It's a land where imitation is sacred and individuality profane, a land where portraiture and perspective are as much the tools of Satan as of the European Frankish masters, where art transcends the skill and dexterity of the artist and merges into Allah himself, where memory is the artist's greatest gift and where every miniaturist percieves blindness as the ultimate recognition by the Almighty. It's sixteenth century Istanbul with the Ottoman empire at its zenith. A city full of darkness and light, love and intrigue and masters and apprentices.
Orhan Pamuk's tour de force, My Name Is Red (MNIR) is unlike any novel I have come across. Its a difficult read by all accounts and slow and laborious at times. But what it does very successfully is transport you to a completely different space and time, when Sultans reigned supreme and art flourished under the wings of religion. MNIR is steeped in Islam and the art of miniature painting. Here every character has a voice of his own. From the Head Illuminator Master Osman to his three Master Miniaturists: Olive, Stork and Butterfly, from the beautiful Shekure to her lover and husband Black, from the Jewess clothier and letter carrier Esther to Enishte Effendi, the father of the lovely Shekure and from the dog to the gold coin, every character speaks.
Pamuk uses a first person to narrate different chapters through his characters which has an even deeper meaning when we realise that he is trying to look at the world through individual eyes, the eyes of people and not through the eyes of an outsider. This is analogous to the major conflict between the Islamic tradition of painting sans perspective which tries to depict everything as Allah might have seen and not through individual eyes as done by the European Masters.
The book is replete with depictions of famous miniatures and epics like Husrev & Shirin, Rustem & Sohrab to name a few and the endless descriptions of the paintings, from the horses to the clouds, from the lovely hands and necks of maidens to the trees, do at times get exhausting to read. There's ample history though, to arise the curiosity of anybody interested in knowing the birth and lifetime of miniature painting, the seats of learning like Herat, Tabriz and Shiraz, the different workshops with different styles, the Chinese and Mongol influence and even references of Akbar and Hindustan.
A unique concept which I think is worth mentioning is the way miniaturists looked at the process of making illustrations during those times. It's said in the novel that painting is all about memory. Even when we look at something and draw, for a split second as our eyes finish their job and let the hands take over, its our memory which holds the image we are about to depict. So in this light what can be the ultimate goal of a miniaturist. To paint, to illustrate without the gift of vision, from memory alone. And this is what every artist in those times strived to achieve. Making a particular horse thousands of times till the hand could make it from memory alone. This concept encouraged imitation, making images as the old masters used to without any individuality of one's own, without a signature. For its the art and not the artist that matters. All this was particularly in line with Islam which forbade individuality at any level and so when old masters went blind after working for decades under the dim light of oil lamps, it was said to be a gift from Allah himself, a gift which freed a man from the ugly sights that humans are capable of seeing and enabled one to see the world as the Almighty does, beautiful and heavenly.
In short the story revolves around the secret book of paintings that the Sultan has commissioned to be made by the best miniaturists and gilders of Istanbul. A book to depict the Sultan's and the Ottoman Empire's grandeur and power to the Venetains, to be made in secret using the styles of the European Frankish Masters who look at the world as seen from a window and not as Allah would see it, from an exalted plane. And this in sixteenth century Istanbul amounts to blasphemy, a disregard of Islam which prohibits such styles and depictions. It is during the making of this book that differences arise amongst the artists which leads to two murders.
The story itself is composed of many levels. At one level MNIR is a murder mystery, the clues of which lie only in the paintings of the secret book. At another it is a love story between Black and Shekure, the daughter of one of the victims and Black's struggle to win the love of his beloved and her two sons, Shevket and Orhan, by finding the murderer. And of course it's a brilliant commentary on art, religion and society and their effects on the lives of people, their faiths and beliefs, their customs and traditions.
My Name Is Red is a unique book in all accounts. True there are parts of it which are very difficult to comprehend given my limited knowledge of miniature paintings, Ottoman Empire, Istanbul and Islam. Yet these very things combined with Pamuk's style and presentation make it as engrossing and rewarding read as any I have come across.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Weekends
My mom would start calling me at around 12 which ensured that by another half an hour I was in the bathroom trying to get the dirt out of my chappals and my feet. The heat, the dust, the window panes, the quarrels, the discarded bus tyre which doubled up as the wicket, the wodden plank which efficiently played the role of a wicketkeeper preventing balls from going behind and also taking catches (will explain that later!), the leg side rules, the lifelines; all formed a part of the weekend ritual that we called Cricket. The world didnt exist for us during those two hours or so. The cries of our mothers would drown out among the appeals and the calls for runs, vegetable gardens would be trampled at times for saving the crucial single and anarchy would rule as about six or seven of us assembled in the little space behind our quarters to play. Only a few shots were productive; the square cut which fetched you four runs if it hit the garage wall, the Sachinesque straight drive which fetched you a couple if it managed to cross over to our neighbour's vegetable garden, and the forward or backfoot defense which accompanied by good calling and running would earn you a single. The fielding positions and the fielders themsleves also demand some looking into. There was the cover point fielder to save the ferocious square cuts and the silly mid-off and the silly mid-on to save the singles. These were the human fielders. The others included a bunch of banana trees positioned strategically at short mid-on to stop the couple, the mango tree at point to save the boundary and most importantly, the wooden plank behind the tyre, hitting which directly amounted to an edge being taken!
Weekends in Bokaro, the place where I grew up, meant cricket, tabla classes and staying at home doing nothing. Sundays were typically spent helping my father clean up the car and the scooter and doing other small odd jobs to help my mom. Back then, the demands were few and satisfcation was easily acquired. There was no "life ke funde" to be pondered upon, no career changing exams to be taken. My parents never told me to study as I did reasonably well in school. I used to eagerly await these weekends. As I grew older, the charm of school also started to grow upon me. Weekends then meant not being able to meet all your pals and more importantly, not being able to talk to the girls. The tabla classes finally made way for study hours at home and then tuitions. The cricket became more civilised and less intense. The career changing exams slowly began to enter my unhurried existence.
I remember my final days in school when our entire gang would get to school during weekends to gossip and play cricket and do a whole lot of insane activities. It was one of the best times ever. As we neared the end of a phase of our lives we came closer to each other. New friends were made and old ones made dearer. There were get togethers in each others houses and farewell parties and what not. It's too much to put as a side topic in this post. Some other day maybe ....
Then college happened. The weekends started to take a whole new meaning and purpose in my life. Wash clothes, go out to eat, catch a movie, meet some friends, visit local guardians to have some good food, get some sleep for the coming week, prepare for hostel events. Virtually everything imaginable had to be crammed in those two days. Assignments were made (if at all!) during weekends, continuously cursing the TA and the Professor responsible.
As the years rolled by and bunking classes became more a habit than an exception, weekends gradually started loosing their uniqueness. Everyday was almost the same and was often identified by the food that we got in the mess which was at its worst during the weekends. Still the feeling that it was an official holiday provided some solace to my conscience.
Now in Bangalore, these weekends have again started to define themselves in a new way. Lazing around in the house, reading books, exploring new places to eat out, having a few friends over. The occasional booze and the bike trip, the very frequent "let's do something this weekend..." discussion. Mostly its just relaxing and doing nothing but sometimes its planning and working for your next step in life.
Somethings almost never change. The amazing feel of a Friday night and the agony of a Monday morning. Getting up late on a Saturday afternoon which almost becomes a defining principle of life. Somethings though, like the backyard cricket match, now seem to belong to a different age.
Weekends in Bokaro, the place where I grew up, meant cricket, tabla classes and staying at home doing nothing. Sundays were typically spent helping my father clean up the car and the scooter and doing other small odd jobs to help my mom. Back then, the demands were few and satisfcation was easily acquired. There was no "life ke funde" to be pondered upon, no career changing exams to be taken. My parents never told me to study as I did reasonably well in school. I used to eagerly await these weekends. As I grew older, the charm of school also started to grow upon me. Weekends then meant not being able to meet all your pals and more importantly, not being able to talk to the girls. The tabla classes finally made way for study hours at home and then tuitions. The cricket became more civilised and less intense. The career changing exams slowly began to enter my unhurried existence.
I remember my final days in school when our entire gang would get to school during weekends to gossip and play cricket and do a whole lot of insane activities. It was one of the best times ever. As we neared the end of a phase of our lives we came closer to each other. New friends were made and old ones made dearer. There were get togethers in each others houses and farewell parties and what not. It's too much to put as a side topic in this post. Some other day maybe ....
Then college happened. The weekends started to take a whole new meaning and purpose in my life. Wash clothes, go out to eat, catch a movie, meet some friends, visit local guardians to have some good food, get some sleep for the coming week, prepare for hostel events. Virtually everything imaginable had to be crammed in those two days. Assignments were made (if at all!) during weekends, continuously cursing the TA and the Professor responsible.
As the years rolled by and bunking classes became more a habit than an exception, weekends gradually started loosing their uniqueness. Everyday was almost the same and was often identified by the food that we got in the mess which was at its worst during the weekends. Still the feeling that it was an official holiday provided some solace to my conscience.
Now in Bangalore, these weekends have again started to define themselves in a new way. Lazing around in the house, reading books, exploring new places to eat out, having a few friends over. The occasional booze and the bike trip, the very frequent "let's do something this weekend..." discussion. Mostly its just relaxing and doing nothing but sometimes its planning and working for your next step in life.
Somethings almost never change. The amazing feel of a Friday night and the agony of a Monday morning. Getting up late on a Saturday afternoon which almost becomes a defining principle of life. Somethings though, like the backyard cricket match, now seem to belong to a different age.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Strangers In A Strange Land
We often dont realise how much our life, our day to day existence is affected by strangers. The autowallah, the neighbourhood shopkeeper whom you know only by face and havent ever bothered to even ask his name, the friendly biker who signals that your lights are on, the guy at the petrol pump, the list is quite long. The familiarity of the place and those of the people you know tend to mask all these strangers. We are too occupied thinking about and being with the people we know; friends, family, to even think about how wonderfully these strangers in some way define our existence. It's only when we leave the comfort and predictability of our daily life and venture out to other places, that we begin to feel how much an impact strangers have and can have on our lives.
The last time I went out with my family was almost eight years ago. It was a trip to the Andamans. I remember how during my schooldays every year or two we used to go out to visit some place. My father's enthusiasm meant that I ended up visiting quite a few places in India, hill stations, sea shores and historical sites. The trip to Hampi, Badami, Aihole & Pattadakal (refresh your history!) was quite unlike any of those. I wont try to describe any of the places but to say that all those epithets and adjectives that are used generously in tourist books fall short of the portraying the experience I had over the last four days. 'Where every stone speaks', 'Forgotten Empire', 'The Cradle of Temple Architecture'. It turned out to be all that and more.
It was a simple message with a email id posted on some forum on tourism in Karnataka which led me to send a mail to the person inquring about Hampi and details of travel and lodging. What I got in return was the most sound advice you could get on travelling around the place, a room booked in a hotel, a few phone numbers to contact travel agents and someone to call up anytime in case I needed anything. And no, there was no catch. The guy wasnt even a travel agent or anything of the sort. He was an engineer living in Bellary who did all this just for the sake of helping. My trip got going thanks to a stranger I hadn't even seen.
It was Umesh in Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, Eshwar in Ajanta, Ellora and Pasha in Hampi and Badami. Taxi drivers who took us around the place and waited patiently as we got down at every turn and took photographs. Yes it's their job but I just felt like mentioning. It was a quiet lazy afternoon as our car pulled out of NH 13 towards the village leading to Aihole. As it sped through the village, you could see the occasional kid playing with an empty plastic bottle looking with eager eyes as our car approached him, the elder village folk resting in the shade of a tree, or the sugarcane laden bullock cart ambling through. It was such an unhurried atmosphere. Everything was still and quiet and the look at the faces of the villagers was that of contentment. Every now and then a temple would rear up its head as if to annonce that we were approaching a historical site. In Aihole we had to climb up a series of steps to a temple called Meghuti atop a small hill. As fate would have it, we were joined by about five little boys, not older than ten or twelve years. In the heart of Karnataka how these village kids managed to communicate to us that the temple was built by Jains and overlooked the rivers Ghataprabha and Malaprabha and showed us inscriptions dedicated to a particular sage has to be experienced to be believed. They even told us their names which I have happily forgotten. The only memory would be that of the picture I took of all of them along with my father. It was a strange land and a very old one at that and but for those little kids, we might have never known what the temple was built for.
Then there were the managers in the KSTDC hotels in Badami and Hospet who doubled up as waiters in the restaurant, running the hotel with meager resources and a smile on their faces. They provided us with all they could to make our stay enjoyable and comfortable. From the morning tea to arranging for the auto to getting tourism brochures. Somehow it was a very humbling and satisfying feeling.
There were so many others. The guide at Hampi who spent the whole day with us, as did the Norweigian couple who found a second guide in my father as he took to explaining Hindu mythology to them. The Swiss lady who had come to visit her friend in a Tibetan Monastery nearby where he had been teaching for the last one year and her candid acknowledgement that Karnataka was so much larger, in more than one sense of the word, than Switzerland.
It was nice to be on the road, to see the landscape changing, see the people, their attires. I felt so happy and relaxed. Travel does that to me and I havent been doing enough of that of late.
On a slightly different note, anybody who has the means, should visit Hampi. I didnt know how boulders and stones strewn around could be so beautiful. Its unlike anything that I had ever seen, it's a tribute to the perseverance and dedication of the people who turned stone to something which lives. You feel astonished not only because of the artistry but more so because of the audacity. The audacity to carve out something like this in such a barren land. You feel sad because such glory can never be replicated. One visit to Hampi and you would want to know everything about it. There you realise how religion wasnt just a way of life for those people, it was the way to live. It was a time when people spent lives carving an idol out of stone, when everything from the daily bazaar to song and dance, every source of livelihood would ulitimately revolve round the temples and the Gods who resided in them. And the irony is that it was religion which proved to be its demise. The temples at Aihole and Pattadakal are awe inspiring because of their intricacies and advanced architecture, the Badami caves take your breath away by their sheer natural beauty and impossibility of the creations. The ruins of Hampi with their vastness and desolation, with the Tungabhadra running in between as the mute observer to its rise and fall, are something out of this world.
The last time I went out with my family was almost eight years ago. It was a trip to the Andamans. I remember how during my schooldays every year or two we used to go out to visit some place. My father's enthusiasm meant that I ended up visiting quite a few places in India, hill stations, sea shores and historical sites. The trip to Hampi, Badami, Aihole & Pattadakal (refresh your history!) was quite unlike any of those. I wont try to describe any of the places but to say that all those epithets and adjectives that are used generously in tourist books fall short of the portraying the experience I had over the last four days. 'Where every stone speaks', 'Forgotten Empire', 'The Cradle of Temple Architecture'. It turned out to be all that and more.
It was a simple message with a email id posted on some forum on tourism in Karnataka which led me to send a mail to the person inquring about Hampi and details of travel and lodging. What I got in return was the most sound advice you could get on travelling around the place, a room booked in a hotel, a few phone numbers to contact travel agents and someone to call up anytime in case I needed anything. And no, there was no catch. The guy wasnt even a travel agent or anything of the sort. He was an engineer living in Bellary who did all this just for the sake of helping. My trip got going thanks to a stranger I hadn't even seen.
It was Umesh in Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, Eshwar in Ajanta, Ellora and Pasha in Hampi and Badami. Taxi drivers who took us around the place and waited patiently as we got down at every turn and took photographs. Yes it's their job but I just felt like mentioning. It was a quiet lazy afternoon as our car pulled out of NH 13 towards the village leading to Aihole. As it sped through the village, you could see the occasional kid playing with an empty plastic bottle looking with eager eyes as our car approached him, the elder village folk resting in the shade of a tree, or the sugarcane laden bullock cart ambling through. It was such an unhurried atmosphere. Everything was still and quiet and the look at the faces of the villagers was that of contentment. Every now and then a temple would rear up its head as if to annonce that we were approaching a historical site. In Aihole we had to climb up a series of steps to a temple called Meghuti atop a small hill. As fate would have it, we were joined by about five little boys, not older than ten or twelve years. In the heart of Karnataka how these village kids managed to communicate to us that the temple was built by Jains and overlooked the rivers Ghataprabha and Malaprabha and showed us inscriptions dedicated to a particular sage has to be experienced to be believed. They even told us their names which I have happily forgotten. The only memory would be that of the picture I took of all of them along with my father. It was a strange land and a very old one at that and but for those little kids, we might have never known what the temple was built for.
Then there were the managers in the KSTDC hotels in Badami and Hospet who doubled up as waiters in the restaurant, running the hotel with meager resources and a smile on their faces. They provided us with all they could to make our stay enjoyable and comfortable. From the morning tea to arranging for the auto to getting tourism brochures. Somehow it was a very humbling and satisfying feeling.
There were so many others. The guide at Hampi who spent the whole day with us, as did the Norweigian couple who found a second guide in my father as he took to explaining Hindu mythology to them. The Swiss lady who had come to visit her friend in a Tibetan Monastery nearby where he had been teaching for the last one year and her candid acknowledgement that Karnataka was so much larger, in more than one sense of the word, than Switzerland.
It was nice to be on the road, to see the landscape changing, see the people, their attires. I felt so happy and relaxed. Travel does that to me and I havent been doing enough of that of late.
On a slightly different note, anybody who has the means, should visit Hampi. I didnt know how boulders and stones strewn around could be so beautiful. Its unlike anything that I had ever seen, it's a tribute to the perseverance and dedication of the people who turned stone to something which lives. You feel astonished not only because of the artistry but more so because of the audacity. The audacity to carve out something like this in such a barren land. You feel sad because such glory can never be replicated. One visit to Hampi and you would want to know everything about it. There you realise how religion wasnt just a way of life for those people, it was the way to live. It was a time when people spent lives carving an idol out of stone, when everything from the daily bazaar to song and dance, every source of livelihood would ulitimately revolve round the temples and the Gods who resided in them. And the irony is that it was religion which proved to be its demise. The temples at Aihole and Pattadakal are awe inspiring because of their intricacies and advanced architecture, the Badami caves take your breath away by their sheer natural beauty and impossibility of the creations. The ruins of Hampi with their vastness and desolation, with the Tungabhadra running in between as the mute observer to its rise and fall, are something out of this world.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Reunion
Good company always makes me happy and when that company is made up of some of your closest pals from college, there’s nothing like it. Last weekend was special. There was a PhD student from the US
Almost nothing had changed. The stud from the US could still describe certain things with the sort of detail that would make you see them, the would be business tycoon had retained his prowess to crack the silliest of jokes and then justify them, the bade sahab had not lost one bit of his paunch or compromised on his defining principle in life – “is edible, will eat” and the future investment banker was hyper enthusiastic as ever though he had started talking more about the Indian retail scene and the risks in the life of a trader. We didn’t party as such. Most of the weekend was spent sitting in my home and gossiping, reminiscing about hostel days, watching snaps, singing a few songs, listening to more and just lazing around. The usual anecdotes were told and retold. The ever green topic of ‘life ke funde’ was brought up when we got high. The trek to Neuli was relived through the photographs. Some more close buddies were called up to make up for their absence. The usual policy of ‘more laughter less words’ was followed at the other end of the phone by one of my friends. Everything was right with the world.
Then there was the trip to the malls for our friend to get some cheap clothes for himself. The usual dinner and lunch outings followed and the exploits of the bade sahab and yours truly were remembered amidst peals of laughter. As usual the four of us ended up ordering food for about six people.
Soon it was evening as we were joined by the timely arrival of one of my flat mates and a fellow software engineer. A few snaps were taken as my flat mate and friend brought up his favorite topic of discussion – “To do a PhD or not to” and found ample advice flowing from the mouth of the stud from the
It was a strange and nice feeling at the same time. I was very happy for the moment that we could spend together, doing nothing, all our worldly worries put to someplace else for the time being (although the bade sahab did have to answer to the call of duty on Saturday afternoon) but at the same time I was thinking of a few years down the line when most of us would hopefully have ‘settled’ into the life of our choices. How would we be then? Would we manage to stay as close as we have been till now? Most importantly would we find time to meet again for a reunion? I would like to believe we would. Till then though, courtesy my entrepreneur friend’s awesome Digital Camera the 40 odd snaps would be a nice reminder for the weekend we spent together.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Memories
It was a bright sunny morning today in Bangalore. I was all alone in the house as my flatmates had either left for work or had gone home for new year. I followed my usual ritual of getting up, doing my daily chores, turning on the geyser, carefully arranging an assortment of songs to be played for the next half an hour on my computer which included aashayein, Lucky Ali and music from "Scrubs" (the most awesome soundtrack a TV series could ever have. Zach Braff rules!). Then I made myself a cup of coffee and stood in the balcony with the sun rays on my back and the music floating out of the hall. I felt wonderful.
My grandparents lived in a place called Silchar, Assam. And every summer vacation, we used to go there for about a month and a half. I remember it as being the best part of the year for me, especially the day the journey was made. The journey had three legs to it. The first leg was covered by a taxi from Bokaro to Dhanbad. The second leg was the train journey from Dhanbad to Howrah. Thereafter an interval followed, spent either at a relative's house or some guest house or (this was my best choice) the DumDum airport. I loved putting up at the airport dormitory. The evenings were spent watching flights take off and land and roaming around the lounge. What more could a kid ask for. It was easily the best day of the year for me. From evening to morning next day when the flight would finally land on Silchar airport I was on a high. I loved every bit of it. The excitement of travelling, the anticipation, the security check, the bus ride to the plane, the climb up the stairs, the airhostesses, the take off, the clouds, the landing, the smiling face of my Nana as we descended the steps from the flight. Boy, it almost felt like heaven.
It was huge two storied house that my Nana lived in. It also had a big garden and a pond or pukur. I remember how I used to sit with my Nana as he explained to me the principles of Profit Loss and Simple Interest. Yes, those were the days of holiday homework! He also had a plethora of bengali story books which I used to read. From Satyajit Ray's legendary Feluda to the more intellectually stimulating Byomkesh Bakshi to folk tales and hunting stories. My mashi also used to live there along with mesho and my cousin brother who was five years younger to me. Teasing him and giving him fundas was a favourite passtime. Evenings used to be spent either playing cricket in the nearby ground with the local boys and my brother's friends or taking a walk by the river Barak. There was no internet and even cable TV was a new concept, two things without which life today would be unimaginable. I used to spend days loitering around the house, watching people do their daily jobs: Nani doing her cooking, Nana tending to the garden along with a servant and playing games with my little brother and just lazing around at times. Oh and there was also a VCP in which we used to watch movies. Haathi Mera Saathi, Tridev, Ghayal... just to name a few!
We also used to have these fishing sessions in the pukur with the most enthusiastic members being my Nana, my mother and I. So I would quietly sit with my Nana at vantage positions patiently waiting for the fishes to take the bait as he went on puffing cigarettes. It was an awesome experience. The tug, the dip, the pull and finally the catch.
Once during my stay a fisherman would also be called with his fishing net. That day was special. Everybody would gather round the pukur (even people from other houses!) as the jele (bengali for fisherman) would cast his net and then slowly pull it out inch by inch. My brother and I went crazy as we saw the fishes sparkling in the sun and jumping about. My brother being more a localite than I, was more adept at handling all this stuff and often I ended up following his lead on how to catch a fish and prevent it from jumping back into the water.
My granparents and others even tried to get me to learn swimming in the pukur. So my Nana and Mashi (both being good swimmers) would jump into the pond along with me holding on to a banana tree log. I was very afraid of water and could barely let go of one of the helping hands even though I had two or three people close to me who would never let me drown. This carried on for a few years and though my braver brother learnt swimming, I didn't. Much later before joining college when I finally did learn how to do it, it seemed surprisingly unscary! (is that a word)
Then there was the ritual of gathering the coconuts from the half a dozen trees in the house (I told you it was a BIG house!). One of the servants would climb up the tree and drop the coconuts into the pond which would later be collected by someone. My Nani used to make delicious sweets out of these coconuts.
Coming back was tough, very tough. I remember my mother, my grandparents, in fact everybody crying. I didnt. The flight from Silchar to Calcutta would be so very different, though I was happy at the prospect of meeting with my Dad after a month or so. He would be waiting at the arrival lounge waving to us. I would run to him and give him a hug. We would soon be headed towards Howrah to catch the train to Dhanbad as he narrated the latest stories from our Steel City, like so and so got Rank 21 in IIT. Yeah, guess that's where my fate was decided to an extent.
My Nana died in '98. Even then I didnt cry. I dont know why, considering how close to him I was. He was the best story teller I ever had. I remember one particular night when he kept on telling me stories till we could see the first rays of the sun. I noticed that in the later years he became so much quieter and indifferent to happenings around him. He would even listen less. It's strange that even as I write all these I can feel my eyes becoming moist. I last went to Silchar in '99 for his annual ritual.
My Nani visited us this October and I met her after six years. She said that the house has changed a lot. The pond has been filled up, the garden is no more there. She also gave me the diamond ring my Nana had. She said that he would have wanted the same. It was such a different time, a different world.
And about the first paragraph, I had set out to write something else but then this came up.
My grandparents lived in a place called Silchar, Assam. And every summer vacation, we used to go there for about a month and a half. I remember it as being the best part of the year for me, especially the day the journey was made. The journey had three legs to it. The first leg was covered by a taxi from Bokaro to Dhanbad. The second leg was the train journey from Dhanbad to Howrah. Thereafter an interval followed, spent either at a relative's house or some guest house or (this was my best choice) the DumDum airport. I loved putting up at the airport dormitory. The evenings were spent watching flights take off and land and roaming around the lounge. What more could a kid ask for. It was easily the best day of the year for me. From evening to morning next day when the flight would finally land on Silchar airport I was on a high. I loved every bit of it. The excitement of travelling, the anticipation, the security check, the bus ride to the plane, the climb up the stairs, the airhostesses, the take off, the clouds, the landing, the smiling face of my Nana as we descended the steps from the flight. Boy, it almost felt like heaven.
It was huge two storied house that my Nana lived in. It also had a big garden and a pond or pukur. I remember how I used to sit with my Nana as he explained to me the principles of Profit Loss and Simple Interest. Yes, those were the days of holiday homework! He also had a plethora of bengali story books which I used to read. From Satyajit Ray's legendary Feluda to the more intellectually stimulating Byomkesh Bakshi to folk tales and hunting stories. My mashi also used to live there along with mesho and my cousin brother who was five years younger to me. Teasing him and giving him fundas was a favourite passtime. Evenings used to be spent either playing cricket in the nearby ground with the local boys and my brother's friends or taking a walk by the river Barak. There was no internet and even cable TV was a new concept, two things without which life today would be unimaginable. I used to spend days loitering around the house, watching people do their daily jobs: Nani doing her cooking, Nana tending to the garden along with a servant and playing games with my little brother and just lazing around at times. Oh and there was also a VCP in which we used to watch movies. Haathi Mera Saathi, Tridev, Ghayal... just to name a few!
We also used to have these fishing sessions in the pukur with the most enthusiastic members being my Nana, my mother and I. So I would quietly sit with my Nana at vantage positions patiently waiting for the fishes to take the bait as he went on puffing cigarettes. It was an awesome experience. The tug, the dip, the pull and finally the catch.
Once during my stay a fisherman would also be called with his fishing net. That day was special. Everybody would gather round the pukur (even people from other houses!) as the jele (bengali for fisherman) would cast his net and then slowly pull it out inch by inch. My brother and I went crazy as we saw the fishes sparkling in the sun and jumping about. My brother being more a localite than I, was more adept at handling all this stuff and often I ended up following his lead on how to catch a fish and prevent it from jumping back into the water.
My granparents and others even tried to get me to learn swimming in the pukur. So my Nana and Mashi (both being good swimmers) would jump into the pond along with me holding on to a banana tree log. I was very afraid of water and could barely let go of one of the helping hands even though I had two or three people close to me who would never let me drown. This carried on for a few years and though my braver brother learnt swimming, I didn't. Much later before joining college when I finally did learn how to do it, it seemed surprisingly unscary! (is that a word)
Then there was the ritual of gathering the coconuts from the half a dozen trees in the house (I told you it was a BIG house!). One of the servants would climb up the tree and drop the coconuts into the pond which would later be collected by someone. My Nani used to make delicious sweets out of these coconuts.
Coming back was tough, very tough. I remember my mother, my grandparents, in fact everybody crying. I didnt. The flight from Silchar to Calcutta would be so very different, though I was happy at the prospect of meeting with my Dad after a month or so. He would be waiting at the arrival lounge waving to us. I would run to him and give him a hug. We would soon be headed towards Howrah to catch the train to Dhanbad as he narrated the latest stories from our Steel City, like so and so got Rank 21 in IIT. Yeah, guess that's where my fate was decided to an extent.
My Nana died in '98. Even then I didnt cry. I dont know why, considering how close to him I was. He was the best story teller I ever had. I remember one particular night when he kept on telling me stories till we could see the first rays of the sun. I noticed that in the later years he became so much quieter and indifferent to happenings around him. He would even listen less. It's strange that even as I write all these I can feel my eyes becoming moist. I last went to Silchar in '99 for his annual ritual.
My Nani visited us this October and I met her after six years. She said that the house has changed a lot. The pond has been filled up, the garden is no more there. She also gave me the diamond ring my Nana had. She said that he would have wanted the same. It was such a different time, a different world.
And about the first paragraph, I had set out to write something else but then this came up.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Dust In The Wind
Its been exactly a year since my first post on this blog. Back then I saw blogging just as a very cool concept; techy and literary at the same time. Letting the world know what you feel, creating your own space amongst millions. My inspiration was the blog of a friend who happened to be the only one I knew who had one. He wrote quite beautifully, about things which I could at once relate to. To add to it I was nearing the end of my stay in my college and felt like chronicling some experiences, some observations about life as an undergrad. Also I had loads of time to kill. I was done with CAT and I didn't have to go to classes. It's not that I bunked them. It's just that I didn't have any. So the time seemed pretty ripe to get into blogging.
The switch from the personal hand written diary, which I had been maintaining from the second semester in college, was slow and uncomfortable at times. I didn't have the guts to lay open every feeling I had and every thought that went through my mind, yet I wanted to write about my life and things that mattered to me. Not social or political issues, not movie reviews, (there were better people to do that) but things which concerned my existence, my take on life. Interestingly, someone once asked me if I wrote for myself or for others, was I honest enough when I wrote, why did I think that someone would be interested in reading about my life. I think I still blog for more or less the same reasons for which I started. Primarily it was and still is a means of holding on to all that has gone by, a collection of memories and events which I feel like expressing. I do not care whether people would read it or not but at the same time it makes my day when someone does take the time out to post a comment. I am honest. I write only about things which I have the guts to lay out in the open. So there's still a part of me that's mine.
I am generally very happy when I write. I take my own sweet time to compose my posts which on occasions have taken entire afternoons and nights. I do tend to write and rewrite stuff, do some editing and change phrases. Is it to make it a better read for others. To quite an extent yes but also to some extent, make it a better read for myself. A year and about 23 posts later, I feel though that I keep harping about the same things. I have become very monotonous, writing about the same dilemmas, changes and stuff. But the problem is I don't know what else to write about. I am not good at commenting or politics or social issues. I have lost interest in the state of Indian cricket, although if Ganguly manages to hit a ton in SA (OK, its very remotely possible but please don't laugh), you bet there will be a post; and I have not been doing too much traveling (about which I love to write and used to in my pre-blog days). So if anyone has some interesting suggestions, please let me know.
One major difference from my starting days as a blogger is that earlier I used to wait for things to happen. Now I manufacture them on my own. Take this post for example!!
The switch from the personal hand written diary, which I had been maintaining from the second semester in college, was slow and uncomfortable at times. I didn't have the guts to lay open every feeling I had and every thought that went through my mind, yet I wanted to write about my life and things that mattered to me. Not social or political issues, not movie reviews, (there were better people to do that) but things which concerned my existence, my take on life. Interestingly, someone once asked me if I wrote for myself or for others, was I honest enough when I wrote, why did I think that someone would be interested in reading about my life. I think I still blog for more or less the same reasons for which I started. Primarily it was and still is a means of holding on to all that has gone by, a collection of memories and events which I feel like expressing. I do not care whether people would read it or not but at the same time it makes my day when someone does take the time out to post a comment. I am honest. I write only about things which I have the guts to lay out in the open. So there's still a part of me that's mine.
I am generally very happy when I write. I take my own sweet time to compose my posts which on occasions have taken entire afternoons and nights. I do tend to write and rewrite stuff, do some editing and change phrases. Is it to make it a better read for others. To quite an extent yes but also to some extent, make it a better read for myself. A year and about 23 posts later, I feel though that I keep harping about the same things. I have become very monotonous, writing about the same dilemmas, changes and stuff. But the problem is I don't know what else to write about. I am not good at commenting or politics or social issues. I have lost interest in the state of Indian cricket, although if Ganguly manages to hit a ton in SA (OK, its very remotely possible but please don't laugh), you bet there will be a post; and I have not been doing too much traveling (about which I love to write and used to in my pre-blog days). So if anyone has some interesting suggestions, please let me know.
One major difference from my starting days as a blogger is that earlier I used to wait for things to happen. Now I manufacture them on my own. Take this post for example!!
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Monday, December 11, 2006
Salpa Leftu, Salpa Rightu!!
Auto Rickshaws. How I hate them since I came to Bangalore and particularly after I bought my Apache. I didn't particularly hate them in Delhi. In spite of their demanding Rs 40 from the hostel gate to Chanakya and ultimately coming down to 20, I was OK with them. After all I didn't have much of a choice. Bangalore, though is totally different. Here's why.....
1) If you are in Koramangala, (quite a posh locality if you know Bangalore) they wont go to MG Road (the heart of Bangalore) and vice versa. Why? Hmm... my best bet so far is they don't like my face. On an average it took about six or seven attempts to get one to go from MG Road to my home in Koramangala after office and the way they refused was awesome. Some didn't even bother to reply and simply went ahead as if nothing had happened. Some stopped, looked at you and said nothing and only when you asked them the second time did they make the slightest to and fro horizontal motion of the head. Others said no with an expression in their face that would almost make you feel ashamed of wanting to go there. And the best one (this happened while house hunting); one slowed down almost to a stop, we ran after it, it picked up speed and went away. Attitude personified.
2)They start demanding night rates about an hour or more before they are supposed to and often do not come down beyond Rs 10 extra. Ask them the reason and they will say.."Sir, 10 ruphiya extra dene me kya jaatha hai ... "
3)There's no pollution control here, no CNG. Instead, all autos run on LPG emitting a lot of smoke and making a lot of noise. To add to it nobody turns off their engines at signals even when the signal has a timer attached. So for a biker (or worse a cyclist, which I was for a few days), these signals become hell.
4)And the most interesting part is their extreme unpredictability and unmatched maneuverability. On the road the only vehicle more dangerous than an Auto is an empty Auto. You never know how or when or why he is going to stop or change his speed. He may be ambling along at 30 kmph in front of you and suddenly decide to stop for no reason in particular. He may be at the extreme left of the road on a traffic signal and yet decide to take a U-Turn. He may suddenly decide to change lanes in order to get ahead by 5 meters. And if you are on a cycle or bike he pays scant regard to the fact that he may hit you while overtaking.
By the way, in case you didn't get the title, Salpa is Kannada for a little, "thoda" , and thats the way these vehicles run on the roads of Bangalore. But why bother, "Salpa adjhust madi!" (this phrase is not mine, but I liked it very much upon seeing it in an article yesterday)
1) If you are in Koramangala, (quite a posh locality if you know Bangalore) they wont go to MG Road (the heart of Bangalore) and vice versa. Why? Hmm... my best bet so far is they don't like my face. On an average it took about six or seven attempts to get one to go from MG Road to my home in Koramangala after office and the way they refused was awesome. Some didn't even bother to reply and simply went ahead as if nothing had happened. Some stopped, looked at you and said nothing and only when you asked them the second time did they make the slightest to and fro horizontal motion of the head. Others said no with an expression in their face that would almost make you feel ashamed of wanting to go there. And the best one (this happened while house hunting); one slowed down almost to a stop, we ran after it, it picked up speed and went away. Attitude personified.
2)They start demanding night rates about an hour or more before they are supposed to and often do not come down beyond Rs 10 extra. Ask them the reason and they will say.."Sir, 10 ruphiya extra dene me kya jaatha hai ... "
3)There's no pollution control here, no CNG. Instead, all autos run on LPG emitting a lot of smoke and making a lot of noise. To add to it nobody turns off their engines at signals even when the signal has a timer attached. So for a biker (or worse a cyclist, which I was for a few days), these signals become hell.
4)And the most interesting part is their extreme unpredictability and unmatched maneuverability. On the road the only vehicle more dangerous than an Auto is an empty Auto. You never know how or when or why he is going to stop or change his speed. He may be ambling along at 30 kmph in front of you and suddenly decide to stop for no reason in particular. He may be at the extreme left of the road on a traffic signal and yet decide to take a U-Turn. He may suddenly decide to change lanes in order to get ahead by 5 meters. And if you are on a cycle or bike he pays scant regard to the fact that he may hit you while overtaking.
By the way, in case you didn't get the title, Salpa is Kannada for a little, "thoda" , and thats the way these vehicles run on the roads of Bangalore. But why bother, "Salpa adjhust madi!" (this phrase is not mine, but I liked it very much upon seeing it in an article yesterday)
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Friday, December 08, 2006
Today
Something's not right today. It's mainly got to do with the fact that the feeling of being stuck in the wrong job has managed to push its head up through the myriad of others that keep wandering in my mind. I have been given the unenviable task of understanding and writing code for some application of which I have absolutely no idea. I have been thrown tons of industry jargons which I am finding very tough to digest. In short I am desperately waiting for the clock to strike 8 after which I head to a pub with a group of friends to listen to Metallica, Doors and Pink Floyd and have some beer too. It's nothing new to me though. I have these phases. Phases of restlessness characterised by an extreme eagerness to break free of this tepid existence and do something crazy which I can't do, or rather wouldn't do. There's this sudden rush of adrenaline. An urge to go out to someplace remote, isolated, attend music concerts, perform on stage and what not. I feel so restless during these times that I feel like taking the plunge. It feels as if I am holding myself back. Living a life that's not meant to be mine, saying to myself what can I do that will change all this overnight. Why does life need to be so predictable. Why cant I let myself loose. Ok, financial stability is one factor. I mean I cant possible leave everything and go on a world tour right now!! But within the realms of my existence there ought to be several avenues which I haven't ever explored. Possibilities which seem distant but are not. It is during these moments of madness that I look at myself, the kind of person I am and feel that something's gone terribly wrong somewhere. And the worst part of it is I don't know how to set it right.
Most probably when I get up tomorrow morning and start practicing "Sound Of Silence" on my guitar, all would seem right with the world. But someday, I think I will break free.
Most probably when I get up tomorrow morning and start practicing "Sound Of Silence" on my guitar, all would seem right with the world. But someday, I think I will break free.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Songs
Just felt like listing down some songs/bands which have grown on me tremendously over the years, especially the last few months....
1) Simon & Garfunkel - of course for the harmony and the seconds.
Sounds Of Silence
The Boxer
Scarborough Fair
El Condor Pasa
Mrs Robinson
2) Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits) - undoubtedly for his guitar. Its so clean and distinct.
Romeo Juliet
Sultans Of Swing
Boom Like That
What It Is
Walk Of Life
3) Bob Dylan - for the thoughtful lyrics and the unique folk feel.
Like a Rolling Stone
Hurricane
Tambourine Man
Blowing In The Wind
4) U2 - Especially like their 2001 Slane Castle Concert in Dublin and the way Bono introduces his band.
Stuck In A Moment
Out Of Control - it's so much full of energy
With Or Without You
Where The Streets Have No Name
Will add more soon.
1) Simon & Garfunkel - of course for the harmony and the seconds.
Sounds Of Silence
The Boxer
Scarborough Fair
El Condor Pasa
Mrs Robinson
2) Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits) - undoubtedly for his guitar. Its so clean and distinct.
Romeo Juliet
Sultans Of Swing
Boom Like That
What It Is
Walk Of Life
3) Bob Dylan - for the thoughtful lyrics and the unique folk feel.
Like a Rolling Stone
Hurricane
Tambourine Man
Blowing In The Wind
4) U2 - Especially like their 2001 Slane Castle Concert in Dublin and the way Bono introduces his band.
Stuck In A Moment
Out Of Control - it's so much full of energy
With Or Without You
Where The Streets Have No Name
Will add more soon.
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Monday, November 27, 2006
Thoughts
There was a time when your world was controlled by two supreme human beings. The time you woke up from bed, the kind of food you ate, your clothes, TV serials, your future, your decisions; everything was taken care of. You had the simplest of tasks. Simply following them. And on occasions when your mind revolted with the notions of independence and self reliance, there would always be one them to set it right. Yes, we all waited for that period to get over. For most of us, the journey from our mother's lap to school, from middle school to high school, from school life to college life and beyond is a series of events marked by one common thread... the scent of independence. But somehow we keep looking at the past and present, savouring the moments from the past that we miss the most and looking forward to the joys that the future holds for us. At school, college seemed exciting. At college, school seemed so much tension free and job meant crossing the last barrier of independence, and at workplace, college meant so much more fun (not that it didnt, while we are stil in college !). All the while our life keeps getting more and more complex, with new relations, new environments, new challenges to deal with and fewer people to guide, new dillemas and of course new hopes.
In college, I was told, almost to the point of shame, by everyone that cared or bothered, that I had the most time to kill. I was a total vella. Somehow I never had anything to do or so was portrayed by the life I lead there. I didnt study, I bunked most classes, I had no girlfriend to look after, I was not particularly a party going fellow (not that there was always one happening around). People always found me in my room doing nothing worthwhile, reading a novel, listening to music, playing guitar at times, gossiping with friends (my room was one of the hot spots for all these gossips!), staring at my computer...
Amazingly, here, I dont find time to do all the things that I want to. I have about a dozen novels lined up to be read, each one bought very thoughtfully, ones that I want to read slowly, allowing them to sink in. I have my new guitar on which I want to play so many things that I cant even start to list them. Yet again I am sitting for a competitive exam in about 3 months time and I want to crack it badly to give my ego a boost. I want to follow the EPL and India's rape by the South Africans. I want to roam around in my new bike and visit new places. I want to eat at all the good joints in Bangalore and become an authority on food. I want to learn cooking and cook delicious meals. I want to be able to watch all the movies in town. I want to buy things before my parents come to visit me in December. I want to plan out a great weekend when some of my college mates come here in December. Yes, I am doing some of this but for the first time in many years, I feel I dont have the time. I am totally on my own, with no responsibilities, no liabilities, free to do whatever I want and its a totally amazing feeling.
The other day I was cleaning up my bike. I had this bucket of water and a piece of cloth. It was a Saturday morning and everything around had an air of calmness to it. The instant I dipped the cloth in the bucket of water, my mind raced back to those days when I would be doing the same thing along with my father. Just that it would be a Sunday morning and the vehicles would be a car and a scooter. It was so much fun. Getting to play with soap and water, at times getting to start the car and just press the accelerator as my father did something under the bonnet or even trying to start the scooter by putting my whole weight on the kick. And suddenly I was missing everything. The joy, the innocence, the look on my father's face as we ended the cleaning up, the sparkle on our white FIAT as it stood in the sun, my mother's cries as we entered the house all soiled and messy.
Life's always about living the small moments. You think too much about the consequences and the moment's gone. Today I read one of my friend's blog about his annual visit to his nani's place. It reminded me of my annual affair. Guess that warrants a post soon.
In the weekend when I rang up home, my father said that he was planning on applying for VRS. In case you dont know what that is, it's the Voluntary Retirement Scheme. He asked for my opinion. I took the safe option of telling him to do whatever pleases him the most. He says he's tired of working, doesnt want to do it anymore, has had enough. It's a strange feeling, frightening at times. Seeing your parents grow old, get tired.
My life's always been pretty predictable. Especially seeing what some of my friends are going through, I think mine is like a bland salad as compared to theirs' which is like a sizzler. Its a different fact that some are loving the sizzler and some are hating it. I have seen people fall out of love and get on the verge of making a mess of themselves and then fortunately recovering, people talking of getting engaged to their soul mate after an in and out relationship for nearly 2 years and some others still who claim I never knew the real them, talking of things which make little sense to me and sadden me. Mine on the contrary has been very calm. There's no turmoil so to speak, not on the outside, not on the inside. I have tried to stop lamenting about the missed opportunities and thinking about the things that could have been. I am more content at capturing the little moments without any inhibitions. I'm sure it's a long road and my share of excitement is bound to come by.
In college, I was told, almost to the point of shame, by everyone that cared or bothered, that I had the most time to kill. I was a total vella. Somehow I never had anything to do or so was portrayed by the life I lead there. I didnt study, I bunked most classes, I had no girlfriend to look after, I was not particularly a party going fellow (not that there was always one happening around). People always found me in my room doing nothing worthwhile, reading a novel, listening to music, playing guitar at times, gossiping with friends (my room was one of the hot spots for all these gossips!), staring at my computer...
Amazingly, here, I dont find time to do all the things that I want to. I have about a dozen novels lined up to be read, each one bought very thoughtfully, ones that I want to read slowly, allowing them to sink in. I have my new guitar on which I want to play so many things that I cant even start to list them. Yet again I am sitting for a competitive exam in about 3 months time and I want to crack it badly to give my ego a boost. I want to follow the EPL and India's rape by the South Africans. I want to roam around in my new bike and visit new places. I want to eat at all the good joints in Bangalore and become an authority on food. I want to learn cooking and cook delicious meals. I want to be able to watch all the movies in town. I want to buy things before my parents come to visit me in December. I want to plan out a great weekend when some of my college mates come here in December. Yes, I am doing some of this but for the first time in many years, I feel I dont have the time. I am totally on my own, with no responsibilities, no liabilities, free to do whatever I want and its a totally amazing feeling.
The other day I was cleaning up my bike. I had this bucket of water and a piece of cloth. It was a Saturday morning and everything around had an air of calmness to it. The instant I dipped the cloth in the bucket of water, my mind raced back to those days when I would be doing the same thing along with my father. Just that it would be a Sunday morning and the vehicles would be a car and a scooter. It was so much fun. Getting to play with soap and water, at times getting to start the car and just press the accelerator as my father did something under the bonnet or even trying to start the scooter by putting my whole weight on the kick. And suddenly I was missing everything. The joy, the innocence, the look on my father's face as we ended the cleaning up, the sparkle on our white FIAT as it stood in the sun, my mother's cries as we entered the house all soiled and messy.
Life's always about living the small moments. You think too much about the consequences and the moment's gone. Today I read one of my friend's blog about his annual visit to his nani's place. It reminded me of my annual affair. Guess that warrants a post soon.
In the weekend when I rang up home, my father said that he was planning on applying for VRS. In case you dont know what that is, it's the Voluntary Retirement Scheme. He asked for my opinion. I took the safe option of telling him to do whatever pleases him the most. He says he's tired of working, doesnt want to do it anymore, has had enough. It's a strange feeling, frightening at times. Seeing your parents grow old, get tired.
My life's always been pretty predictable. Especially seeing what some of my friends are going through, I think mine is like a bland salad as compared to theirs' which is like a sizzler. Its a different fact that some are loving the sizzler and some are hating it. I have seen people fall out of love and get on the verge of making a mess of themselves and then fortunately recovering, people talking of getting engaged to their soul mate after an in and out relationship for nearly 2 years and some others still who claim I never knew the real them, talking of things which make little sense to me and sadden me. Mine on the contrary has been very calm. There's no turmoil so to speak, not on the outside, not on the inside. I have tried to stop lamenting about the missed opportunities and thinking about the things that could have been. I am more content at capturing the little moments without any inhibitions. I'm sure it's a long road and my share of excitement is bound to come by.
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