed something like “you don't practice, if you practice daily it'd be lot easier for you.” She meant writing (or should I say typing), I know every writing manual or 'How to write' book says: “put away a few words daily – Practice.”

But, I never paid heed to it. Being lazy to type, my excuse being, writing is just an extension of thinking. So, as long as I can think I can write. And, thoughts are rumbling in my head throughout the day or to be precise until this laptop comes in front of me, then more important things sprout up seeking my attention, checking emails is the foremost. Then looking for friends online and telling Hi to few of them. The list goes on like this, and the actual writing rarely happens, sacrificing the thoughts that glowed during the day in the subconscious as being mundane or pedestrian not deserving the effort to be typed out and shared by the night.

Here is a glimpse of the Master Writer Marquez's take on practice in the beginning of his book Strange Pilgrims.

When I began Chronicles of Death Foretold, in 1979, I confirmed the fact that in pauses between books I tended to lose the habit of writing and it was becoming more and more difficult for me to begin again. That is why between October 1980 and March 1984, I set myself the task of writing a weekly opinion column for newspapers in several countries, a s a kind of discipline for keeping my arm in shape. Then it occurred to me that my struggle with the material in the notebook was still a problem of literary genres and they should really be newspaper pieces, not stories. Except after publishing five columns based on the notebook, I changed my mind again: They would be better as films. That was how five movies and a television serial were made.

My friend BG sharing similar thoughts on his blog here.

Employibility

Read it here.

Rudderless

Rudderless drifter

Flowing with the current

Wishing to be caught in the whirl

And disappear in the depths

But thrown out all the while

To continue flowing.

Write

Letters trickle to form words. Words queue up and make sentences. Sentences creep along to become paragraphs. Creating something new or reliving old memories. Do they make sense? Very hard to guess. They project my mood or change it while at work... making me nauseous or exhilarated by the end.

The naked soul being vulnerable for the world to see.

Eden

These are the few pictures taken collectively by my folks of the garden. They have been my limbs for life. Now they try to be my vision by clicking away with this camera every morning.

I wish to believe…

I wish to believe that:

Prayers are answered

Faith is unshaken

Love remains undiminished

Something will fill the hollow heart

There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow

And that belief isn’t misplaced.

Random Words Or Raw Emotions?

Flowing love

Melting anger

Drowning guilt

And

Numb feelings

Raw emotions or just random words?

Well, I'll let you pick.

Silence

Deafening silence

Echoing in the head

Making words disappear as air bubbles

And the heart waiting to explode

Due to an unbearable vacuum.

Arzee the Dwarf

A slightly edited version of this book review has appeared in Apr-Jun 2010 issue of Success & Ability

The vulnerability you feel being physically abnormal in the so-called normal world or to put it simply the insecurity and fear of emotional and physical hurt one feels for owning a deformed and weak body, yet hiding it with built-up audacity and witticism is beautifully brought out in Chandrahas Choudhury’s debut novel Arzee the Drawf. That is not all; the book also successfully brings out the fact that these people live life internally (in which everything is magnified or looked through the prism of their deformity) even if they pretend to be extroverted and out-going. They are like iceberg, with only a small part of them being seen by the world.

Arzee is employed as deputy projectionist in a dilapidated cinema hall named Noor. He seems to be regaining his confidence after a failed love affair and is hoping to get a promotion as the head projectionist seventy years old Phiroz has conveyed his desire to leave the job. Though unsure of the good times he just boasts about to his friends with whom he plays Card games.

The book is divided into thirteen chapters in which the author tries to provide us the experience of a roller-coaster ride ending one chapter on a happy note and the next one on despair. It tries to mingle the personal life of the protagonist with the atmospherics of the metropolitan Bombay (sic). So, there is everything from the stench of urine on the roadside and a rat passing through the legs in the theatre to Cricket betting and goons chasing you for the amount you have lost in the betting.

But, in all these the writer does not lose the meditative narration of Arzee’s inner life. The turmoil he is going through almost in a ‘stream of consciousness’ manner where a serious thought may end rousing a chuckle in us or a seemingly lighter thought culminate with unexpected profundity. Sample Arzee’s thoughts on reading the poster of breathing exercise recommended by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar of Art of Living; The breath! Arzee had never really thought about breath – it seemed to take care of itself, so there was always something else to think about. He breathed deeply once or twice, but didn’t feel any difference, and he was too tired to hold out for longer. Idly he found himself wondering what brand of shampoo Sri Sri Ravi Shankar used.

These things give a solid base to the character whether in his thought process or even in his dealing with others. The language used here is proper English, without peppering of local slang. But, that does not take away anything as far as representing low life of Mumbai is concerned; even the cosmopolitan nature of the city is well.

There are characters doing cameo (for a couple of pages); like Arzee’s cab driver friend Dashrath Tiwari, who doubles up as dialogue writer of Bhojpuri films. Once they have zestful conversation in a roadside teashop past midnight about Arzee’s depressing phase and vanish never to return.

Arzee even fights against being stereotyped, so he slaps his girlfriend’s father who tells him to go back to circus in a violent fury. Later he convinces us that the slap was unintentional. Likewise, the humiliation he feels when he has to dress up like the bottle of a newly launched soft-drink and stand outside malls on a daily basis for a good amount.

Arzee the Dwarf is extremely readable book for the empathy it has towards its eponymous lead. Its slim size (of just 184 pages) is deceptive as it is heavier than it actually feels like.

Chandrahas Choudhury’s blog The Middle Stage

Hey Ram!

Hey Ram!

Was it a grunt as the Mahatma struggled to catch His breath?

Or was He seeking a ticket to heaven in His final moment?

Can’t be sure of that.

But, when my sexagenarian mother utters these words,

While making an effort to carry me as a baby,

They do echo as death knell in my ears.

**************************************************************************************

PS. Happy Women's Day.

Bargain

Let the heart melt with the pain

The soul drench in blood

If it is the only way to repent

And regain lost love

It isn’t an expensive bargain

Teaser

An effort to write fiction... Very rough edged... Posting the beginning just to keep this blog active in the new year...

Today is our thirteenth wedding anniversary. The thought left me numb the whole day, making me physically and mentally inert. I kept wondering whether she remembered or had forgotten, leading a blissful life with her new husband. Though it didn’t hurt as it did a couple of years ago; I had never imagined that we’d end up like this.

The unscheduled call from Priya was reassuring, as usual she just asked: ‘how are you Appa?’ her speech was so clear that I couldn’t imagine her face while listening to her. Maybe, I felt like that because her mother had remembered that it was an important day in our lives, which made me very happy. Even otherwise, I always look for improvements in Priya, however small they are.

Discovered John Malkovich and Reread Disgrace

Read it here

KK’s Death Anniversary, Panipuri, A Birthday Party & Many More Memories

I was lucky yesterday (13th Oct) to hear Singer Srinivas live in concert commemorating the 22nd Death Anniversary of Kishore Kumar.

As always, I was nearly an hour late in reaching the venue, and could hear the last strains of one of favourites Mere Dil Mein Aaj Kya Hai from the film Daag, when Dad was taking me out of the Autorickshaw.

And, by the time I reached my seating place another of my favourites Jeevan Se Bhari Teri Aankhen from Safar came to an end.

Momentarily, I became sad thinking that how many of such gems I’d missed. But, it just passed over as the next song began; like that there were at least two and half dozen more songs in store, none less likeable or favourite than the previous.

My day was made when my request for Meri Bhigi Bhigi Si, a song from Anamika was entertained. Srinivas sang the first stanza without any support from the orchestra because they had not practised it.

I remember the day Kishore Kumar died in 1987 very well. We were celebrating my cousin Sagar’s 9th birthday (he become a very vital part of my life in following years as he wrote most of my exams from Plus I to the completion of my Degree). Ma had prepared Panipuri and Falooda. We were in the kitchen enjoying. I heard Kishore Kumar ka Dheant from the TV; made Ma run out for getting the details, “it was heart attack beta”, she said and continued serving us.

At that moment none of us realised that we’d just lost a legend.

Here is an interesting write-up about Anamika by my friend BG.

Still I…

Invade my sleep
Devastate my dreams
Wrench my heart
Or suffocate my soul
Still I…

Review of Malayalam film Ritu

Read it here

Trying To Grow

My review of Trying To Grow by Firdaus Kanga has been published (modified) in the Apr-Jun 2009 issue of Success & Ability.

The wish to reread an old book may be same as wishing to meet a distant cousin whom you had only met for a few days in your childhood, and, those days are the most cherished memories of your younger days. Now, you feel scared that he may have changed, may have lived a life totally different from yours, and, may have grown up to be temperamentally exactly opposite of you. Then how will you greet him? Hug, shake hands or just say Hi?

I felt the same kind of trepidation when I took up Firdaus Kanga’s semi-autobiographical novel Trying to Grow (recently relaunched by Penguin in paperback). I had read the (borrowed) hardbound version some twelve-thirteen years ago. Those days I was still in the Sidney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, Jeffery Archer, and Arthur Hailey phase, and, Indian English writing was still in nascent stage (I hadn’t read any except a few books by R. K. Narayanan). So, though I was charmed by Kanga’s writing I wasn’t capable of enjoying it in its full lustre (there was a burden that I was reading something very important that I may not be able to appreciate fully).

Trying to Grow tells the coming-of-age (clichéd Bollywood phrase, but trust me it has lot more going for it) story of a boy born with Osteogenesis imperfecta (Brittle Bone Disease) who would break every bone if exerted slightest pressure till the age of five.

This book can be described as showing what roller coaster ride a disabled person’s life in India can be through eyes of Daryus Kotwal nicknamed Brit (as in Britt Ekland and not punning his medical condition as justified by his ten years old sister Dolly when he was born).

Brit’s story may feel funny and frivolous on the surface from the beginning when Brit as an eight year old is taken to a Miracle Man Wagh (tiger) Baba by his father Sam. The Baba does not wear any clothes and as expected turns out to be a fraud. Even the dialogues amplify such situations, especially between Brit and his sister Dolly are laced with innuendos and baser connotations that we fear that their relationship may be bordering on incest.

It is only when we put our analytical caps on that we realise that this just a ploy by the author to lull the reader into a comfort zone (as a scheming boxer would wait patiently for his opponent to let his guard down to give him the knockout punch) before letting him know the harshness of the world occupied by the disabled.

More than the pathos of the protagonist (we doubt for that matter if there are any going by his jovial outlook) who would not grow more than four foot, the story focuses what the people surrounding him go through. His parents are always doubtful of what to dream or aspire for their ill-fated offspring. They are always in conflict amongst themselves, if one of them feels gung-ho about his prospects the other paints a bleak picture. And, his sibling Dolly is the epitome of unconditional love, she is ready to sacrifice her joy to give happiness to her lame brother.

In short, anyone who has grown up in India in the last few decades with severe disability and normal intelligence will have at least a few anecdotes to point and say this has happened in my life. Perhaps except the sexual encounters that our hero Brit was lucky to have (maybe I’m jealous).

Here are couple of snippets that stayed with me after I finished the book for a second time:

When Brit gets a Surprise Special Prize from the School on their Annual Day where he went write exams after studying sitting at home and coming fifth in the class:

Around me the applause burst and swelled like some orchestral climax while I grew smaller and smaller in my seat wishing I wasn’t there, wishing Father Ferra hadn’t talked about me, wishing I hadn’t got this prize for having legs that didn’t work.

And, here is the recklessness of forgetting ones disability and jumping into insurmountable situation:

Funny, isn’t it? When someone is the way I am, you’d think he’d never forget it. But I do. For hours, days. Till I pass a mirror or am ditched at the library.

And, coming back to meeting a long lost cousin: I was as charmed by Brit Kotwal as I was thirteen years ago and felt like giving him a brotherly hug.