It feels like betrayal.

It also feels like the longest relationship I was ever in even if we were mostly not together. We were the best of friends. Although according to him, he loved me from before we became friends. Really. From when, I had asked. From as long as I can remember, he had said.

Then, as always happens, we became used to each other. Predictable. I have always maintained that if you can’t have a meaningful conversation with someone, you shouldn’t be with him. It’s the one thing I looked for, more than anything else. I didn’t care as much for attraction,  or for more material, measurable stuff like success (though the measurability of ‘success’ is debatable, no? I mean, what are the parameters?) although I will admit that I consider a sense of humour a definite plus. (And yes, he had a sense of humour.) What I did not realise is that conversations too become predictable. We still had them, oh plenty! But more and more we knew what the other was going to say.

Or at least I was predictable. I am. I sometimes think that I am predictable to the extent of being boring. These days I feel grateful. I feel like I should thank everyone who continues to be in my life in spite of the nothing I bring to theirs.

So after a little less than two years, we split. I backed off. I like to think that he created the conditions for it, even if I took the actual decision. But this is a never ending loop. Perhaps I created the conditions which pushed him to the edge. Then I used it to blame him. But that’s the thing about a loop. There are no corners, it goes on endlessly. So you can never stop and say this is where it all started. In any case, he did say I don’t see this going anywhere. That is a fact. Consequently, I did break away. That is a fact too. We’re great where we are right now, but the future is definitely apart, he had said.

Whoa.

It’s a cruel joke when life hands you the same cards a second time around and it’s a losing hand. Should I have seen it coming? Now, maybe. Back then it was a bolt from the blue. No, it was just a bolt. There was nothing blue about the skies those days.

We stayed friends though. The best of friends, like I said. Was that weird? Maybe, but I liked being unconventional. I had never allowed myself to be told how things should or shouldn’t be done. Things were done. In some way. It was ‘a’ way of doing things, even if it was not the usual way. And so we were friends. Of the best kind.

Then one day, while having tea at my place (there was always a lot of tea) and rolling a cigarette (and a lot of smoke too) he said we should get married. It had been two years since we had broken up, but what did that matter. He said we were so good together, we were meant to be together. In a warped way, I knew exactly what he meant. Yes, we were great together. Was that reason enough, I wondered. What about attraction? We hadn’t been together for two years.

A childhood friend thought I was mad to even consider it. We are great friends, she countered. Are you thinking of marrying me too?

Two more years passed. There were other loves, other crushes. But not the same conversations. Not with anyone else and not with him. That’s because he wouldn’t see me. Too hard being around you if I can’t be with you, he had said. So for two years we didn’t meet, didn’t speak.

Almost. I did call to check a couple of times if we could be friends again. The answer was a definitive no.

Then something changed. We met. Suddenly, it was okay to meet. Should I have wondered then? Then I jumped from the fence. I was tired and lonely. I was never going to find out whether it was a good or a bad decision if I never took a decision in the first place. (Isn’t that the point of sitting on the fence?) So I jumped.

It took us two days (maybe less) to settle comfortably back in our roles as if we had never been apart. It’s like I live in a time warp. Life stops and before you know it, you are two years older without having anything to show for it. You didn’t ‘grow’ two years older because you did nothing that could be called growing. You just are two.years.older. With a lot more grey to show for it, admittedly.

Then he was gone on work for nearly a month. When he came back, everything was the same, but something had changed. (In his head probably.) So we had the same conversations, we used the same words, but they had a different ring to them. Did I recognise the difference in the ring? In hindsight I think I did. But I ignored it. It was too unfamiliar, I did not know what it was. Or maybe I knew exactly what it was.

He feels detachment, he says. Everything is mechanical, and he feels nothing. Ah, mechanical. That was the tone. Our conversations were mechanical. It was as if we had had them before. Our movements were mechanical- whether it was making soup together or running hands through hair. It was all déjà vu.

I’m sorry, he said. It’s my fault, we should not have got back together. His face was stony, unmoving.

At least it was quick, I said.

For two years there had been an apparent sense of being loved. The reassurance that there was someone out there who wanted to be with me. It was a false reassurance, I realise now (as perhaps I did then too.) See, but that’s the thing about reassurances. They are so reassuring that you end up forgetting that they may not actually be true.

And for two years therefore, there was an apparent sense of loneliness. I was alone but not lonely. Not actually.

He thought he wanted to marry me, but he was wrong, he says. He calls it confusion. I see it as betrayal. All a matter of perspective!

In a single moment I have been left with two years of loneliness.


(This was written two years ago. Two years later, I am able to post it. I suppose that says something about time, and its healing properties.)

Ode to missed opportunity or why it could-not-have-been (after all)

I have a fascination for good coffee

But I try not to make it too often

With coffee I associate conversation

And your company

(tea does not have to suffer such associations)

Sometimes when the coffee is particularly good

I dreamily remember what could-have-been

Times that could-have-been spent together,

Conversations that could-have-been had

(It never happened though,

we were never good friends.

But I could never forget

that which could-have-been)

We could-have-had long conversations

over restless starry nights

We could-have-had long make out sessions

over quiet lazy afternoons

(We would most certainly have led a most decadent life.)

As I sip my lonely coffee

This dim October afternoon

And the building opposite reflects tobacco light

Into my room

You return to your house,

resounding with the laughter of children

and without a doubt I know why…

(apologies for bad poetry :D)

Two days two films Part 2

I nearly did not go for the second film either... because I was running terribly late and would have missed the first half. I went anyway, and I'm glad I did.

The film was 'Menstrual Man'- about Arunachalam Muruganantham from Coimbatore, an extraordinary man who built a low cost machine to make low cost sanitary pads for poor women in rural and semi urban areas. His story is as bizarre as it is inspiring. The lengths to which he went, procuring used napkins from college students and wearing a pad himself with goats blood periodically seeping into it, in order to understand what the experienceis like for a woman...and getting ostracised by family and friends for his weird behaviour, is hard to even imagine. What kind of drive and dedication does it take for someone to do that... he is such a superstar!
His amazingness doesn't end here. He has worked hard to make a self sustaining model, so that women everywhere can be empowered, with little or no back up support from him. This objective informed decisions about the design of the machine- to keep it as simple as possible, so that no servicing is required, and to keep it manual, for the same reason. Besides it makes little sense to make an electrical machine in a country where electric supply is erratic and insufficient, especially in the rural areas.
He also takes into account the difference in the nature of men and women... by empowering women he realises, you contribute to better living conditions for the whole family, not necessarily the case with men who often spend away the money on alcohol or drugs or gambling or other such vices. There's a remarkable insight and sensitivity in the way he has designed and detailed both the machine and the business model. And through it all he has stayed remarkably humble, when he could easily have gotten lured by big money.
One of the most fantastic qualities he possesses is his sense of humour. Every once in a while the audience would crack up with laughter at one of his jokes. Another quality I found fascinating is his intelligence and clear thinking. Sample this: If I was educated, I would have given up. My advantage was that I wasn't, so I kept going. Or his explanation to a bunch of foreigners in London that they only understand the language of dollars, but in the village women would trade napkins for rice- a modern day barter system that would never satisfy the requirements of a western economic model.

The film was ordinary, but did its job reasonably well.  The man of course is a superstar!

Also check out his TED talk:

Post screening I returned home with a friend and his friend who turned out to be a midwife! I have heard of her before (we have friends in common) but nobody had ever mentioned what she did! I was fascinated. India always had a rich tradition of midwifery, but lately, with all our aping of the west, we seem to have all but forgotten it. The assumption of course is that the delivery is normal and natural, and I suppose it doesn't get more natural than this. All midwives by law are required to be tied to a doctor as well in case of an emergency, which is exactly how it should be and has always been. Anyway, I was thrilled to meet her. She has trained in the US and practises both there and here in Bombay.
I told her about this incident many years back when I had mentioned to a friend that if I ever have a child I would like to have it with a midwife, and she had balked. I'm sure if she met Jumana, with her reassuring presence and ready smile, and heard of her 100+ deliveries, she would feel inclined to change her mind...

Two days, two films Part 1

I nearly didn’t go for the fist one. I really wanted to see it of course, but I really wanted to see it on the big screen, the way films are supposed to be seen. ‘Gopi gawaiyaa, Bagha bajaiyaa’ is a CFSI produced animation film based on the short story ‘Gopi gyne, Bagha byne’ by Upendra Kishore Roy Chowdhury. One look at the trailer will give you a sense of the canvas of the film- it has been designed to be a film for the theatre, not the small screen of television. Much work would have gone in the sound as well, and I was really not looking forward to seeing it at Vikalp @ Prithvi, at Prithvi House- those are hardly ideal conditions for film viewing.

But then I wasn’t sure when the next opportunity to see the film would present itself, and so I went...

Even though I must state at the very outset that there is little that I know about animation, so I can’t talk knowledgably about it, it was the animation that struck a chord. It’s a beautifully detailed film- exquisite, like some of our folk forms. The first thing, and the last, and throughout in between, that hits you is the colour and the detail. While things have been kept simple, a lot seems to have gone into designing it in a way that maximum possible communication is made possible by efficient production. A rich multicoloured palate is used throughout- every frame is a feast (some have too much going on- there were places I thought the background plates were almost distracting). And the textures, oh my! Things come alive because of her use of textures…

She seemed to have been inspired by shadow puppetry- especially in how she conceived the ghost, and the way facial features moved within the face of the evil Senapati, with overall movement, in a rocking motion almost- I had thought while seeing the film. In the interaction afterwards she mentioned that this was indeed true, and had informed everything from the animation, especially the movements, to how the various characters shaped up. While on the subject of characters- I was most fascinated by the noses! She said the film had about 80 characters- so many varieties of noses! And I was fascinated by the stitches everywhere on the faces and bodies, like they were cloth dolls stitched into shape.

The other thing noteworthy about the film is another subject I know little about- the music. It’s a musical, so from the first scene to the last, there is such-lovely-music.

Somewhere in the middle of the film however, a note of disapproval crept into my mind- when the boys started fighting over the girl. It was disservice enough to women to not have a single noteworthy female character in a film directed by a woman, though in a story that perhaps didn’t allow for it, it can, I suppose, be overlooked. But what explanation do we have for perpetuating the idea of boys fighting over a girl they haven’t even seen, forget interacted with. It made me shake my head, and want to shake a finger at Soumitra for having written it that way, and for Shilpa for having directed it…

Otherwise, it was mostly a lovely experience. See the trailer and judge for yourself.

DJ

I miss Deepak.

Who is Deepak and what’s happened to him?

He is a recently acquired friend, one who was so open and easy to talk to, that we got along instantly. That’s saying a lot for someone like me who is otherwise shy and reserved.

He is a follower of Isha yoga, and it is to their ashram in Coimbatore that he has gone. To ‘be with himself’, to ‘do only as told’, ‘until there is no ego left’. I suppose the calling became too strong…

spirituality and me

I’m not spiritual, though I can perhaps say that I am drawn to spirituality in my own strange way.

When I went for Vipassana for the first time, I remember being very excited to hear Goenkaji’s evening sermons. I would bungle through the day, barely able to do as he asked, unable to ‘experience’ for myself. And I would wait eagerly for the evenings, for the explanations that I knew were coming, that made so much sense to my rational mind.

Supriti had called when I was at the shivir. (My phone should not have been on, but the Reliance one was, for it was doubling up as an alarm clock. No one really called me at that number anymore, so I figured I wasn’t breaking any rules by having it on me. But Supriti called, and though I didn’t take her call, I messaged back, and broke a rule as a result.) Anyhow I called back on the 10^th day to explain my absence, and I remember telling her how overwhelming the experience had been. So much of what Goenkaji said was validation for views already held, if only intuitively. He gave words and made concepts out of half formed thoughts and beliefs that had been guiding life so far. And provided so much more new material to think about. It was wonderful!

I never really practised meditation however. Much as I have loved the two Vipassana shivirs that I attended, and I can safely say I gained much from them, it never really became a mainstay in my life. It’s not like I don’t see what it can do for me, it’s just that I lack the discipline, I suppose.

I don’t confuse religion with spirituality, and yet firmly believe that every religion must have once had a spiritual aspect, which has gotten distorted along the way. At any rate, it has been a long held wish to study different religious texts, at least those of Hinduism, Islam and Christianity to begin with, the idea being to go beyond the stories and understand the underlying concepts.

Along the way, I have visited different places of worship, and observed people’s customs, but more importantly their mannerisms and their ‘vibes’. And come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter which faith or philosophy they follow, truth and integrity is personal.

But that’s not what I had started to say… what I had really meant to say is that along the way I have visited very many places of worship/ meditation, to feel the vibes of the place for myself. From Buddhist temples and monastries in Ladakh, Sikkim, Bhutan and Japan, to Hindu temples in Puri, Calcutta and down South (and so many others all over the country!), to Jain temples in Khajuraho and Palitana, to the Bahai temple in New Delhi, to Igatpuri and the Global pagoda in Mumbai, to the Mother’s shrine in Pondicherry and dome in Auroville, to the synagogue in Jew town in Fort Kochi… and many more that I may not now remember. Could I include here the temple in Koovagam that eunuchs go to for their ceremonial marriage every year, or the temple complex so popular among the transsexual Jogappas of Karnataka?

What I have been most drawn to is silence and peace and love and compassion, wherever I have found it. Sometimes I have found it in places yes, but those places have very often not been places of ‘worship’. And sometimes I have found it in people. And those people have very often not been people of faith/ religion.

Am I stating the obvious?

Here I am reminded of Tagore. While attending rehearsals and discussions around Tagore’s writings (for Manav’s latest play- more on that in another post) I often came across these words: death, infinity, truth, beauty. My first reaction to ‘truth and beauty’ was to scoff at it. Especially since so much of what he wrote was addressed to a woman, undoubtedly a ‘beautiful’ woman- an idea that didn’t appeal to me. Not being beautiful myself, finding so much emphasis on beauty seemed highly unfair to me. This however was a very narrow view of beauty.

As I thought more about it, and tried to look for ‘truth and beauty’ around me, I realised it was everywhere, in everyone. It existed in moments. There are moments of truth and beauty, and they are often moments of absolute honesty, (and perhaps vulnerability…?)and they are everywhere… only the very evolved probably manage to have more in their lives than the rest of us who must experience them in their fleetingness.

Death. I lived in denial for a long time, arguing that Tagore did not experience ‘more than his share’. He lived at a time when families were large, and mortality was high. Everyone would have experienced death from an early age, it was Tagore’s response to it that made him what he was. While this is true theoretically, that still doesn’t take away from the depth of his feeling and the angst that he must have felt, which led to a most remarkable relationship with death, that would last a lifetime.

As I acknowledged my dishonesty in not giving the man his due, I realised something else. All my so-called spirituality, all my search, is eventually directed towards one thing: to make my peace with this thing called Death. All the strength that I attempt to build up in myself, is in preparation for that moment that I know is inevitable- when my parents will no longer be with me. That moment which I dread to even think about, which seems so impossible and so cruel, and yet will one day be real. That moment beyond which life will never be the same again, that moment when I will lose my anchor and my support.

The thought of that moment engulfs me in loneliness, how will I ever face it in reality?

The thought of that one moment brings in sharp relief the ordinariness and fakeness of my everyday life. And of the many frivolous emotions I waste precious time on everyday: guilt, envy, worthlessness, desire, anger…

This then- this love, and attachment to my parents, as mortal as mortal can be- this is my Achilles’ heel. Losing them would be the moment of my undoing. The moment which is unimaginable, beyond which is nothingness, a void, a black hole...

Tathagat

Manav was over the other day. He picked up his copy of Nirmal Verma's 'Gyarah Lambi Kahaniyan' lying on my desk, and asked me how I was progressing. Slow, I told him, as I always am with Hindi.

He opened the book, glanced at his own words at the beginning of the book. ‘बहुत पहले पढ़ी कहानियां... फिर फिर पढ़ने के लिए फिर फिर खरीदता हूँ।’ Lovely words I think, so telling of his love for Nirmal ji’s writing and full of so much warmth. Or perhaps it is his voice that is full of warmth when he speaks of Nirmalji and it is the memory of that warmth that creeps in when I read these words…

I read ‘Bukhar’, I tell him. Oh, that is a beautiful story, he says. I wrote about it on my blog. I must look it up, I think silently.

What are you reading now?

The first one.

I can’t remember the name of the story and for that I feel a tinge of shame. How is it that I never paid attention to the name? I think to myself.

Parindey, he says glancing at the Contents. Latika’s story?

Yes, Latika’s I mutter, wondering to myself how on earth the name Parindey relates to the story, I would never have imagined! Maybe that secret will reveal itself yet.

That’s also a beautiful story, he got an award for it. You should read ‘Kavve aur kaala paani’. It’s set in Bhawali, he smiles, waiting for me to react. I give him an expressionless look. Bhawali, he says again, it’s on the way to Sonapani, don’t you remember? You’ve crossed it on your way to Sonapani so many times! We stop there everytime for tea.

We have never travelled to Sonapani together, I protest. We have travelled back together, but we have always gone to Sonapani separately. And I never stop for tea on the way, so maybe that’s why I don’t know.

Offo, he says. You must do something about your memory. We have been in Bhawali together. In fact we changed cars there on one occasion, on a bridge.

This I remember, and my face brightens up. This I remember distinctly. It’s a typical little bazaar in a mountain hamlet, full of colourful small shops- selling candies, cigarettes and paan, plastics and toys, clothes, electrical repair shops, and thelas, selling pakoras or peanuts or corn; simple, cheerful people with weathered faces, selling stuff with a distinctly small town feel, in a distinctly small town setting. You cross several of these on the way to Sonapani, heck, travelling from anywhere to anywhere in the mountains. This one was beautiful, the river ran between the two hills, and our car had stopped at one end of the little bridge over it. We had to take a different cab from here. We offloaded our small luggage and kept it on the side of the dusty road. I was sitting on the parapet of the bridge, on the phone talking to Meghna, my editor friend. I had called her to tell her all about the exciting time I had just had, but I was afraid it would jinx my luck, so I didn’t. But this too was on the way back from Sonapani, I think to myself, making a point to no one.

You should do something about your memory, Manav breaks my chain of thought, which is ironically, my memory of those moments in Bhawali. He was wearing a white T shirt, I even remember that- how’s that for memory. What he is referring to though, is a genuine problem. I have a horrendously bad memory. I am reminded here of a peculiarity of mine- if it’s mine alone, that is. I often don’t remember incidents ie I don’t remember facts, details of what actually happened, but I do remember how or what I felt ie the emotion that the incident left me with. Is that weird? I mentioned this to Saeed sa’ab when I met him a few days back. His eyebrows went up in response, though there was also a strange appreciation in the shape of a half smile on his face. Anyway.

You should do something about your memory, Manav breaks my chain of thought, it might get worse. It likely will, I say, you might soon find me wandering the streets, not knowing the way to my house. Not like that, he says, that would still be ok, this is worse.

You should read ‘kavve aur kaala paani’, he repeats. It’s where the story of Tathagat began, he is in there.

So that’s what I am doing now, reading Nirmal Verma’s ‘kavve aur kala paani’. It’s alien, this feeling, finding in another story a character that I lived with and loved, whose story I helped put into visuals; a character that I tried to understand, and argued with Manav about. Here he is again, conceived by a different writer, put in an entirely different setting, and I am curious to see how Nirmalji has shaped him.

Alien and exciting, this feeling. 

(Tathagat is the name of the lead character in a film by the same name, that I shot with Manav. He wrote and directed it, and I shot it. It is about time that he told me this little story about the origins of Tathagat!
Though I have to admit there is a certain charm in this situation. If only I could explain how real Tathagat is for me, played brilliantly by the NSD actor Harish Khanna.)

खिसियाहट

आज अपने आप से कुछ खिसियाई सी हूँ।

कल सईद साहब से मुलाक़ात हुई, अरसे बाद। बहुत सी इधर उधर की बातें भी हुईं। उन्हें बीच बीच में अचानक मेरे किसी batchmate का नाम याद आता तो वे उसके बारे में पूछ लेते- क्यों वो क्या कर रहा है आजकल। इसी तरह उन्होंने जब ऐसे ही एक के बारे में पूछा तो मैंने उन्हें बता दिया जितना मुझे पता था, जो वैसे भी ज़्यादा नहीं था। वो और राघव एक ही समय पर एक ही निर्माता के साथ काम कर रहे थे जो दोनों की फ़िल्में बनाने वाला था। क्या हुआ पता नहीं, पर राघव की फ़िल्म बन गई और उसकी न बन पाई। लगा था ये बात सुनके कि फ़िल्म बनने के इतने निकट होते हुए भी न बन पाई, कुछ अफ़सोस करेंगे पर वो तो राघव का नाम सुनते ही जैसे भूल ही गए कि हम किस बारे में बात कर रहे थे। उनके चेहरे पर मुस्कराहट छा गई, और वे राघव के बारे में मुझसे पूछने लगे। वो कैसा है, क्या कर रहा है आजकल। इसके साथ साथ वो उसके बारे में भी कुछ कुछ कहते रहे। राघव वही ना जो बहुत laid back था। मैंने मुस्कुराते हुए हाँ में सर हिल दिया। What a wonderful open expansive soul he is, I love people like that कहते हुए सईद साहब ने हवा में हाथ उठा दिए मानो शब्द कम पड़ रहें हों।

यह बात सुनके बहुत दिनों बाद I remembered a feeling that I hadn't visited in a long, long time, or maybe the feeling hadn't visited me... a deep sense of loss. यह क्षण किन्तु क्षण भर का ही था, क्षण भर में लुप्त हो गया। कहीं से नहीं आया था और कहीं नहीं में ही गायब हो गया। कोई अचरज की बात नहीं। राघव और मैं बहुत पहले अलग हो गए थे, और अब तो वह नाममात्र को भी जीवन में नहीं है। प्यार भी बहुत पहले जाता रहा। अचरज की बात ये थी कि ऐसी फीलिंग आई भी, almost like a long lost muscle memory- involuntary and lifeless. बेवश और निर्जीव।

बहरहाल मुझे ये बात बहुत अनूठी लगी, मन किया किसी को बताने का। सोचा अनुषा को फ़ोन करूं पर नहीं किया। अगले दिन जब अरिंदम से फ़ोन पर बात हो रही थी तो सोचा उसे बताऊँ। पर फ़िल्म की और एडिट की बातों के बीच ये बात रह गई। या फिर मैंने छोड़ दी, जबकि उसे ये ज़रूर बताया की सईद साहब से मिल कर आई थी। परम का मेसेज आया कि वो खाने के बाद चाय पीने आएगा, तो सोचा उसे बताऊंगी। पर क्या वाकई बताऊंगी, इसकी सम्भावना कुछ कम ही थी, यह भी मैं जानती थी।

दोपहर को मानव घर आया था। बहुत इधर उधर की बातें हुई। वह अपनी एक फिल्म को लेके बहुत excited है, जिसमें वो एक्टिंग कर रहा है। पता नहीं इस उत्साह की वजह से ऐसा है, या फिर मानव ही ऐसा है, पर उससे बात करते वक़्त ऐसा लग रहा था जैसे अपने आप से बात कर रही हूँ। जैसे मेरे शब्द उस तक पहुँचने से पहले ही फिसल जा रहें हैं। या फिर शब्द तो पहुँच रहें हैं- आखिर वो मेरी बातों का जवाब दे रहा था- मगर उनका अर्थ नहीं समझ रहा था, या समझना नहीं चाहता था, या समझने में असमर्थ था। ये बात मैंने उससे भी कही। उसने कुछ जवाब भी दिया था जो अब मुझे याद नहीं। खैर उसको तो बताना ही था मुलाक़ात के बारे में, वो भी मिला था सईद साहब से दो दिन पहले, और उसकी उसी फ़िल्म के बारे में उनसे चर्चा भी हुई थी। बात करते करते पता नहीं मुझे क्या सूझी, मैंने राघव वाली बात उस को बता दी। बात शुरू करते ही मैं पछताई। ऐसा लगा जैसे एक कोमल सी चीज़ जिसे मैंने इतना संभाल के रखा था, कैसे कठोर के हाथ दे दी। पूरी भी न बता सकी, बीच में ही रुक गई। पता नहीं उसे समझ में आया की नहीं कि बात अधूरी छूट गई है… कुछ राघव के और कुछ उसकी फ़िल्म के बारे में बात करते हुए हम आगे बढ गए।

एक अनुभव जो व्यक्तिगत था, एक क्षण जो महत्त्वपूर्ण था, विशेष था, अब न रहा।

मैंने अपने आप को थोड़ा कोसा, और फ़िर ये पोस्ट लिखने बैठ गई।

मैं सहम जाती हूँ

मैं सहम जाती हूँ। अपने आप को बहुत छोटा पाती हूँ।

पिछले कुछ दिनों में कई बार ऐसा हुआ। पहली बार जब मैं दिल्ली में थी, और मानव का फ़ोन आया। बातें करते करते अचानक ही वो मेरे काम के बारे में बात करने लगा (हमने साथ में एक फिल्म शूट की है, यानि कि उसने लिखी और डायरेक्ट की और मैंने शूट की)। शायद बात उसके दिमाग में ताज़ा थी तो उसे जैसे ही याद आई उसने फट से बोल डाली। उसने मुझसे कहा कि एक सिनेमेटोग्राफर के लिए एक्टर की नब्ज़ को पकड़ना बहुत ज़रूरी होता है। That one should react to what the actor is doing, and try and catch the beat of the actor. पर ये बात तो मुझे पता है! मेरे लिए ये अचरज ही नहीं शर्मिंदगी की बात थी की उसे ऐसा बोलने की ज़रुरत भी महसूस हुई। जिस चीज़ को मैं अपनी strength समझती थी, वो उसी बात को लेके अप्रसन्नता जता रहा था। जो मुझे लगा फिल्म की सबसे बड़ी strength होगी, क्या वो नहीं है? मैं बहुत सी documentaries शूट करती रही हूँ जिसमें ये एक महत्त्वपूर्ण गुण माना जाता है कि आप उस क्षण की और अपने पात्र की तरफ न सिर्फ़  सचेत रहें पर उसकी नब्ज़ को पकड़ पायें। और documentaries में तो दूसरा टेक भी नहीं मिलता! अपनी इस काबलियत पर मैं हमेशा काम करती रही हूँ। एक तरफ शायद थोड़ी घमंडी भी हूँ इस गुण को लेकर, और दूसरी तरफ हमेशा डरी रहती हूँ की कहीं घमंड इतना ना बढ़ जाए की गुण हाथ से जाता रहे। पर इस फिल्म में, जो मेरे अब तक के career की सबसे महत्त्वपूर्ण फिल्म होगी, जिसे मैंने भरपूर प्यार और श्रद्धा के साथ शूट किया, क्या मैं असफल रही? Did I let down Manav as director and all those wonderful actors? And as a consequence, did I fail the film? इस बात से मुझे बहुत दुःख हुआ। मैं सहम गयी।

शायद मानव को भी इस बात का एहसास हुआ क्योंकि कुछ ही देर बाद उसका फिर से फ़ोन आया और वो बोला कि the film is looking stunningly beautiful लेकिन एक दोस्त और शुभचिंतक होने के नाते उसे लगा की वो मुझे ये feedback भी ज़रूर दे। इस बात की मैं आभारी हूँ और मानव से इतनी अपेक्षा तो रखती हूँ कि वो मुझे सच्ची और खरी ही फीडबैक दे।

मैं वापस मुंबई आई। पता नहीं क्यों वापस आते वक़्त मन कुछ विचलित था। मन में ये सवाल था कि जीने का मकसद क्या है। क्यों जी रही हूँ, किसके लिए। गलत मत समझिये, ऐसा नहीं है कि मेरे जीवन में प्यार की कोई कमी है। मेरा एक सुन्दर परिवार है, जिसके सभी लोग मुझसे बहुत प्यार करते हैं। बहुत से अच्छे दोस्त हैं। रोमांचक प्यार की बात की जाए तो उस मामले में भी मैं बहुत भाग्यवान रही हूँ। अभी जीवन में कोई न सही पर that is by choice. लेकिन फिर भी ऐसा लगता है की क्यों जिया जाए। शादी करके, बच्चे पैदा करके हम अपने आप को बहला तो लेते हैं की हमारे पास जीने का मकसद है, पर क्या वाकई में वो है, या हम जीवन के खालीपन को रिश्तों से भरने में जुटे हैं?

मुंबई वापस आके आधा दिन तो सफ़ाई में गया। शाम को जब मेल चेक की तो देखा फैज़ा की एक मेल आई हुई थी। गोलीबार में फिर से लोगों के घर तोड़े गए थे, और कुछ 43 परिवारों ने मैदान में रात गुज़ारी थी। बात दिल को छू गयी पर समझ में नहीं आया क्या करूं। अगले दिन एक दोस्त का मेसेज आया कि वो पास ही है, मिलने आ जाए? वो आया, उसी दिन इत्तेफ़ाक से शायोनी भी मानव के घर आई हुई थी सो शाम साथ गुज़री। बहुत बातें हुई, drinks के साथ। रात देर से सोई थी फिर भी सुबह जल्दी आँख खुल गयी। दिन की शुरुआत फिर से गोलीबार की खबर और तस्वीरों से हुई। जिस रात मैं शराब पीते हुए बेकार की बातें कर रही थी, उस रात गोलीबार के लोग सड़क पर थे। पर ये तो रोज़ ही होता है, कितने ही लोग रोज़ ही सड़क पर होते हैं, इसमें क्या नया है? क्यों मैं अपने आप को नकली सी लगती हूँ?

बहुत मुश्किल होती है। किस बात से बंधू, किससे दूर रहूँ? किससे प्रभावित होऊं, किससे नहीं। कभी लगता है कि ये भी एक तरह का घमंड ही है की हमें 'कुछ करना चाहिए', कि हमारे कुछ करने से कोई फ़र्क पड़ सकता है। अपने ही सवालों से कभी तो थक जाती हूँ, और कभी ऐसा लगता है कि जवाब कितना सरल है। हमारे वश में तो कुछ है ही नहीं, ये तो दुनिया का संतुलन है। The only thing to do, the only thing one can do, is to follow one's heart. जो काम अच्छा लगे, जिस काम से ख़ुशी मिले, बस वो करता चल। अगर आप सच्चे दिल से काम कर रहें हैं, तो chances are that you are adding value to the world. फिर ये ज़रूरी नहीं है कि आप खादी के कपडे और कोह्लापुरी चप्पल पहन कर स्लम में काम करें। शायद मैं बहुत स्वाभाविक सी बात कह रही हूँ। लेकिन ये बात मुझे रह रह के अपने आप को ही बतानी पड़ती है। शायद मेरी मध्य वर्गीयता भी मुझ पर कभी कभी भारी पड़ती है। और इस बात से भी मैं बहुत खुश हूँ। ऐसा लगता है कि जीवन में अगर कोई तकलीफ न हो, या तकलीफ की तरफ़ संवेदनशीलता न हो, तो जीवन कितना नीरस होगा।

इस बात में भी घमंड की हलकी सी बू तो है!

आज फ़िर मानव से मुलाक़ात हुई। वो टैगोर पर नाटक की तैयारी में जुटा है। कितना जोश है उसकी बातों में और कितना विश्वास भी। पिछले कुछ महीनों मैं उससे काफ़ी प्रभावित रही। उसके काम के बारे में पहले भी लिख चुकी हूँ। हालांकि उसका काम मुझे पसंद है, पर कुछ बातों से, और एक नाटक से शिकायत भी है। पर इस बात की दाद देती हूँ कि वो जो करता है, पूरी शिद्दत, पूरे तन मन से। वो एक तेज़ बहती नदी की तरह है, उसके साथ काम करना मतलब उसके साथ बहना है। मतलब एक तरीके का समर्पण। अगर आप बहने को तैयार नहीं हैं तो या तो आप उसके साथ काम नहीं कर पाएंगे, या अपने काम में आनंद नहीं ले पाएंगे, या वो ही आप को निकाल बाहर करेगा। बहरहाल, मुझे उसकी energy और enthusiasm हमेशा से बहुत पसंद है। आज भी उसकी बातें सुनी तो एहसास हुआ कि वो कितना काम कर चुका है, और कितना ही और करने में जुटा है। मैं फ़िर सहम गयी। अपनी ज़िन्दगी कुछ फीकी सी लगने लगी। इसलिए नहीं की मुझे अपनी क्षमता पर विश्वास नहीं हैं, या मैं तुलना में लगी हूँ- वो तो बेवकूफी होगी। शायद इसीलिए कि अपनी क्षमता का एहसास है...

पर उसमें भी तो कोई नयी बात नहीं है। मैं अकेली तो नहीं हूँ ऐसी जो अपनी क्षमता के अनुसार काम न पाएगी न कर पाएगी...

Inspired by Manav, I wrote this post (almost) in Hindi. It took two pegs of rum, three cigarettes, thrice as long and some help from the English-Hindi shabdkosh :)

What's in a name?... No really...

I ran into Piyush Mishra at NSD on Sunday. We had returned from shoot just that morning, and I had gone straight home with no intention of stepping out again, but a few hours and a series of phone calls later, found myself at Café Turtle at Khan Market with the same film crew, or what was left of it in Delhi. Manav was keen to go to NSD and the rest of us followed- I intended to take the Metro from Mandi House, and the others wanted to hang out at the Theatre Festival.

So anyway, I ran into Piyush Mishra. I walked up to him with hands folded in a namaskar, like I always do. He was his flamboyant self, saying Manav mila, usne bola Pooja Sharma ne film shoot ki hai. Main bola kaun Pooja Sharma! I laughed and said, haan aapko to naam se kabhi yaad nahin rahega. ‘Arre tumhara naam hi aisa hai, duniya mein karoron Sharma hain. Mera naam bhi Priyakant Sharma tha, maine badal dala.’ I know this, I told him. I have read the Caravan interview, though I didn’t remember his exact name, and certainly not that he was a Sharma.

This conversation reminded me of another conversation I had had with my father many years back, while on an after dinner walk. I was in high school then, and was due to appear for my 10^th Board exams that year. It was my last opportunity (or so I thought) to change my name. I didn’t like my name. I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to be, the alternatives were equally unimaginative, now that I think about it- Priya or Priyanka… but anything would be better than Pooja, I had then thought. So on that walk I casually asked my father, so who kept my name?- hoping to start a conversation that I would eventually veer towards the idea of changing it. It was me, he said. But Pooja was not such a common name back then, he added apologetically. In that moment my heart melted. To hell with it, I thought.

And Pooja Sharma I stayed.

Manav Kaul: More plays, mixed reactions (Part 2)

‘Ilhaam’ had not made much of an impression on me. As a result, I ended up giving the next play ‘Shakkar ke paanch daane’ a miss, an error I deeply regret now that I have read the play, but I’ll come to that later.

Right after we returned to Delhi from shooting the film that we are working on together, there was a festival of Manav’s plays at Mandi House. By this time I knew him reasonably well, or enough at least to know that he is very talented with a sharp, quick thinking, improvisational mind, and a spontaneous and infectious energy. And further, he is a team player who gives people their space. This I knew of the person, but towards his work I had had a mixed reaction, having seen only Hansa and Ilhaam.

I made it a point then, to see all three plays that were being staged, including Ilhaam, which was to be the first. Even after the second viewing, my opinion about the play stays largely unchanged. I still have the same problems with it. Perhaps I am unable to see things his way, perhaps he is content with his interpretation… in any case, in my opinion the play lacks insight, and is heavy with a bias and an interpretation that is almost Western in nature.

The second play ‘Park’ was something else altogether. It was hilariously funny, with an underlying theme so simple and so profound- it was superb. The design was simple- it’s centered around three people and three benches in a park and happens almost in real time. The beauty is in (the nature and content of) the interactions between the three people, borne out of their individual quirks. The idea of occupying and claiming space was lovely in itself, and it seemed a bit of a stretch to bring in the Israel- Palestinian conflict, Kashmir and the adivasi- Maoist struggle, especially since all of these are complex issues with fairly complicated histories. I found it surprising that Manav should slip up in this regard considering that he is half Kashmiri. I don’t know enough about Israel- Palestine, but to equate adivasis to Maoists would be offensive to anyone familiar with the region. Having said that, the references were clearly made in good faith, and the audience responded to it in the same spirit.

As the characters’ back stories are revealed, the play enters a different and unexpected zone- it becomes an insightful comment on some of the ills of our education system, and our way of bringing up children. Manav seems to be a keen observer- of people, and trends and events and such- as a good writer ought to be, and this shows in his detailing, especially of characters. There is an everyday simplicity and earthiness to his characters that is refreshing. (This response might seem peculiar, but bear in mind that it comes from someone who is mostly unfamiliar with Hindi writing as well as theatre, having read none of Hindi literature, and seen very little theatre.)

The three actors were fantastic. Some credit for this may be due to the director as well; who seems to know a thing or two about handling actors, and pays great attention to performances, a trait that was on display earlier on, on our shoot too.

The third and last play that I saw was called ‘Laal Pencil’. This was essentially a children’s play; here’s the official synopsis: a young school girl is relishing her new found stardom amongst peers and teachers ever since she suddenly, mysteriously starts writing beautiful poetry. What no one knows is that it is not her, but a magic red pencil that she found in class that's writing the poetry. The constant struggle between truth and falsehood, desires and righteousness, love and hate, and the pain of keeping a secret, lead upto the girl's final decision. Will she or won't she? Based on a Korean novel, 'laal pencil' is a poignant tale of a girl with a secret.

The plot of the play is simple enough, and does not stray far beyond what is stated in the synopsis. But it is highly stylised in its presentation, while also offering, in oblique ways, a critique of the way children are treated, both at home and in school. There were all kinds of tools employed- from costumes (the students wore only one shoe), to make up (the students were in mime style make up- with their faces painted white) to shadow play (Pinki’s parents fight behind a screen and her father, who has gone away, is never actually seen) to word play (the argument between Pinki’s parents is fantastic in it’s simplicity while getting the message across more effectively than would have been possible with normal dialogues) to more word play (the students almost never say anything intelligible- always repeating generic phrases, in a allusion to the rote learning that is prevalent in our schools) to symbolism (the pencil grows bigger as Pinki’s guilt increases, the students drag themselves across the stage to reach ‘the other shoe’) to multiple role play (at some points there are multiple actors playing the same character, Pinki) and so forth. There were several more, these are only the ones I remember offhand. Besides, I’m not a theatre person myself and my responses are such as can be expected of a lay audience.

This play certainly had a message, and even employed Mahatma Gandhi in order to get it across, or perhaps to legitimise it. This is just as well, for Truth in itself does not seem to command the respect and high regard that it should in society, and is usually propped up/ legitimised / appropriated by invoking religion and/ or the fires of hell or the next birth, as the case may be. To invoke the Mahatma then, is to clearly state your secular credentials.

I seem to vaguely remember Manav saying that ‘Laal Pencil’ is not a play for children. In a way I see his point- the message in the play is as relevant for and applicable to, an adult. Besides we as a society would do well to return to all those moral science lessons we read in school, for we don’t seem to be doing a very good job of applying any to our lives. Besides, there is much in the play that demonstrates both an understanding and a critique of our schools, teachers and parents, and to that extent I suppose it is certainly one that adults ought to see. But it is very clearly also a play that would appeal to older children, who might recognise some of their angst, depicted on stage.

Manav Kaul: First Impressions (Part 1)

A little over a month and- one film seen, one shot, three plays seen, one read, and several poems and blog posts read- it’s been a Manav Kaul overdose.

(Links: Manav's plays, poems and other writings.)

I had not heard of Manav when I went to see his film- as part of the Osian’s Film Festival in Delhi, and on a friend’s recommendation- it’s called Hansa and it’s one of the loveliest children’s films I have seen. It has a simple story, just like the people that it portrays- hill people, with their simple lives and simple joys and sorrows (and I don’t mean that in a condescending way, far from it!) It is full of heartwarming little details and characters that are quirky yet believable, with their own little idiosyncrasies. More than anything else, it’s a film that treats children as young adults, with respect for their intelligence and sensitivity, and without mollycoddling or shielding them from the realities of life. There is stuff in the film that parents may find hard to explain to their children, but it is in no way stuff that they should shy away from. It is also a film with some wonderful performances, especially by the younger actors. It is a little crude, rough- at- the- edges so to say in its craft, but I am more than willing to overlook that not just because it is Manav’s first film but also because there is so much in the film that is beautiful and does work!

(Unsurprisingly it won awards at Osian's. Read about it here.)

I returned to Bombay determined to see Manav’s plays, two of which were scheduled to be staged at Prithvi soon after my return. He is primarily a theatre person and I was excited about seeing his plays after seeing such a promising film debut. So I promptly went for ‘Ilhaam’, the first of the two plays, the first day that it was staged.

‘Ilhaam’ is a story about a family man who attains enlightenment and what happens thereafter- how he and his family cope with it. Here’s the official synopsis: ‘Bhagwan is the epitome of the mundane – a middle-aged banker, married, with two grown up college-going children. However, one day, while sitting on a decrepit park bench he stumbles upon ‘enlightenment’. Therein begins the battle between the world outside and his world inside’.

Let me state at the outset that I had a problem with ‘Ilhaam’ from the word go, with it’s very premise. The play basically seeks to engage with Bhagwan’s struggles post enlightenment, without actually concerning itself with what the process of reaching this enlightenment may have been. There are clues along the way that seem to suggest, as does the synopsis, that Bhagwan literally ‘stumbles upon’ enlightenment, an idea that is as fantastic as it seems preposterous, though in all fairness there are also clues that suggest Bhagwan always had a disposition that made him a suitable candidate, including a history of talking to birds, running away from home as a child and being untraceable for a year, and time spent in an asylum. And yet there is little to suggest that it was a conscious process, nor is the process or enlightenment itself accompanied by a better understanding of the world, a fact that seems blaringly contradictory to the idea of ‘enlightenment’, whatever it may be (since we can only conjecture.)

Manav seems to have limited his own canvas by resorting to clichés- in his journey towards enlightenment and thereafter, Bhagwan sits in a decrepit park bench for hours on end, watching children who don’t exist, at play. He talks to birds and can converse with a mute beggar. He dances without music (a graceless dance with staccato movements… because Nature is so graceless?!) All the while that he finds himself closer to Nature, he also finds himself further away from his family and friends, at one point reaching a stage where they become totally unintelligible to him. For some inexplicable reason, his ‘enlightenment’ is not accompanied by sensitivity towards his own family nor understanding for their concern. I find this conceptualisation puzzling- I can understand the difficulty in portraying a sense of detachment- and therein lies the challenge. But should this detachment have been devoid of love and compassion and a deeper understanding of the ways of the Universe? Did Bhagwan really need to be so perplexed by all that was going on around him? If the intention was to portray Bhagwan’s internal struggle, would that not have been better served had Bhagwan been a little more aware? He might still have found himself to be equally helpless, but would have been more believable as someone who did indeed attain some kind of enlightenment.

The play is peppered with philosophical questions, (and references many authors) which are not just perfectly legitimate, they are of a high intellectual caliber, something that one can expect of someone as well read as Manav. But then it seems to be precisely that- an intellectual response to a concept that can perhaps only be understood or believed in if one has faith. In my limited experience, I have come to recognise and accept the difference between intelligence and wisdom. Manav seems to be coming from a place of intelligence and attempting to tackle questions of wisdom...

Having said that, I did find his take very interesting. According to Manav, enlightenment is a reversible process, ‘curable’ by the force of will and medicine. Such is the fate of his Bhagwan, who goes through psychological treatment- willingly it would seem- for he makes a choice to return to family life over staying enlightened, which seem, according to him, to be mutually exclusive states of being. This is a choice he makes in a conversation with his ‘Chacha’ (who the Chacha turns out to be is a delightful surprise in an inspired piece of writing)- a conversation that is the high point of the play, and one which encapsulates its essence.

Ud jayega hans akela

If ever I have known nostalgia, now is it.

And if it could be embodied in a single tangible thing, it would have to be this song.

For a little less than a month a group of people came together, strangers most of them, to shoot a film. What followed was a joyride. For those 20 odd days, as we all woke up at unearthly hours and dragged ourselves out of bed and over the mountain paths to the locations- we were close, so close- we were friends, buddies, partners in crime, companions on a journey, contributors, nay collaborators in a common creative effort.

On those walks and drives to location, we often had music playing on the cab music system or someone’s cellphone. On the longer drives, Sayani and Sahil would often hum or sing little snippets of old Hindi film songs.

But the one that stuck in my head is this one that played off Manav’s cellphone on the long drive to Devaria tal, and then again on the walk up to the hut when the two of us went to shoot some time lapses and plates.

The shoot came to an end, as it had to. And people began to leave one by one. And I felt a sadness I had never felt before… 

And these lines, quoted from the song, could not be more appropriate.

Jaise paat gire taruvar ke

Milna bahut duhela

Na jaanu kidhar kirega

Lagya pawan ka rela

As the Leaf Falls from the Tree

Is Difficult to Find

Who Knows Where it Will Fall

Once it is Struck with a Gust Of Wind

I wish them well, everyone who was with us on this beautiful journey, whether or not our paths ever cross again.
:')