"No is a No" and what about your silence, Bachaanji?

Dear Bachhanji,

I wouldn’t have written this letter but for your comments... Strangely as they irked me, there was something inside me strangling to talk to you.

The recent rape incidents in Kathua and the one in Uttar Pradesh have fuelled in all of us a riot of emotions ranging from horror, disgust, depression, outrage, anger and your comment affirms that unlike many other thick skinned devils who justified the brutal rape and murder, there is a celebrity ‘dadaji’ full of sympathy and compassion. You are a celebrity, one of the biggest India has ever seen and you know well the ‘dos and donts’ of life of a celebrity; I am a nacheez to make you aware of one of the dos and of the burden of your responsibility that lies on your strong shoulders, today, in the times when violence has been normalized. People are killed for their religion, their castes, for marrying in to other communities. Crimes, rapes and other horrendous incidents are being used for political gains and for stoking communal hatred, be it of religion, ethnicities or caste. We are learning to live these incidents as if they are a part of daily life because apart from being horrified and disgusted, what else can a common man who works from 9 am to 7 pm do for such cases. Instances of unprecedented violence are far too numerous to register individually a protest against and I will not elaborate on those incidents of violence here.   

For many of us in India, and by us, I am talking particularly about the so-called middle class that I belong to, our families nurture values of sincerity, obedience, modesty, dedication towards work, taking care of one’s family and treating our neighbours and guests as one’s own family members. The general outlook of a ‘normal’ family, - which is also seen in the elite classes or their counter parts from the weaker sections of Indian society, is that politics should be kept away from our personal lives. That politics could be idealist, that it could be based on certain principles or moral values is hardly ever imagined and/or accepted. Our families perceive it as bad, only for the corrupt, always done for one’s gains and interests. Anything to do with politics is better left to ‘them’ – the politicians or the rich and the well connected. Coming from a background that has had good family connections with political parties, you are well aware of the reality that politics is something that touches our lives whether we are concerned about it or not. Unlike my mother who asks me to switch off the TV when gory images of the battered body of Ashifa are shown, for she feels that this disturbs the mental peace and the good vibes in our home, you know very well that the brutal rape and murder of an eight year old is haunting us all. Unsettling images of Ashifa have been inscribed in our memory, the chilling rape and murder has already devastated us, it has disturbed the inner peace we always felt in our family and in our homes.  

Your aura is that of a swacch, huge tide wiping clean the shores and it is at this opportune moment that you have to listen to your conscience and act accordingly. I very sincerely feel that you must use your tidal powers and this is the moment for you to act. This particular incident is unique in ways it unfolded, and is still unfolding. Rather than refraining from commenting, do seize this opportunity to speak loud and clear, (- just as you acted and emphatically said in the movie Pink, “A NO is a NO”), of what needs to be done, of a fair and fast trial assuring justice for the departed one who will never see the meadows she was so fond of. In response to a question, you said, “uss vishay ko uchhalo mat” - your comments smell of repugnance and horror, I am certain of that and it is precisely for this reason that in my opinion, you must rethink considering a stance for campaign(s) you have been endorsing till now. Sir, these times are begging you to act, else no matter how much respect, satisfaction of being a brand ambassador for campaigns or happiness you get from any action done for your nation, no matter the popularity or riches you earn, your grand children will remember you as someone who didn’t voice his opinion at a time when it needed the most.

Regards,

Yours wannabe fan

Letter to Ashifa

Dear Ashifa,

My college, a college reserved only for Women is celebrating its annual day and I see all my students all decked up for this most awaited event of the year. There is perfume in the air, good music has set the tone of the moment and festivities and animations are in full swing; the swaying young girls and faculties already feeling the plunge of this bonaza of the year. While all of us are lost in wonderful, unforgettable moments, I feel completely ill at ease, furious, outraged and completely at loss of words over a face book post that informs me of rape of a 8 year old Asifa in the faraway land of J & K. The gory details of the rape have taken over me and it’s nauseating to think about the torture the 8 year old must have suffered. My hands tremble of what to write and confused, a heady mix of thoughts, almost akin to loss of capability of stringing any thoughts together frustrate me like never before.

I feel utterly helpless and I feel like crying, my hands tremble and I feel guilty. Guilty of something I have not done, guilty of inaction, guilty of not being able to channelize my outrage and sharing it with others. Feeling defeated, my head bowed down in shame, disgust, guilt and drown by emotion, I take to Facebook and commit the act that has become the in-thing of our times. I scroll down, through the post where I read the details of the heinous crime and share it with my friends on Facebook. I feel utterly ashamed that all I can do for the moment is share this post and make people know of what happened to this innocent girl…

Ashifa, I do not believe in God anymore and yet I pray to the nameless Almighty for justice to be given you, your friends, relatives and all those who feel outraged by this act. I proudly (and somewhat hypocritically) say that All Indians are my brothers and sisters and even if Ashifa, if you had not been Indian, I wish no person endures what you went through during those moments when you were kept alive to be raped again, and again at yet again, before the last time. I am ashamed that this is happening in our country where we proudly affirm that we give respect to women and elderly. Asifa, we have betrayed you, not as Indians but more so as humans, we have betrayed your being irrespective of your religion, faith, age and what not parameters on which our identities are fashioned on. Asifa, when I read what you went through, I wish I could become violent and perpetuate the most gruesome tortures to those who ‘enjoyed’ you.

I really don’t know what this writing is going to do. I am sure some people are going to read your event, your rape in a completely different light and may attribute something that you are not even aware of – you are going to be seen as merely being a minority, or your belonging to your state. I don’t know but it may also happen that this whole rape thing is going be to given a communal colour to it, may to be to an extent of getting a political mileage out of it for parties across the spectrum, I really don’t know and I am all the more distressed over such an happening before it takes place. I used to be an optimist but that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.

Finally Asifa, I am sorry, for there seems an absence of ‘collective guilt’ in all my friends and relatives and all the so-called middle classes and the aspirational upper middles classes of being concerned about the 7 pay commission, immobile properties, the latest cars and their new models, their trips abroad, the weekend parties and what not… I will not write about all that as there is not end to it. I feel extremely disgusted at our attitudes of thinking of things that we are only immediately concerned about. This kind of thick skinned attitude and absence of any interest of anything that happens beyond our immediate entourage and environment leaves me utterly disgusted. I just wonder how the thick skinned attitude people would react had Asifa been there daughter. I wish them nightmares that would make them little more sensitive towards our remote worlds in order to bring them back to their senses and to their strayed humanity.

Mi Marathi... South Indian or North Indian... To be or not to be?

“Yella North Indians” were unfortunately the only words my keen ears could collect from all what was being said. The sulking faces, their discussion no longer mattered to me who was listening with intent till then. It was as if a performance of a veteran Khayal vocalist at a curve of its architectural expansion suddenly collapsed due to a technical failure of the music system and a shrieking noise erased the effect of all what had been laid earlier. My baby steps of life in the deep interior of South India were greeted and marked by my inauspicious categorisation as a ‘North Indian’. To be frank enough, in other scenarios of light pleasantries and I-hit-you-and-you-hit-me-twice of verbal duels, I don’t mind people calling me names. It is due to this laissez-faire address policy that depending on the situation, location and the social coterie I am in, I have gotten used to be problematically referred to as a Maratha in friendly banter (prompting me to say the often misused ‘ata majhi satakli’), then, as a Brahmin, Puneri one at that, then, at other times as an austere Chitpavan (without being one) and finally, simply and lovingly as a benign Paresh Rawalesque Marathi – Marathi as a whole defining entity within which can be subsumed other identities of caste and region. Interestingly, all these addresses have happened mostly in Delhi where I have spent a fair number of years. The funny part is what follows: while in Delhi, along with my regional and caste affiliations, I am also considered as a South Indian! So, when I was referred to as a North Indian in the South of India, I felt particularly targeted at that maladroit address. I felt like a smashed potato from a miserably failed bataté vada sandwiched between a crispy chennai dosai and a butter soaked paratha. What made me look like someone from the North? How do we make out someone from the North? Or what does it really mean to be from the North? (or from the South) Or inversely, what was it that I lacked, not to be welcomed as one of theirs or not to be befriended as a part of the South Indian fraternity?

These questions pertain to my day to day life and I think they relate to all of us, Indians in whatever part of the country we are in. The world for most of us is neatly divided, into North and South, as if one can either belong to the North or to the South. In such a scheme of things, how does one relate to someone who considers him/herself neither from the North nor from the South or, better, considers as possessing certain traits from both without considering oneself as belonging completely to either. To add to my woes, be it in the South or North, there is hardly any consideration for one’s belongingness to the West or East of India.

In my case, as a friend illuminated me on the issue, there is hardly anything visibly distinguishing a characteristic to be called a Marathi or to belong from Maharashtra. I started to think on these lines about Bollywood popular culture to understand the portrayal of my breed. Bollywood films have provided us with sufficient doses of sexual innuendos of a Marathi/Konkani woman. We have all seen Laxmibaai as ‘kaamwali’ baai draped in her 9 Yards sari. No wonder then, the scantily clad Katrina Kaif in ‘Chikni Chameli’ carries forth in terms of her attire the legacy of Madhuri’s ‘Humko aaj kaal hain’ – a musically beautiful song from the film, Sailaab. But that pertains to the female gender and even so, reflects little of how an urban Marathi woman would look like. A Marathi working/middle class woman is possibly seen to be independent and has all the liberal values incarnated in the city life of Mumbai. What about a Marathi male, urban prototype then? Amol Palekar comes alive to my mind so effortlessly singing the eternal search of a house in his, “Do deewané shahar main...” This was “Gharonda” in 1977 and the search of a house, though an important theme doesn’t quite translate the uniqueness of anything Marathi. Since the 1980’s, Bollywood has engaged with the urban life in new ways and the cinematic representation does register elements from Marathi culture. However, the experience of modernity and of the urban life as portrayed by Bollywood of post 90’s doesn’t necessarily differentiate between a Marathi and his ‘North Indian counterpart’. The often repeated image of working class Mumbaikars struggling against all odds to make out a living is rather a set of different identities – of castes, regions and class. Mumbai becomes a city of dreams and ambitions of anyone ready to struggle and excel. Unfortunately, films pertaining to the underworld, Mafia like “Vaastav, Satya”, as also the lighter ones as “Munnabhai MBBS,” and one man armies of local Rowdies (Ghulam, Rangeela, etc.) glorify the street and its heroes occupying a space between the rich and the poor, the legal and the illegal. One can observe a typical Mumbaiiya accented hero here with his stereotypical expressions of ‘bolé to’, ‘aapun’, ‘ané ka, jané ka, khané ka’, etc. which may be at times actually quite removed from a typical middle class Marathi family. I start to get a feeling that stereotypes work better, at least, you have an image to model from. A stereotype can give at least something to associate with.   

If the filmic representations are not strong enough to paint a visibly different Marathi man, there is a further lack of imagination of a Marathi identity due to a general resistance towards Hindi in Tamil Nadu. We are all aware of the stiff resistance to the 3 language policy in Tamil Nadu. For whatever reasons, the imposition of Hindi hasn’t worked, as it has in other states. Slightly bigger cities in Tamil Nadu may have got some exposure to Hindi film industry but, Bollywood Films dubbed in Tamil are still shown in smaller cities. (Some time back, I couldn’t stomach the idea of watching Padmavati in Tamil!) Preserving one’s language, customs, traditions and thus a certain sense of self is indeed praise worthy. The regional language for local governance has its benefits too. However, the strong linguistic regionalism can be a huge barrier in incorporating those who do not speak Tamil. In fact, this regionalism works to such an extent that all speakers of Tamils – regardless of their caste and regional inflictions are regrouped as one against all others. The category of all others too, becomes ossified into one whole where even a Marathi, Kannadiga or Gujrati not so fluent enough in Hindi are considered as a North Indian. Such a process entails a simultaneous erasure of all differences between those speaking Tamil and accentuating the differences of this one group vis-à-vis all those who do not know Tamil. It also unfortunately leads to an erasure of all differences among those not speaking Tamil and coming from other states. The different dimensions of one’s identity of people coming from Madhya Pradesh, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, etc. are reduced to one: of not knowing the local lingua, of their non belongingness to Tamil.

The identity of a so called North Indian is constructed as a negative one - one who lacks Tamil primarily linguistically and then, culturally. This is the situation not just in the South but also in certain other regions of India. The fault line varies depending on the location. In the North, if you speak Hindi not so fluently and happen to be in the region that lies anywhere below Madhya Pradesh, then you are eligible to be a South Indian. While down South, especially in Tamil Nadu for example, you just have to be unfamiliar with Tamil and you are eligible to be a North Indian.

If language acts as an instrument of social exclusion, there exist other layers too to accentuate the differences between intimate outsiders and remote outsiders. If Biharis are known to possess certain traits and are not welcome in a particular state, those from the states of the North East of India face other forms of marginalisation. For that matter, the North-East becomes one unified whole with no particular importance given to other identities that may exist in the respective states. We hardly care about how a Manipuri would be different from someone from Nagaland. It is precisely for this reason that we should open ourselves to others, promote our local cultures, languages, literatures and economies. Instead of spending lakhs of Rupees and visiting only the cleanest localities and monuments of Europe’s glorious past, we shouldn’t shy away from visiting our remote villages and understanding their life and their cultures. Promotion of local economies is one of the best ways to generate revenues, knowing ourselves better and building tolerance vis-à-vis others.

There may be a slight exaggeration in this piece about how people from other states are made to feel outsiders, but such regionalisms, be it in Mumbai, Chennai or Shillong, run counter to the ethos encapsulated in Unity in Diversity that we often boast about. We are proud of the fact that our identities are constructed in myriad ways and that this plural identity formation has at its base something common to our Indian-ness. So, if that is really the case, why do we continue to remain hostile towards “outsiders” – the people from other states?

Film Review : TUMHARI SULU (2017)

Tumhari sulu (2017) has a storyline a lot of urban families can relate to. Especially, the women from urban and semi urban setups who have unrealised, professional aspirations will like the film as it depicts the day to day chores of Sulekha, an able house wife beaming with energy and eager to explore spheres of life other than family. As a matter of fact, it is a film that I can relate myself to. Sulu’s character goes quite close to my sister’s and to many other more-than-life-housewives, who are not just mere housewives and yearn to do a lot more in their lives. Perhaps the feeling of being removed from one’s passions creates such an unbearable and claustrophobic void for these women that stories of their struggles can uplift the morale of those in different, if not, better conditions. I feel compassion for such women whose primary role is perceived in merely rearing a child and taking care of the household and I genuinely empathize with their sufferings and concerns of creating an environment conducive for their whole family to flourish and excel.

The eponymous film shows the protagonist, Sulekha aka Sulu (Vidya Balan) as a very cheerful, enterprising, doting housewife. Despite her failures - academic (she has failed 12th on three occasions) and professional (her economic ventures have gone astray in the past), her motivations to excel are always alive and ready to burst. She is always able, if not at the first sight, to eventually leave a lasting impression on everyone she meets. With all her prizes and accolades in trivial local competitions like Limbu chamcha, Sulekha embarks on a new journey when she lands herself in a well paying job as a late night Radio Jockey. Her newly found vocation disrupts her family life and she is seen failing to conform to her role of a house wife. The film’s central issue is thus Sulekha’s struggle in coping up with her career as a Radio Jockey and her married life. The end suggests a seeming success for Sulekha on both fronts, however a somewhat detailed analysis could suggest otherwise.

Analysis: For reasons of better understanding the protagonist and the unfolding of the film, let’s divide the film in 3 parts: the transition of the protagonist from sulekha to Sulu, then, from Sulu to sulu and finally, from sulu to Sulekha. (Do note the careful use of capital/small lettered ‘s’ in the three parts as it has been used to personify the agency of the protagonist).

Part I (sulekha to Sulu) – Despite all odds, sulekha manages to organize herself in a way to suit the betterment of her family. The film aptly starts with a lemon-and-spoon race (Nimbu chamcha) which is all about maintaining one’s balance. So, right from the first shot, emerging winner in a lemon-and-spoon competition is a prior confirmation of sulekha’s competence as a champion house wife (the small letter ‘s’ signifying the protagonist’s primary, accepted and the only role in the household as a housewife). In another scene, later, Ashok, the husband is standing on a stool and is shown fixing a bulb. This again speaks figuratively of the balance in the family. Ashok gives and arranges for light in the family and he is supported by sulekha who holds the stool he stands on. Her withdrawal of support makes Ashok’s position vulnerable to instability. Ashok is dependent on Sulu and the household cannot work without their mutual cooperation.  
As mentioned before, sulekha is interested in exploring avenues for contributing towards her family and for her self-growth. Her financially impossible dream of launching a commercial venture like a taxi company of women is ridiculed by her sisters and other family members. sulekha is an expert in voice modulation, she impersonates actors and her family members compliment and at times, tease her on that account. In fact, her singing skills and her naiveté are mocked at by RJ Albeli Anjali. Her attempts of finding a job and supporting her family finally succeed when her mellifluous voice and her desire to prove herself catch Maria’s attention (Neha Dhupia) and a late night radio show titled, ‘Tumhari Sulu’ is launched to cater to lonely souls and supposedly to all those needing emotional and psychological support. sulochana outperforms and turns into an overnight celebrity, Sulu.

Part II (Sulu to sulu) – Sulu’s immediate success is a life changer for the protagonist and her family too. Sulu enjoys her work, her colleagues respect her for what she is and she finally feels at peace at herself, for finding a job that she likes and that pays well and for being acknowledged at work. From a housewife sulochana, the protagonist becomes RJ Sulu, aware of her strengths and using them with conscience.

Both the halves of the film start with a discussion among the family members about what the protagonist should do in her life. If the first half deals with the necessity of sulekha taking up a job (to support her family) the second puts the reputation and the timings of her job in the forefront of the discussion. The respectability of a woman lies in doing only certain kind of jobs and Sulu’s ‘late night’ radio job is sneered at. The late night working hours are seen as an obstacle in the family life and Sulu is seen failing to serve as a dutiful mother. Further, her son, Pranav’s suspension on account of stealing a mobile phone and immoral conduct of selling (obscene) videos is attributed to Sulu’s failure of not attending properly to her son. Such a position ascribes a child’s responsibility uniquely at the hands of the women/the mother. Sulu feels morally responsible for Pranav’s conduct and finally decides to leave her job as she is not able to juggle her new found career with her primary occupation of a mother.

In this phase, Sulu becomes sulu i.e. she decides not to speak ‘her’ voice since societal and familial compulsions make her speak in a voice that is not hers. Figuratively thus, she is forced to permanently impersonate and the voice of her real Self is muted forever. In fact, Sulu’s ability to impersonate others reflects her versatile position - capable of speaking numerous voices, of assuming different alter/native ‘subject’ positions. That she has to give up an activity so dear to her and which is in fact her forte becomes the biggest failure of the portrayal of Sulochana.

Part III (sulu to Sulekha) The transformation to sulu is momentary and the protagonist finally becomes Sulekha, by being able to find her own bearing. She is however led to take a compromising position. It is due to such a position, I feel, that sulu again becomes Sulekha, but a renewed one at that. This is because the protagonist quits her job as a Radio Jockey, a job she likes and is quite passionate about. However, the twist in the film is the protagonist finding a new commercial venture (regrettably again, the new idea of catering business is christened on her husband’s name, Ashok catering services). The film ends thus on a fairly conservative note. She is again a housewife, content with her family and a job that pays reasonably well and importantly, is ‘acceptable’ to others. As the title suggests, disappointingly, ‘Tumhari sulu’ is a film of the feminine failing to be herself or conversely, succeeding to be someone else that she is not or doesn’t aspire to be. The radio show, ‘Tumhari Sulu’ is suggestive of a close association between friends in general and at a deeper level, an intimacy between husband and wife in the context of the film. The decision to withdraw from the night show means ‘Sulu’ will neither be able to give and share her joys to the whole world nor will be able to unburden unknown people of their pains and sorrows. On the personal front, the title bears a sense of possession by the male and the female’s willing submission to the same. The end of the film shows a compromise of the Subject to willingly oblige to the other and in the process, to be ‘the other’. The three phases described here can be resumed as the transition of the protagonist from a mere object to a Subject and then to become a subject again.

Though the film has a very good topic for discussion, it has a few threads left unexplored. Tightening such loose ends would have made a stronger film. Let’s see a few of them here.

The film certainly needed a stronger portrait of Sulekha and the film maker could have used other threads for a better handling of the central character. For ex: take the sudden disappearance of Pranav, the son after his suspension from school. This could have been resolved via Sulu’s voice at the radio. Her sexuality calling on her son to return home could consolidate her professional and personal position. The film could have portrayed a few other instances of Sulu helping needy people. Helping women of her age group or women facing harsher hardships would have been welcome. A wonderful incident to include would be the husband himself calling Sulu for his solution. This would have made Sulu look in a mirror, at her own life but from her husband’s point of view and her perspective would make a very interesting case. Another suggestion would be a scene showing Pranav’s friends taking jibes at his mother’s new job and this could have accentuated the vulnerability of Sulekha’s profession.

Ashok’s job at one point seems in jeopardy and there is no further lead on that front. His quitting the job or better, changing the job to suit his wife’s career could have been a way to sort things out. Also, his disrespect at the hands of the new boss could have been further explored as the professional life often-always impacts one’s personal life. Then, Ashok’s insistence on Sulu bearing another child could have tested the protagonist all the more as one of the best ways to keep a woman busy at home is to make her at the receiving end of child production. A sister for Pranav and discussion on that would have definitely advanced a stronger woman out of Sulekha. Sulu is consumable sexuality incarnated – consumed at home and what she can sell in the market is her silky voice. This ‘sexy’ voice is her gate way for the RJ job. Neha Dhupia can’t offer Sulu another RJ job, to work during the day which is a sad proposition akin to a prostitute losing her market after her waning of the body. Sulu may have a beautiful voice but that can be used only at night.

The film also shows the importance and the repeated intervention of the family in matters that pertain strictly to Sulllu’s three member-household. While it is true that in a large number of cases in India, even when nucleus family has become ‘the’ type of family setup in urban cities, families/elders have a say on things that happen in a couple. Choices available to women thus depend directly on the elders/the larger family acting as a chief mediator in decision making. It could be interesting to look at things differently without family intervention. A few good things about the film - Sulekha has a lot of potential and its instant recognition by Neha Dhupia speaks volumes of what recognition/acknowledgement can do to raw talent. Likewise, a wife/woman or for that matter anyone who has failed academically is not always a loser and Sulekha’s enthusiasm of trying to prove herself as something more than a mere housewife is inspiring and a huge take away from this film. Neha Dhupia and Vidya Balan are reasonably good in their acting, the (female) taxi drivers role and her sympathy with Sulekha show how women across different class positions are faced with similar problems, one of them being - the male gaze.

All in all, the film is laden with decent amount of conservative overtones. The humour episodes are good and entertaining but cannot compensate for the gravity of the position accorded to Sulekha. Vidya Balan’s impersonation and her attempts of saying a hello full of sexual innuendos do give a good laugh. Conclusion: A good story with lots of promise falls short in making a solid case for Sulu. It eventually makes a case for Sulekha.

Poème d’anniversaire

Les raisins de la sagesse mûrissent plus en saison d'hiver,
l'essence du vin rajeunit plus qu'en vieillit la chaire,
l'horloge du coeur suinte et voici coulent mes voeux sincères...

Que Le Temps vous enrichisse, cher maître, d'une année de l'encens, son parfum, 
etant garni des crépuscules divins et des aurores bénis du Saint !

LOVE VÉLO

Le vélo est un symbole de la jeunesse. On se souvient du moment où on nous achète un vélo. Cette nouvelle possession d’objet suscite d’emblée des remarques et des conseils de la part des parents telles « Fais Attention », « Sois prudent, Pas de bêtises », « Du sérieux, t’es grand maintenant ! » Maintes autres suggestions se font entendre mais on ne les écoute plus. On est déjà parti sur la route de l’imaginaire : nouveau vélo, accès à la fraternité vélociste, rêve de l’image du beau gosse séduisant les jolies filles de l’école…

Ce rêve imaginaire se réalise le lendemain où on brandit la nouvelle bicyclette à la James Bond qui se la joue avec son dernier modèle de bagnole. On se sent fier de la possession toute récente. Finie l’époque où il fallait marcher jusqu’à l’arrêt de bus qui ramène les écoliers et les lycéens comme un camion délivrant les fromages cramoisis. Désormais, le monde nous appartient. On est sur ses pieds, prêts à découvrir les chemins inconnus, inexplorés de la vie. La fraternité vélociste nous accueille les bras ouverts et on embrasse son slogan - LOVE VÉLO!

Yeh Dil mang(u)é more...

Je savoure en ce moment le délice de la mangue et suis sous l’effet du bouquet de souvenirs qui envahissent tout mon être. Le parfum du fruit souffle ces mots en moi. Je délecte le parfum et se plonge sans efforts apparents dans les eaux bénites de l’enfance perdue…

Une journée de vacances estivales commençait avec un thé hâtif suivi d’un petit déjeuner consommé super rapide, histoire de regagner le monde sportif en attente. Le cœur courait vite aux champs où s’unissaient les équipes de quartiers. C’est sur ces vastes champs de bataille, encore épargnés de la civilisation que se disputait presque tous les jours des vacances estivales la coupe régionale du cricket. Pas de sponsors, ni de ‘cheerleaders’. Pourtant, le jeu aussi intense, sévère qu’un vrai match de la coupe mondiale. Ces matchs de cricket de quartiers, commencés très tôt le matin s’enchaînaient, l’un suivant les autres. La vengeance de la défaite et le désir de la suprématie nourrissaient l’appétit des joueurs jusqu'à midi et demi, l’heure de pointe de la canicule. C’est à ce moment-là qu’on attendait le plus. 

Le Soleil qui souffrait de l’overdose alcoolique de la veille avait souvent mal à la tête. Il avait l’habitude de vomir profusément la chaleur et crachait ardemment de temps à l’autre la pourriture mangée la veille. Alors que le soleil se purgeait, les enfants et les joueurs fatigués, s’adonnaient au plaisir des mangues. Une colonne de manguiers côtoyait le terrain où se passaient les matchs. A l’heure de la pause, avant une heure de l’après-midi, selon un protocole réglé, les joueurs atteignaient les arbres. Il suffisait de courir auprès des manguiers et y attendre. Les petits montaient aussitôt sur les arbres et cueillaient les fruits dociles. En moins de 2 minutes, tout le bon fruit, terrassé, est prêt à affronter sa destinée : la consommation. Chacun a droit à un nombre de mangues qui lui plaise. Il ne faut pas croire que toute cette scène ait lieu en parfaite harmonie. Se produisent çà et là des engueulades sur la propriété du fruit. De grosses injures pimentent l’ambiance. On se moque alors à la bonne franquette de querelleurs de ces prises de bec… Au nom des ancêtres damnés et de la famille maudite rappelée, tout le monde s’empresse bientôt de consommer leur part.

Quel drôle de scène ! Tout le monde, absorbé à combler sa faim, s’y engage, s’y perd. On s’en fout des bouches, de bons maniérismes, tel un enfant joyeux, tout nu courant sans pudeur devant les invités. On se ressemble à des bêtes affamées, ravageant la proie. Que c’est bon, ce goût fort, aromatisé de la mangue. Quelques unes sont bien sucrées, succulentes, les autres moins bonnes, un peu acides même. Mais, ce n’est pas grave, bordel... On en dévore quand même. On vit le moins bon aussi intensément que le plus sucré. On mange à sa faim, à sa guise jusqu’ à en avoir assez.   

Du goût de la mangue, émane une fraicheur de fleurs. Elle vous inonde les poumons, envahit le cœur et l’air parfumé pénètre tout le corps. L'état extatique actualise aussi longtemps que perdure la saveur du fruit. Il faut noter que d’une part, cette expérience, on la rajeunit à chaque fois que le charme du fruit nous séduit; d’autre part, la jouissance sensorielle, vous met à la disposition un bouquet de souvenirs garnis.   

C’est ainsi qu’aujourd’hui, après tant d’années, l’odorat de la mangue me rappelle tout de suite l’enfance. Ça, c’est un constat. Véridique. J’ai remarqué qu’entre amis, dès que l’on parle de la mangue, on revient à notre enfance, chacun de mes amis confessant la quantité mangée (commençant par une modeste douzaine de mangues). Bien sûr qu’il faut exclure de cette quantité le nombre encore plus grand de mangues volées à la ferme et bouffées toutes crues.

Le verbe ‘bouffer’ convient juste à décrire la précipitation et la joie avec lesquelles on engloutissait ces fruits. « Engloutissaient », cet usage d’imparfait désigne la quotidienneté et la nature inaccomplie de l’action, comme si ce ne serait jamais possible de se rassasier. Un contraste intéressant entre le régulier de tous les jours cédant à la folie de la passion de la mangue. Hélas ! Quel plaisir de ne manger qu’une somme démesurée de trentaines, quarantaine de mangues. Rien que cela et une gorgée d’eau fraiche mettant un point final à la longue course de la gourmandise matinale.

Temple

The scorching sunlight has made me weary and tired. I am a wounded soldier, lost in this labyrinthe, stranded alone in this unknown territory. I wonder what my fellow soldiers are doing right now, at this moment. Have they been captured, tortured or even killed? Have they revealed our pursuits? Is someone searching me, showing my photo and promising rewards to whosoever that finds me dead or alive? Thoughts and questions leave me blinded as much as this burning heat. With no more provisions left with me, I have no more choices left but to continue. I had been walking looking for food, water and shade for the last 8 hours. Up from the valley, I could see this structure and I wondered if I would get what I have been looking for. This place seemed so close from there, but, in reality, it was an illusion. The closer it appeared to my deceiving vision, the more distanced it was to my debilitating legs.

From the top of the hill, one would have referred to it as a desolate, abandoned house still mourning in the memory of the lives that it sheltered. It had nothing to boast about. A mediocre architecture, the cascading roofs and a couple of neatly aligned windows gave the impression of a descent poor man's shelter. One could see the electricity poles and the suspending wires: remnants of its recent habitation. The house stood at an awkward position. No contact whatsoever was possible from either sides of the road and it looked as if the mass of bricks and straw was detached from the human civilisation by ages in time and light years in distance. I was afraid of approaching this place, fear of being caught hovering in my thoughts every now and then. If anyone has seen me on the way and informed them to expect me at this temple in some hours, they are bound to patrol this place. What if they are expecting me here? What if they have purposely left the clothes and other insignia of my friends, as a reminder for their inconsolable families? What if they have deliberately spilled the very life of my mates to test my dying patience?

Expecting the worst, I give in and I approach this structure with a pumping heart and careful vision. The vast deserted area had belittled the place earlier on, but down here, resides a charming edifice. The sober look and the modest design can be experienced only from a closer introspection. In fact, none of the beauty of this place could be seen from up there. However, when I reached here, I felt I was home, back to my village, cows grazing in the backyard, unpleasant but the familiar odour of the sheep waste and their constant bleating. The place is covered with trees, plants and wild weeds growing in unison and cool breeze could bring you the smell of soils of distanced, faraway lands. From the veranda, I realize being in the safe hands of an old, holy temple in ruins. This same place that had appeared to be a house is in fact a place of worship. Entering the temple is an experience devoid of any thoughts. The space is so neatly sheltered from the heat, that the cold touch of the surface of the floor gives a tempting urge to relax and recover. It is pitch dark here and there doesn't seem to be an idol dominating the scene, but a faint perfume of incense, some flowers and a meek lantern lay untouched away in the corner. Further away in the corner, to my sheer delight, I can identify two known exhausted bodies almost in the state of blissful meditation.

'The' moment of any concert

  
Music concerts of any kind are remembered for a few special moments. The(se) special moment(s) perfume the concert(s). The perfume on a person helps him/her get noticed without necessarily being seen. A gentleman, engrossed in a charming conversation, may get distracted by his olfactory sense, and tries to search the origin of the fragrance and the beauty carrying it. The same applies to concerts. These performances, without those rare moments, remain as they were: bad, mediocre, good, dazzling. The uniqueness in each of the concerts lies within the realms of those few memorable moments that enable us to retrieve, relive and cherish the spectacle again and again.

However, there are a few memorable moments that stand out wanting for appreciation. It is that particular moment, the scented one, which functions as the identifier of the concert in the catalogues of memory. While discussing about a past concert, one can reconnect to the program saying, “Oh yes! That was the moment when the frenzied crowd, dancing, reached the stage” or “you remember the concert where we were seated just besides the percussionist”. The special moments, to name a few, can be the deafening silence, a giant uproar of the audience or the respectful awe, as per the modalities of the conventions of the concert.

It is also an observation that the ‘precious’ moment at times is the culmination of a series of events; the events being nothing but the different elements of the concert like musical pieces, songs or the different rhythms for elaboration of a raga. The nature of these events can thus be thematic, rhythmic, temporal or any other. Such events, as independent entities, have no individual existence and they gain meaning only from their relationships with other events. We therefore probably tend to compare for instance the first part of the concert with the second or the third or vice verse. The first part of the concert thus may look better organised or otherwise with respect to its counterparts.

The collaborative effort among the separate events takes a certain time, paving way to ‘the moment’ of the concert.  It is probably due to this reason that the excerpts of music clips on Youtube do not seem as soul stirring as live performances. The element of time factoring in different events is crucial as much as that it constitutes the key to understand the true expression of the individual acts involved. Considering the time element, it can be said that the moment of the concert becomes metaphorically, the point, deep down in the earth, which beholds a natural source of water. The vast, natural reserve created over the ages by the patient, incessant, perpetual trickling of droplets. The special, divine, sublime ‘moment’ similar to the source of water nourishes the imagination and creative instincts of man bearing new seeds of ideas and visions.

Mausam de la Mousson!

Il a plu... On sent la fraîcheur envahir tout le pays. La Terre mouillée des pluies, le vol des oiseaux dans le ciel bleu dissipé, les beaux chants d’oiseaux et un brin de lumière entrant sur la scène de l’azur, presque comme un enfant qui, caché derrière les rideaux, regarde et sourit aux invites de la maison...

Les feuilles sont toutes vertes, baignées par les averses. Elles entretiennent toujours les gouttes naturelles qui leur ont rendu visite tout a l’heure. Quelques gouttes se reposent sur les feuilles, les tiges, les fleurs comme les diamants dans les cases bleu foncé en velours. Quelques unes patientent, tout simplement… les autres se forment une colonie et s’initient à une chute. Bientôt, l’ensemble atteint la terre d’où tout a commencé. Quelques autres gouttes d’eau formée en colonie attendant leur route du salut s’écrasent sur la peau d’une jeune fille qui frémit des sensations au-delà de l’univers de mots. Les averses ont remué les couleurs terrestres. Les feuilles de toutes couleurs se ressemblent à une aquarelle terminée sous peu. Les couleurs jeunes sur cette création ne sont visibles qu’aux yeux de l’artiste dans son studio. Elles sont là, comme les fleurs afin d’être cueillies pour les offrandes.

Beaucoup de feuilles sont ainsi rajeunies, au moins le parait-il. Or, quelques unes, vieillies, laides, desséchées, écloses se sont perdues à la poussière. Elles attendent d’être balayées le lendemain matin par les éboueurs. Entre temps, elles restent à l’écart, immobiles en portant le chapeau, “Ici Git”.

Lord of all!

O Parmananda!

Whether it be the noon or the rising moon
be it the day of fools or the day of doom,

You are the lord who does the trick on and on,
Trick on one, anyone, someone and everyone....
You play a prank on all, be a pros or the boss,
you con them all!

You are great and we are small,
Parmananda! The cunning Lord...
the sunset of this saturday, dont fool us and do spare us all...

(On occasion of Fool's day)