Shadows and Stone

Romancing the Dragon

2010-01-21T18:11:00.011+05:30

Me and Shashi spent the last few days of 2009 in Hong Kong, where her sister lives. From a positively frigid welcome at the HK airport Immigration, the visit soon moved on to not-so-infrequent bouts of warmth, despite the foggy, smoggy and cold weather.

We did the Peak tram, Disneyland, Madame Tussauds, IFC and Avatar in 3D (not in any particular order of merit).

I also met some old students and made new friends. And went to lanes where Wong Kar Wai apparently shot parts of his films.

Back home, freshly into the new year, I missed toilet paper.

The young man at Stanley market wrote (what hopefully are) our names in Chinese calligraphy. He was, I thought, quite good in his brushwork. At 300 HK$ (approx 1,800 INR) he made me believe I had got a terrific shop-closing-time steal.

Lin Zexu, senior Chinese official of the Qing dynasty, fought against the unregulated import of opium into China by the British, leading to the First Opium War of 1839. His defeat led to the cession of Hong Kong Island by China to Britain, a process which was reversed only in 1997. The British cultivated the opium in colonial India, for export to China - note the 'Patna Opium' stamped wooden chest! Exhibit @ Hong Kong Museum of History, an excellent place, smartly imagined and put together.

Near where we stayed. For a long time I kept looking for signs of avian and human presence. This part of Hong Kong is expensive, expatriate and relatively empty of street life.

The classic view of Hong Kong, from the Peak.

Cultural Revolution Playing Cards! Bought from the Mong Kok Ladies Market.

Hail Mogambo!

No Comment

Comrades

Et tu Obama?

Relatively unknown.

An innovative intermittent motion device at the Disneyland park, explaining the illusion of movement.

Shashi's brother-in-law Eric runs an intriguing Vintage French Wine outlet 'Bacchus & Century' in the entertainment district of Lan Kwai Fong.

Instead of bottles, the display at 'Bacchus & Century' showcases (now) chic artistic mileposts of the respective years.

Care for some Champagne?

Eric

Lan Kwai Fong

Wong Kar Wai territory

Manisha Chatterjee, my old student, and Rajat Dasgupta, her husband (and brother of another old student Rhea). I had a wonderful half-day with them.

Manisha is slowly adjusting to Hong Kong and its malls. We cribbed together, while Rajat spiced the conversation with his witty, observant one-liners. Apparently the only place you can get 'eve-teased' in Hong Kong (if you so desire) is at Tsim Sha Tsui - where a large number of South Asians live.

Hidden behind the glitzy high street malls, this 'familiar' street food joint was a relief.

Pig intestine with noodles, anyone ? The news headline above talks about common folk being detained in mainland China, for protesting against a polluting neighbourhood industrial plant.

I met Shamik (then a young undergraduate student) in early 1997, soon after I joined NID as a not-so-young film faculty. Together we did some great work at/with the NID Film Club. Catherine is a colleague and friend of Shamik. I liked her affable disposition.

Catherine and her husband Eddie. He is the quieter of the two. The couple (recently become parents) emanate a non-intrusive positivity.

Shamik took me to an unusual DVD shop, called Kubrick (@ Broadway Cinematheque, Yau Ma Tei). The collection here was both varied and rich. I bought the DVD of 'Cafe Lumiere' (a beautiful, fragile film tribute by the Taiwanese director Hou Hsiao-hsien to the great Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu).

Sunshine... Annabelle (Shashi's niece) at the Sky Terrace.

More sunshine... Shashi, Annabelle, Chandni (Shashi's sister) and Benjamin (Shashi's nephew). Rahul, the eldest of Chandni's three kids, is busy in his teens.

all photos: arun gupta

NID Convocation 2009

2009-12-14T12:18:00.016+05:30

Main... samay hoon...

Parde ke neeche

Group photo

The Russians were here

KGB revealed

all photos: Arun Gupta

The New Claim To Fame

2009-10-16T16:51:00.003+05:30

Times of India, Ahmedabad (16th October, 2009)

Thodi Si Zameen, Thoda Aasmaan on Vimeo

2009-09-23T23:40:00.001+05:30

Thodi Si Zameen, Thoda Aasmaan from Arun Gupta on Vimeo.

Thodi Si Zameen, Thoda Aasmaan on YouTube

2009-09-23T23:36:00.002+05:30

Arzoo in 'Humanity Explored' Online Film Festival

2009-07-16T09:53:00.001+05:30

View this movie at cultureunplugged.com

Arzoo

2009-06-24T16:12:00.002+05:30

Bandra Blues: Part-1

2009-04-04T12:25:00.036+05:30

The bus stop on Linking Road still celebrates Bandra Talkies. Behind is Shoppers Stop, the mega store which replaced it.

---- ---- ----

I remember Bandra Talkies faintly. From early 80s onwards, since I shifted to FTII in Pune, and post it.

The squat building occupied a large piece of open land, little off the tri-junction of S.V. Road, Linking Road and Turner Road, visibly conjoining the first two, and probably facilitating a shortcut.

I don't remember having seen a film there, but it was a reassuring reminder then to the casual passerby that a way of (FSI greed free) life still found breathing space in the otherwise ruthlessly efficient & mercantile rush of Bombay.

---- ---- ----

Bandra itself had always been something of an attractive enigma. From one's childhood (in distant, ramshackle Kolkata) one had heard of Pali Hill (along with the Juhu-VileParle Scheme), where the filmi folks lived (actually lived !). For some reason Bandra of the imagination always consisted of well-tarred, tree lined, relaxed avenues, surrounded by elegant bungalows and tasteful lowrise flats, populated by genial, never-in-want-of-money English-speaking fair Anglo-Indians.

Perhaps it were the astute Gujaratis, sinewy Punjabis and grandiloquent Bengalis (who dominated the Hindi film industry) who were the chief residents of this thus blessed suburb in those times. Perhaps they never spoke English (or spoke it self-conscious desi, like us). Perhaps the Christian community was black, and poor. Perhaps the roads did have an occasional pothole. But the contradictions never struck one. Not then, home alone in Belghoria...

The Prisoner and his cellmates

2009-03-06T17:04:00.029+05:30

I was happy. I had just been told that my name came in the credits twice - once as script advisor and once in special thanks.

'See, my students don't forget me' - I told my spouse triumphantly. We had of late been discussing my (skewed) priorities in life, and I had been losing the argument much too often.

(the balloon's inflated state was to be partially altered later, when I saw that my claims to fame were embedded in a hurrying, rolling set of end-credits)

"Siddharth - The Prisoner", a feature film by Pryas Gupta, was released last friday. Pryas is an ex-student of mine and this story was originally going to be his diploma project, and I was going to be his academic guide. The year was 2005.

Time, as is its chronic habit, passed. Meanwhile we did discuss several early drafts of his film's script. Some samples -

Saturday, July 02, 2005
I have just read the first draft of your script. I quite like it. In fact, it has all the possibilities of evolving into a very engaging & sensitive piece of work.

My guess is, it will take you around 45 minutes or more, to tell this story, in its present form.

I think the two principal characters are well imagined, along with the plot, setting, mood and conflict. However, the film will gain if you reduce the gangster action/externally manifested action elements as much as possible, especially towards the end (the threat of action or action offscreen with an air of uncertain outcome is more powerful).

Possibly, the CITY can play an even greater role in the development of the narrative, character and emotional tone.

The old man friend of Roy is necessary and useful for the development of the story, but the context/logic of his existence is not sufficiently seemless. The wife who deserted Roy needs to be a stronger presence (in her absence).

Its not really important to know what Roy and Mohan actually did, after discovering the mutual cheating. Obtusely hinted, uncertain, future directions could work better.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005
I read your reworked script. It reads well. Some of the changes/additions you have done (children bursting crackers in front of cyber cafe, bai and her lover, KBC and Aastha channel, Bai walking past Mohan and the Guard, Mohan pulling the trigger but no bullet, old book with dried flowers, etc) work well as well.

However, the proposed length (90 mins) seems long for the story. I still think 45-60 mins will be ideal.

Why does Mohan blow in the ear of a co-passenger in the local train, in the beginning ? What do you want to establish and why ?

Why do the wind chimes rattle as the Writer walks in the cyber cafe (and, why wind chimes) ?

The initial Bai sequences (2 stealings and a lover) are ok. But the last one, after 15 days, when she says she is not coming back, is unnecessarily schematic.

The initial Mohan and his sister Geeta sequence is inconsistent in terms of Mohan's state of mind. And Geeta is unnecessarily cute.

The Old Man (mysterious family friend of Writer) still seems deliberately put in, only to move the plot forward. His existence in this story and his characterisation seem awkward.

The Writer getting into a wordy explanation - "Galti meri hi thi - mein kitaab time par khatam nahin kar paya..." seems out of character.

Neha and Anita being definitely dead is not such a nice thing. Uncertainty about their whereabouts and welfare would have been more powerful.

The coincidence of the Writer buying Ganja from Bai Lover is very schematic. So is Rosy Bar 500-rupee like flyer.

The end is a confusing maze. The Writer tends to Mohan but cheats him - why ? Has the Bai taken all the money - very convenient (therefore, not nice). Mohan cheats Writer but does not cheat the Gangster - why ? The Writer chooses not to open the manuscript, after cheating Mohan for it - why ?

Monday, December 19, 2005
A quick reply. I read your latest script once. I plan to read it once more soon before giving you my feedback in some detail. But the script already sounds pretty good. You improve with each draft.

The budget seems quite ambitious. Where are you getting the money from ? Are you planning a proper feature film, etc. ?

The one which flew over the cuckoo's nest...

Belghoria Babes: Part One

2009-02-18T16:54:00.108+05:30

Biva, Mukti, Roopmandir - they were called. Named after a wife, a daughter, a desire perhaps...

And we were enchanted.

Much later, one fine winter day, a search began for lost treasures - in that now-not-so-decrepit suburb.

That things were worth treasuring was discovered in retrospect. Way back it was just everyday uneventful life - thodi khushi, thoda gum.

I grew up in Belghoria - a suburb of Kolkata. I had a love-hate relationship with that luckless piece of mother earth. I loved my late-sixties early-seventies childhood there, amidst friends, fights and food (mom's food!). But adolescence and teens were different. A burning desire to take a leap of faith, in spite of hard evidence to the contrary, made escape such a necessity.

And cinema was one such - only I did not know it then. Films gave sound and image to secret I-dare-not longings. That's how life could be lived; was lived...

Cut to 2nd December, 2008. Just past noon.

Accompanied by a (relatively) young para friend Raja, I reach Kamarhati. Kamarhati was (still is) a ghetto of Hindi-speaking Bihari Muslim industrial labour, some 2-3 kilometres from home - an oddity in a largely Bengali speaking refugee milieu.

We are looking for Mukti cinema hall. The last time I was here must have been aeons ago. One used to pass this way everyday, in the school bus, enroute the pretend English-medium pretend St. Xaviers', run by that enterprising superannuated babu popularly called Teko (Baldy - after the nature of absences on his pate. Teko's son was my classmate and my principal hush-hush rival for the expected affections of Ms Jonali, a bespectacled bong beauty in the same class.)

Mukti on B.T. Road (Barrackpore Trunk Road - the most important thoroughfare in the neighbourhood, linking Shyambazar in Kolkata proper to the mouldering suburbs, in an excruciatingly no-hurry, free-for-all sweaty manner) showed only Hindi films. Naturally so, it seems now, given the neighbourhood. I must have also visited it on occasions, as it was the biggest movie theatre in & around Belghoria (Biva was smaller; and Roopmandir, still more small, screened only Bengali) .

But Mukti was also more working class. Hence a large chunk of the moviegoing public, comprising of middle-class (or barely-so) housewives, would probably have kept their distance.

Coming back to December 2nd, 2008. Just past noon.

The busy Kamarhati crossroads, filled with amplified cacophonous sounds of local comrades, exhorting people (in a funny cocktail of Hindified Bengali & vice versa) to obey traffic rules and (newly installed) traffic lights (few days back there have apparently been fatalities) seems unfamiliar. And where is that huge, ornate structure?

"Flad Hoye Gaychhe" says one (has been flattened).

True enough, there is no Mukti. Only a tame, even piece of overgrown barricaded land, behind which stands a newly-built apartment complex. Flad Hoye Gaychhe!

Where the apartment complex is, there used to be watery land and cowsheds (khataals)... is my memory playing tricks... there were khataals all over these suburbs, surrounded by stagnant water - khataals manned by hardy invisibles from Bihar.

We investigate in the apartment complex. One curious lady calls us over. In her forty plus bourgeois boudi way she lets out her repugnance for the kind of place Mukti was - popular (Hindi) films and common folk. She anyway shifted here from elsewhere, once the flats were built, relatively recently.

Mukti closed down few years back. Towards the end it was in bad shape, with declining revenues and dishonest staff. The empty prime land still awaits a buyer (probably because of internecine litigation).

The now dead owner Suren Das was a Bengali, who lived near the river Hooghly, nearby. Mukti was the name of his eldest daughter. He had nine daughters. And one son (or was it, one step-son?). Mukti stays in Barrackpore.

We were to know all this dope a little later. Right now one was disappointed. And feeling cheated.

So we decided to go to the Ganga (Hooghly, if you please). The cycle-rickshaw ride to the nearest Ghat (Pituri) took us through the inner lanes of Kamarhati (unremarkable, like any other, in a similar state of precipitous survival). However I remembered our school bus travelling these lanes, nearly forty years back, to the Jute Mill compound by the river. The Mills on the Hooghly were originally built by the White Man, and the residences therein still reflected colonial pleasure principals.

The Kamarhati Jute Mill compound of my memory was elegant, spacious and clean - an acute contrast to the native ghetto just outside. It would have been interesting to check it out, four decades hence.

Instead one reached the river, past the Muslim living quarters, to the Hindu one. And got talking.

The cycle-rickshaw which brought us here was peddled by Muhammed Murtaja (in his early thirties?). He has been a Kamarhati resident since birth, and remembers sneaking in for free in Mukti film screenings as a young one. Probably it was the phase when Mukti was already set downhill.

Everybody seems to know about Suren Das (the now-at-peace ex-owner of Mukti), whose original house it seems is just round the corner. And everybody has some gossip to share on the subject.

So we sit down with Satyajit Patra and his friends, and over burnt-clay cups of tea (the tab on him, at his insistent insistence) he narrates what we want.

Satyajit, who seems like an unencumbered young idler (and whose father was apparently working in Mukti), has been eyeing us as we were talking to Muhammed Murtaja. He is curious, and very soon friendly (in this city of often unanticipated joys, everybody loves luck-by-chance conversations).

Meanwhile the great river, in low tide, flows sluggishly by, past a somnambulant group of assorted mortals. Beyond, on the far shore, one can see a row of brick kilns. A rickety half-filled ferry drops anchor.

Top left and right: flattened ground where Mukti once stood.
Bottom left: Muhammed Murtaja with his cycle-rickshaw, at Pituri Ghat.
Bottom right: Satyajit Patra in the tea-shop by the river.

THE BIG PICTURE (from Google Earth)
Top right circle: my para Nandan Nagar Govt. Qrts, and its resident pond.
Top left circle: Biva.
Bottom circle: Roopmandir.

THE BIGGER PICTURE
Right circle: Nandan Nagar Govt. Qrts .
Middle circle: Mukti.
Extreme left: Hooghly, with its turbid load.

Photoshop help: Siddharth Gautam Singh, Shradha Jain

24 times 70

2009-02-16T13:34:00.026+05:30

Thus went the sexed-up name of an open elective course I had recently offered, on studying moviegoing in the 1970s. I was already working on a small research grant towards investigating "Suburban Sreen: Memories of Moviegoing in Bandra & Belghoria in the 1970s" and thought that an elective on a similar theme would be a comfortable spin off - a kind of buy 1 get 1 free end-of-season offer.

But these are recession times; the anticipated rush of candidates turned into not-even-a-trickle (with some of thus trickling misjudging their destination). The birdbrained bait of 24 'creative products' on 70s moviegoing, in just 10 days (and hence the title) was easily dodged by the smart set.

By the end one had 3-and-a-half partially interested participants, 2-and-a-quarter partially realised 'creative products' and a choke-full of sour grapes.

Beyond (and despite) the acetous fruit transpired some good things - a behind-the-scenes trip to an old single-screen cinema hall (groundworked by Mandakini, having especially come from Delhi to help), a humorous & affectionate recollection of eventful old visits to the Ahmedabad Drive-in (Shilpa at her eloquent best) and an astute & innovative presentation of the socio-political history of the times that were, through its postage stamps (Suchitra, the bonafide chronicler, among other things).

Last, but not the least, I read through the fat book that is "India After Gandhi: The History of the World's Largest Democracy" by Ramachandra Guha. Despite its unwieldy health (paperback edition of the tome literally comes apart) and widescreen ambition, the book manages to remain intelligent and cohesive. All my romance about the 50s and the 60s (the times one was young, or yet-not-born; when everything was more innocent, more wholesome, more true) (and the later times, when this florid innocence caught the virus) got punctured after reading the party pooper. Guha unveils post-Independence India to have always been a work in progress - thodi khushi, thoda gum - the para-struggle of human greed and munificence.

The well-informed softboard

...and its blockbuster counterpart.

Suresh Shah (centre), Rupam projectionist.
The first film he screened there was Manoj Kumar's Roti, Kapda aur Makan (1974).

Mandakini (foreground right) in the Rupam lobby.
Rupam was opened to the moviegoing public in 1952. Much of the architecture
and interiors have remained unchanged since.

Shilpa in her elements.

1972 in stamps.

Wise men of the East.

Creative Product # 1
Arka's poster, inspired by his parents' life in 70s Kolkata.

Creative Product # 2
Anya & Meghana's unfinished board-game, based on Shilpa's animate nostalgia.

Mangalored !

2009-02-07T11:58:00.013+05:30

kissa kursi ka

the missing link

Ujjwal (Utkarsh), Uday(raj PJ) and Ahsam (KR) came home for dinner. Uday (far right) (pun unintended) volunteered to prepare 'authentic' dishes from Mangalore, with a little help from his (Ranchi and Palakkad) friends. The Mixer Grinder decided on a determined halt. We enjoyed the food and the company. Sri Ram Sene was not informed.

Ujjwal and Uday are 'young designers' now. Ahsam is about to be.

I have been their Diploma Project Guide.

Who is allowed in ?

2008-11-03T11:11:00.007+05:30

My response to the following sardonic posting in the blog http://besigns.blogspot.com/ - "Mumbai v/s Australia: in 2008, Mumbai's population is 13 million (total land area including suburbs approx. 600 sq km) Australia's population is 21 million (total land area 7,617,930 sq km) So there is still enough scope for Mumbai's infrastructure and Municipal Corporation to compete with Australia's infrastructure!!! So lets go to Mumbai, we have the right to do it!!! "

Are you making the point that filled-to-capacity Bombay/Mumbai cannot take any more migrants or are you suggesting that only marathi manoos migrants are henceforth welcome? Therein lies the difference!

Marathi (Cuffe Parade) manoos Shobhaa does her De

2008-11-01T17:24:00.005+05:30

Devil's Advocate: Shobhaa De on Mumbai vs Bombay
CNN-IBN / Oct 27, 2008
http://ibnlive.in.com/news/devils-advocate-shobhaa-de-on-mumbai-vs-bombay/76806-3-single.html

Thank you, Raj !

2008-10-31T17:32:00.003+05:30

" My dear Raj,

My apologies for having to communicate through the editorial pages of a newspaper, but frankly I am left with little choice since you seem to have decided to stay away from the so-called 'national' non-Marathi media. At the very outset, let me say that I am impressed with the manner in which you have carved a niche in Maharashtra's political landscape. I remember meeting you after the Mumbai municipal corporation elections in February last year. It wasn't the best of times for you: your party, the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena was marginalised, while your cousin Uddhav Thackeray and the Shiv Sena had captured power in the city. With many of your supporters deserting you, you appeared down, if not quite out. Twenty months later, I see you've bounced back: local and national dailies have you on the front page, you are the subject of TV debates and your politics has even united Bihar's warring netas.

And yet, my friend, there is a thin line between fame and notoriety, more so in the fickle world of politics. Bashing north Indian students may grab the headlines, getting arrested may even get you sympathy and strident rhetoric will always have a constituency, but will they be enough to secure your ultimate dream of succeeding your uncle Bal Thackeray as the flagbearer of Marathi asmita (pride)?

If Balasaheb in the 1960s rose to prominence by targeting the south Indian "lungiwala", you have made the north Indian "bhaiyya" the new 'enemy'. In the 1960s, the Maharashtrian middle-class in Mumbai was feeling the pressure of competition for white-collar clerical jobs. Today, it seems that there is a similar sense of frustration at losing out economically and culturally to other social groups in Mumbai's endless battle for scarce resources. With the Congress and the NCP having become the real estate agents of the state's rural-urban bourgeoisie and the Shiv Sena a pale shadow of its original avatar, the space has been created for a charismatic leader to emerge as a rabble-rouser espousing the sons of the soil platform.

But Raj, I must remind you that electoral politics is very different from street agitations. Sure, the round-the-clock coverage of taxis being stoned and buses burnt will get you instant recognition. Yes, your name may inspire fear like your uncle's once did. And perhaps there will always be a core group of lumpen youth who will be ready to do your bidding. But how much of this will translate into votes? Identity politics based on hatred and violence is subject to the law of diminishing returns, especially in a city like Mumbai, the ultimate melting pot of commerce. Your cousin Uddhav tried a 'Mee Mumbaikar' campaign a few years ago. It was far more inclusive, but yet was interpreted as being anti-migrant. The result was that the Shiv Sena lost the 2004 elections â€” Lok Sabha and assembly â€” in its original citadel of Mumbai. Some statistics suggest that one in every four Mumbaikars is now a migrant from UP or Bihar. Can any political party afford to alienate such a large constituency in highly competitive elections?

Maybe, you are not even looking at winning seats at the moment, but staking claim to the Sena legacy in a post-Bal Thackeray scenario. Perhaps, that's exactly what the ruling Congress-NCP combine in Maharashtra wants: like a market leader who gets competing brands to crush each other, the Congress-NCP leadership seems to be practising divide and rule politics once again. They did it with Balasaheb and the communists in the 1960s, with Bhindranwale and the Akalis in the 1980s, even with the Kashmir Valley politicians in the 1990s. A larger-than-life Raj Thackeray suits the ruling arrangement in the state because it could erode its principal rival, the Shiv Sena's support base. It's a dangerous game, but often when politicians run out of ideas, they prefer to play with fire. It's a fire that could leave Mumbai scarred for life.

Now, before you see my writings as the outpourings of an anglicised non-resident Maharashtrian, let me just say that like you, I too am proud of my roots. I too, would like to see the cultural identity of Maharashtrians preserved and the economic well-being of the community assured. Where we differ is that I am a citizen of the Republic of India first, a proud Goan-Maharashtrian later. Fourteen years ago, I left Mumbai for Delhi to seek professional growth and was fortunate to be embraced by the Capital. Like millions of Indians, I too am a migrant and a beneficiary of a nation whose borders don't stop at state checkpoints.

Moreover, I cannot accept that 'goondaism' is the way forward for forging a robust Maharashtrian identity. By vandalising a shop or stoning a taxi, what kind of mindless regional chauvinism are we promoting? Taking away the livelihood of a poor taxi driver or beating up some defenceless Bihari students reflects a fake machismo that is no answer to what ails Maharashtrian society today. The Maharashtra we are all proud off was inspired by the progressive ideals of the Bhakti movement, by a Shahu-Phule-Ambedkar legacy of social reform. Are we going to dismantle that legacy under the weight of hate politics?

When you started the MNS a few years ago, it had been pitched as a party committed to a 'modern' Maharashtra. If that vision still stands, why don't you take it forward in real terms? Why don't you, for example, set up vocational courses and technical institutes for young Maharashtrians to make them competitive in the job market? If cultural identity is such a concern, why not launch a statewide campaign to promote Marathi art, theatre and cinema by financially supporting such ventures?

If Mumbai's collapsing infrastructure worries you, then target the politician-builder nexus first. And isn't it also time we realised that Mumbai is not Maharashtra, that the long suffering Vidarbha and Marathwada farmer needs urgent attention? Why not use your political and financial muscle to start projects in rural Maharashtra instead of focusing your energies on Mumbai's bright lights alone? An employment generation scheme in a Jalna or a Gadchiroli may not make the front pages, but it will have far greater value for securing Maharashtra's future.

Jai Hind, Jai Maharashtra! "

Rajdeep Sardesai (Editor-in-Chief, IBN Network)
Hindustan Times / October 30, 2008
http://www.hindustantimes.com/StoryPage/Print.aspx?Id=60cfd3cb-8223-415c-8418-91945ce8232e

More on Bombay

2008-10-29T14:30:00.006+05:30

Comment left by me in another blog -
http://discovery-of-self.blogspot.com/2008/10/mumbai-meri-jaan.html

"Bombay was never a Marathi city - it began as a British (trade) project! (So were Calcutta and Madras). Marathi 'asmita' cannot be saved by refusing to share borrowed spoils."

Mumbai Tumhara Sahar ?

2008-09-08T19:26:00.009+05:30

Let the Hindi film & television industry shift away from Mumbai. Ditto with the Stock Exchange. Same with the BCCI. The Marathi upper middle class Thuk Re manoos will lose his parasitic sting for ever.

What have these bandits, who speak for Marathi asmita, done about farmer suicides in Vidharva and Marathwada ? What irony that these Jaichands have been born to a historically progressive state like Maharashtra !

And I am not only speaking of the Thuk Re clan. All those Marathi men & women in the public eye, rich & famous because of the cosmopolitan, industrious, audacious and bhel Hindi character of Bombay, and who choose to keep silent while Hindi and its adherents are bashed about, are equally culpable.

Powwows with Prachi

2008-06-30T14:19:00.003+05:30

from: prachimokashi.blogspot.com
SOLEMN RAMBLINGS / Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I've been watching quite a few heavy documentaries lately... Night and Fog by Alain Resnais, War and Peace, and Father Son and the Holy War by Anand Patwardhan... My mind seems to be constantly running with visuals from these films and everyday, by nightfall, I seem to be losing all my ways and excuses of comprehending life and the millions of people who comprise it... including myself. This notion of homogeneity that one relies on - does not exist. India itself is a country of many worlds. What will the world be like...? Perhaps there will never be equality - of any kind...

Arun Gupta said... (June 26, 2008)
Its kind of ironic, isn't it, that we admire patwardhan for taking up the distant causes of 'right' things and simultanously endure / ensure a 'wrong' thing like ragging right in one's own backyard.

Prachi Mokashi said... (June 27, 2008)
Well I admire Patwardhan's way of influencing ones opinion about certain things... although perhaps it's not the best way... is it? Personally, I don't think I can do the same - for any kind of a situation including ragging... 'To each his own...' Guess this is called being selfish...

Sitaron Se Aage

2008-06-25T09:20:00.005+05:30

The starlet, who is going to be a star, is happy. She has met Shahrukh Khan. She has retrospectively discovered that college was cakewalk, twice over. And she is going to call back in an hour, as her mobile phone battery is down.

Meanwhile, in a 'heritage' campus, some desires (later to be deemed peripheral) are beginning to unfold - again.

माया, महा ठगिनी हम जानी...

Hindi Bashing

2008-06-22T12:15:00.004+05:30

I went to a friend's house. He is cosmopolitan, an artist, and not a north Indian. We were listening to a recording of his little daughter reciting poems. It was all very beautiful. Suddenly the father was heard in the recording instructing the kid "Say - down with Hindi songs". The kid, ironically, said something completely opposite.

I am sick & tired of these closet Hindi bashers.

Losing It at the Movies

2008-06-19T19:12:00.004+05:30

I have been wanting to study moviegoing for a very long time. I feel most filmmakers are interested only in the making part - the who, why, when, what, how and where of the screening experience does not interest a majority of them ('Purple Rose of Cairo' by Woody Allen is an interesting exception).

Of what use is a film which has not been seen yet again in a semi-lucid print by a lonely heart (amidst other such losers & oddballs) on a humid monday afternoon, in a smelly hard-on-the-ass moviehall, an hour and Virar fast away from home ?

Social Interaction

2008-06-16T22:16:00.008+05:30

Social Interaction: that's what ragging is euphemistically referred to as by some of us in a not-so-ingenious act of double-speak. We get away with it year after year, spawning new armies of happening young things, carrying the legacy of gratuitous violence and equivocation in subterranean self-serving bloodstreams.

How does one tackle this ? How does one deal with this pernicious worm which has found its way into the hearts and minds of the once-upon-a-time chosen ?

The meek were meant to inherit the earth, weren't they ?

P.S. I had sent the above text through email to the community as well. For the FIRST time in my life here I had a hate message (actually an attempt at hate shairi, in Hindi) waiting for me, slipped surreptitiously under my office cabin door.

For the times they are a-changin'.

Not a Jolly Good Fellow

2008-06-06T20:23:00.003+05:30

I have not been behaving of late, leaving crotchety comments on neighbourhood blogs. Sample these -

http://mandakini-m.blogspot.com/2008/05/delhi-times.html
The IPL times that we live in, whether it be in Delhi or elsewhere, human behaviour is likely to be based on greed and possession based unidimensional stimuli. The original sin is to accept the undemocratic and uncaring raj of capital. I sometimes think that at a macro level the present human race has already touched the tipping point. The Flood is nigh. We may as well learn to swim :)

http://cafesid.blogspot.com/2008/05/diploma-dilemmas.html
problem is not that you are not (or cannot be) a good filmmaker, problem is that you are shy of acknowledging your filmmaking wholeheartedly - very typical of ug fvc, who are always trying to be generic CD/VC for some reason, as if being a filmmaker is a disease...

Sleeping with the Emigré: Teaching Film in a Design School

2008-06-06T17:22:00.010+05:30

Emigré: Someone who leaves one country to settle in another.

I have been teaching filmmaking in a design school for the last 12 years. Our 'mission statement' is to create design informed short filmmakers. But often we end up unwittingly creating film informed designers. In less polite words, many of the alumni (especially the undergraduates) flirt with moving image a little, but eventually gravitate to a conveniently indeterminate (and seemingly more profitable and peer-endorsed) domain called communication design.

I see this as a clear lack of pride in their chosen profession and a waste of our energies. This problem is less visible in the postgraduates though, as they apply directly for the specialisation, and hence their passion for cinema is a given (in most cases).

I can never understand (or appreciate) a 18-year old who does not have clarity about what he/she wants to do as a profession, at least for that moment. I always had clarity - at any given point of time - regarding my chosen profession. I was going to be a space scientist once (like most children); then roads and railroads interested me a lot; then I was going to top the IIT entrance; later I was going to be a journalist; then an IAS/IFS officer; and finally a filmmaker. I remember getting FTII prospectuses for years together, every year, even before I was eligible to apply.

The first time I gave the FTII entrance test in Kolkata, I was supremely confident and was looking around in the examination hall for 'who else' will qualify along with me. Of course I did not make it that year, to my surprise !

मातृभाषा

2008-06-03T15:41:00.022+05:30

आजकल महाराष्ट्र में हिन्दी वालों की पिटाई चल रही है। उत्तर प्रदेश और बिहार के अप्रवासी मजदूर महाराष्ट्र के नए हरिजन हैं। और मराठी सभ्रांत (एवं समृद्ध) समाज हरि का नाम ले मौन है।

सालों पहले हिन्दी भाषी होने का मूक आतंक मैने बहुत करीब से अनुभव किया था - बंगाल में बड़े होते समय। घर की चारदिवारी के बाहर हिन्दी बोलने में मुझे शर्म आती थी, क्योंकि हिन्दी अप्रवासी मेडों की भाषा थी (बंगाल की नजर में हर हिन्दी भाषी मारवाडी/मेडो था, हर मेडो के पास बहुत पैसा था और ज्यादातर पैसा भोलेभाले स्थानीय का खून चूस कर नाजायज कमाया गया था)।

मेरा निम्न मध्यम वर्गीय बचपन इन काल्पनिक पैसों के सुखद स्पर्श से वंचित रहा। Instead one had to be constantly on one's guard regarding any publicly visible spending, lest the locals (who were of course free to splurge) detect a Hindi belt capitalist :)

I believe Hindi suffered as a language (and a culture) because of being made the rashtrabhasa. It became rigid, sarkari and boring; it became an unfortunate overt symbol of perceived northern expansion; and its native speakers (including yours truly) deserted it in droves, taking its existence and health for granted.

Jo Jeeta Wohi Chukandar

2008-05-20T18:22:00.009+05:30

Once, when I was working in Zee, I had thought of floating a game show (they were much in fashion then, besides being very cheap to produce - 3 episodes a day !) that would celebrate losing. It was to be called "Jo Jeeta Wohi Chukandar"

I hate the idea of winners. A society which only celebrates winning (and not living) cannot be caring and egalitarian.

I picked up this cartoon strip most probably from the office of Mr. S. Balaram, who was earlier my senior colleague, and now heads the DJ Academy of Design at Coimbatore.

The Emperor's New Clothes

2008-05-15T12:17:00.006+05:30

This wickedly perceptive 1837 story by the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen is (regretfully) still relevant, given the IPL times that we live in, where everything and everyone is on sale; where pretence & pomp substitute for substance and where expedient obsequiousness is seemingly the only way up...

Once upon a time there lived a vain Emperor whose only worry in life was to dress in elegant clothes. He changed clothes almost every hour and loved to show them off to his people.

Word of the Emperor's refined habits spread over his kingdom and beyond. Two scoundrels who had heard of the Emperor's vanity decided to take advantage of it. They introduced themselves at the gates of the palace with a scheme in mind.

"We are two very good tailors and after many years of research we have invented an extraordinary method to weave a cloth so light and fine that it looks invisible. As a matter of fact it is invisible to anyone who is too stupid and incompetent to appreciate its quality."

The chief of the guards heard the scoundrel's strange story and sent for the court chamberlain. The chamberlain notified the prime minister, who ran to the Emperor and disclosed the incredible news. The Emperor's curiosity got the better of him and he decided to see the two scoundrels.

"Besides being invisible, your Highness, this cloth will be woven in colours and patterns created especially for you." The emperor gave the two men a bag of gold coins in exchange for their promise to begin working on the fabric immediately.

"Just tell us what you need to get started and we'll give it to you." The two scoundrels asked for a loom, silk, gold thread and then pretended to begin working. The Emperor thought he had spent his money quite well: in addition to getting a new extraordinary suit, he would discover which of his subjects were ignorant and incompetent. A few days later, he called the old and wise prime minister, who was considered by everyone as a man with common sense.

"Go and see how the work is proceeding," the Emperor told him, "and come back to let me know."

The prime minister was welcomed by the two scoundrels.

"We're almost finished, but we need a lot more gold thread. Here, Excellency! Admire the colours, feel the softness!" The old man bent over the loom and tried to see the fabric that was not there. He felt cold sweat on his forehead.

"I can't see anything," he thought. "If I see nothing, that means I'm stupid! Or, worse, incompetent!" If the prime minister admitted that he didn't see anything, he would be discharged from his office.

"What a marvelous fabric, he said then. "I'll certainly tell the Emperor." The two scoundrels rubbed their hands gleefully. They had almost made it. More thread was requested to finish the work.

Finally, the Emperor received the announcement that the two tailors had come to take all the measurements needed to sew his new suit.

"Come in," the Emperor ordered. Even as they bowed, the two scoundrels pretended to be holding large roll of fabric.

"Here it is your Highness, the result of our labour," the scoundrels said. "We have worked night and day but, at last, the most beautiful fabric in the world is ready for you. Look at the colours and feel how fine it is." Of course the Emperor did not see any colours and could not feel any cloth between his fingers. He panicked and felt like fainting. But luckily the throne was right behind him and he sat down. But when he realized that no one could know that he did not see the fabric, he felt better. Nobody could find out he was stupid and incompetent. And the Emperor didn't know that everybody else around him thought and did the very same thing.

The farce continued as the two scoundrels had foreseen it. Once they had taken the measurements, the two began cutting the air with scissors while sewing with their needles an invisible cloth.

"Your Highness, you'll have to take off your clothes to try on your new ones." The two scoundrels draped the new clothes on him and then held up a mirror. The Emperor was embarrassed but since none of his bystanders were, he felt relieved.

"Yes, this is a beautiful suit and it looks very good on me," the Emperor said trying to look comfortable. "You've done a fine job."

"Your Majesty," the prime minister said, "we have a request for you. The people have found out about this extraordinary fabric and they are anxious to see you in your new suit." The Emperor was doubtful showing himself naked to the people, but then he abandoned his fears. After all, no one would know about it except the ignorant and the incompetent.

"All right," he said. "I will grant the people this privilege." He summoned his carriage and the ceremonial parade was formed. A group of dignitaries walked at the very front of the procession and anxiously scrutinized the faces of the people in the street. All the people had gathered in the main square, pushing and shoving to get a better look. An applause welcomed the regal procession. Everyone wanted to know how stupid or incompetent his or her neighbor was but, as the Emperor passed, a strange murmur rose from the crowd.

Everyone said, loud enough for the others to hear: "Look at the Emperor's new clothes. They're beautiful!"

"What a marvellous train!"

"And the colours! The colours of that beautiful fabric! I have never seen anything like it in my life!"

They all tried to conceal their disappointment at not being able to see the clothes, and since nobody was willing to admit his own stupidity and incompetence, they all behaved as the two scoundrels had predicted.

A child, however, who had no important job and could only see things as his eyes showed them to him, went up to the carriage.

"The Emperor is naked," he said.

"Fool!" his father reprimanded, running after him. "Don't talk nonsense!" He grabbed his child and took him away. But the boy's remark, which had been heard by the bystanders, was repeated over and over again until everyone cried:

"The boy is right! The Emperor is naked! It's true!"

The Emperor realized that the people were right but could not admit to that. He though it better to continue the procession under the illusion that anyone who couldn't see his clothes was either stupid or incompetent. And he stood stiffly on his carriage, while behind him a page held his imaginary mantle.

A Debt Overdue

2008-05-07T18:32:00.007+05:30

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
“He was a man who used to notice such things”?
That's a poem by Thomas Hardy
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy)

I love it.

I had Hardy for English Literature in college - his novel Mayor of Casterbridge. I went on to voraciously devour his other novels as well - A Pair of Blue Eyes, Far from the Madding Crowd, Under the Greenwood Tree, Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Jude the Obscure... Those were toothsome times - youth, relative poverty, unrequited love, college canteen, samosa chai, all route bus pass, delhi winter and Hardy's attractively unlucky men & women.

Few years later, at the FTII admission interview, I had blabbered something about liking Hardy's gloomy romanticism. I would like to believe that got me in. Nothing else explains my good luck, having had to follow worthies like Anup Singh Bhatla and Anant Balani (later my classmates in Direction) in the interviews. Their long duration inscrutable tête-à-têtes inside had put my subsequent short & sweet interrogation in perilous perspective.

It was raining that Pune August. Or was it...

Nothing in Particular

2008-02-01T10:27:00.001+05:30

Tanuja in Parul's evocative student film "Nothing In Particular" (1998). I have tried a bit of Photoshop on the original image.

Romancing the Trap

2007-10-25T11:48:00.000+05:30

A quadrilateral with two parallel sides - that's a trapezium (according to the brits; the yankees don't think so).

However this geometry lesson has little to do with the fair & lovely set. The trapezium outlined in the Google Earth image above is the part of Belghoria (in the northern suburbs of Kolkata) where I grew up, early 60s to late 70s.

There were occasions when what lay within the 'trap' stood for me as the very image of stagnant, uncelebrated decline. But on other occasions, especially till one's primary school, the limits of the quadrilateral (and further afield) held for me the very real promise (often fulfilled) of adventure and pleasure.

to be continued ... ... ...

Trikon Ka Chautha Kon

2007-10-19T17:17:00.000+05:30

That's M.R. Sasidharan on the left, Nagarajan Lingam in the middle and Sagar Sangam Sarkar on the right. On a beautiful day in 1983 five innocents learn the ropes - of still photography and beyond.

The person behind the camera is yours truly and the one snipped out of the original image (she was standing further right) as a hurt afterthought is the one yours truly was happily chasing till a Bajaj M-50 arrived on the scene. Rest is Wisdom Tree.

FTII, Pune. First week of the first semester. The forest near the boys' hostel.

Har Fikr Ko Dhuen Mein Uda ...

2007-10-18T13:36:00.000+05:30

I have been smoking, nearly continuously, since my second year at FTII (84-85). I must have been 24 then - a reasonably unpunctual age for getting hooked (did not smoke or drink through either higher secondary or college ! - actually all the 'consequential' events in my life have happened years later than when they were expected to unfold - I am a tale forever behind schedule).

This 7th May, on my niece Priyanka's engagement day, I kicked the smoking habit (it was more of a coincidence - my throat was once again acting bad).

It's now been more than five months and temptation sometimes seems perilously close and feasible (even reasonable). The only protection in my pocket - sparkling smile Happydent White.

photo by chinmayi arakali

Of Poppadoms and Marmalades …

2007-10-12T11:22:00.000+05:30

I visited UK in 2003, to attend a week-long course in 'Writing for Television' conducted by the Arvon Foundation (www.arvonfoundation.org) at Moniack Mhor (www.moniackmhor.org.uk), a Writers' Centre situated in the picturesque Scottish Highlands, fourteen miles off the city of Inverness.

I arrived at Moniack Mhor around 9.30 pm in the night, on a Sunday, towards the end of July 2003. Bright daylight, a deserted dark cottage and curious sheep grazing in the adjoining rolling fields greeted me.

Earlier in the day, early morning in fact, I had arrived at Heathrow International Airport, London after a monotonous & tiring flight from Mumbai, with a longish break for a changeover at Abu Dhabi.

It took me a subsequent eight hours train journey through England and Scotland to reach Inverness, the main city of Scottish Highlands. I travelled without having made a prior booking. However one could find a vacant unreserved seat without much hassle. That was a surprise.

Another surprise was that one could keep the larger pieces of one’s luggage in the unlocked space provided near the coach entrance without bothering about their safety. In fact the lady in the seat next to me was quite amused to find me checking the health of my suitcase (kept near the door) at every station the train halted.

She turned out to be the granddaughter of the person who had founded the Glasgow Film Theatre, then called Cosmo, in the 1940s. Later in my travel, post Moniack Mhor, I was scheduled to visit the Glasgow Film Theatre!

The taximan at Inverness, a tall well-built genial Scot with an accent, was waiting for me at the station with a Moniack Mhor placard. His friendliness made me feel less nervous about the forthcoming overnight stay all alone in an unfamiliar land in the middle of nowhere.

I had actually arrived a night earlier than the scheduled course beginning. The original plan of staying overnight in Inverness itself was foiled due to unavailability of hotel accommodation, it being a weekend. Hence the Moniack Mhor people had graciously offered me their space instead. The only catch was that there wasn’t going to be anybody around.

“We will leave the house key in the post box on the wall outside the office. We will leave a note on the table telling you which bedroom you have, and we will see you Monday morning about 9:30. Enjoy the peace and quiet” - they had said.

So here I was, near the end of my FIRST day in UK, searching for the keys of an isolated Scottish farmhouse, seemingly situated miles away from civilization & help, in broad daylight at night!

The course proper began the next day in the evening. There were 12 participants in all (though there was room for 16), 10 of them being women. The other man beside me was a Scot working as a manager in a multinational firm in Hongkong. Most of the women were in their late 30s or early 40s. Many of them were mothers of young children, the majority living away from their former husbands.

The youngest participant was a college student, in her early 20s, studying History of Art. The oldest was in her 60s, a folk & cabaret singer by profession. Few of the participants were school teachers. Some others were working in the media, in the non-creative side. One woman worked as a driver of a tourist double-decker bus in Glasgow.

It was interesting to see this mix, from all over UK. One wondered what drew this heterogeneous group to Writing for Television. And all of them found my presence, having come all that distance from India, equally intriguing.

Initially getting used to their accents was a problem for me. Though English is spoken in many different tongues in India, and one is used to negotiating a wide variety of speech eccentricities in one’s own country, the English of the English (especially in a rapid-fire conversation) took some relearning. And the Scots speak the language in a different but fascinating folksy way. Thus an ordinary ‘Hi’ becomes a melodious ‘Hi-yay’.

The two tutors Marc Pye and Mamie Lang started by showing episodes of some of the television serials they had written for - principally HIGH ROAD, a soap opera (Marc & Mamie), and THE BILL, a cop drama (Marc). They also shared some of their work experiences in the field.

Both had made it in writing after a long struggle. Mamie’s story was particularly inspiring. She started writing only in her mid 50s. Before that she had been a nun, a mother, a singer, a snooker hall entrepreneur and many other sundry things in between. Hers had been a hard life, but her constant energy & cheerfulness hardly betrayed that.

In fact what distinguished both the tutors was their willingness (in fact, positive enthusiasm) to listen and to share. Their course didn’t really have a formal structure (I would have preferred a more specifically laid-out roadmap, what with some of the participants being beginners) but they tried to be useful by being available for one to one tutorials as & when and as often required. Since they were also residing on campus, it included late-night sessions as well.

Thus the course was largely participants driven. Marc tried initiating the rank beginners by giving a simple seed plot (a bald boy taunted by classmates ultimately triumphs as the rest catch head lice) to write a script on. Later he shared his own version of the script.

Marc and Mamie, 2nd & 3rd from left; Stevie, 3rd from right

I faced a block while trying to write. Having been teaching scriptwriting myself, I became self-conscious about the responsibility. Plus, all the ideas coming to me lent themselves more to a one-off movie rather than a TV series. Also the incredibly beautiful surroundings (the air smelt pure oxygen and the wind softly whistled through the nearby pine forest, leaving a delicate trail of divine silence occasionally interrupted by the distant baa..ing of grazing sheep) was proving to be a distraction.

As the course drew to a close, some participants did manage to reach the end of their (short) film scripts. The credit for that must be shared with the tutors. Mamie Lang was almost like a fond mother. One day, seeing my plight at being daily saddled with the British version of vegetarian food (principally, boiled potatoes in various garbs), she quietly drove down to the nearest small town and bought packaged Indian curry from the local supermarket for my benefit.

I remember the loud peals of laughter (loudest of them being Mamie Lang’s) which illuminated the desolate beauty of Moniack Mhor for those five days, lending camaraderie and purpose to a disparate group. Many of the single mothers participating in the course led otherwise difficult lives (there was real-life drama midway through the course, when one of the ex-husbands angrily called up castigating his former wife for leaving the child behind). It was wonderful to see them loosen up and enjoy their creativity.

Kirsten, the tough one

An appropriate reaffirmation of the bonhomie that was generated during the course was the play/film script MANIACK MOOR (a deliberate pun on Moniack Mhor) that was enacted on the last night, with all the participants (and the two tutors) reading out a specific character’s lines from the play. The play was penned by Stevie (one of the single mothers) as part of her learning through the week.

It was a funny piece, about a group of unsuspecting unrelated hopefuls visiting a spooky writers’ retreat for a course and being tricked into eating the wrong marmalade twice over, with unexpected hilarious consequences. I spoke out the part of ‘Ranjit Kapoor’ - the famous Indian writer, who writes top stuff and who is fond of spicy poppadoms (British for papads or papadams), which are so hot that no British constitution could possibly take them and survive.

A version of this article first appeared in 'Cut Here' - the NID Moving Image Magazine (http://www.nid.edu/download/cuthere2jan04.pdf) Photos 1 & 3 by Arun Gupta; photo 2 source Marc Pye.

My Complete Profile: New & Improved

2007-10-08T18:47:00.002+05:30

A product of Hindi-speaking North Indian parentage, Bengali-speaking Kolkata upbringing, Marathi-speaking FTII nurture and Gujarati-speaking NID evolution (and now a Kannada-speaking hangover), Arun Gupta is quite a confused desi. The fact that he is married to an ethnic Bong from Mumbai adds to this delectable mess.

Arun loves the Moving Image, but in his view the Sound came first, followed by the Word and subsequently the Image. Hence he lives in a permanent inferiority complex vis a vis the Musical, the Literary and the Photographic Arts. However he draws consolation from the fact that it is in Cinema these varied art forms find an (un)holy union.

As he grows older, Arun is increasingly drawn to the beauty of the commonplace and the everyday. And he is a memory freak – his memory is falling but he increasingly remembers ‘the obvious necessity to forget’.

The sketch is by one of my ex-students Sreejith Paul - he had drawn caricatures of ALL his teachers, for one annual convocation display. Most of the text was originally written for an aborted faculty profiles publication.

Look Ma, I Wrote A Song !

2007-10-08T14:57:00.000+05:30

Once upon a time, I wrote this for a filmmaker friend.
He was polite. I did not like that.

Shahar Hei So Gaya
Safar Bhi Neend Mein
Ye Bhole Raaste
Yoon Saath Chal Pade

Woh Chand Chupke Bhi
Lage Hei Kyon Khila
Chupa Chupi Ka Yei
Ajab Hei Silsila

Thami Imaratein
Rooki Ye Khidkian
Subah Ki Aas Mein
Unidin Shyahiyan

Samay Ki Daur Ko
Chala Mein Laangh Ke
Mein Uske Peeche Hoon
Ya Uske Samne ?

Mein Uske Peeche Hoon
Ya Uske Samne ?

Now since I am at it, let me give you another one.
The same friend was equally polite about this one as well.

Tees Ke Uspaar Kashti
Tairne Ki Ab Tameej
Chand Kinare Saath Aye
Par Chahiye Kuch Aur Bhi

Karakasha Rahon Se Gujre
Peeche Peeche Pyar Ke
Nafraton Ke Dum Nibhaye
Par Chahiye Kuch Aur Bhi

Par Chahiye Kuch Aur Bhi
Par Chahiye Kuch Aur Bhi

Can I give you one more ?
(this one misfired badly, in the long run)

Uski Ankhen Kuch
Kehna Chahati Hein Shayad
Kankhiyon Se Bakhabar
Rehna Chahti Hein Shayad

Wo Jhijhakana Wo
Moohn Chupane Ki Ada
Dosti Ke Hak Ada
Karna Chahati Hein Shayad

Kankhiyon Se Bakhabar
Rehna Chahti Hein Shayad

Uski Ankhen Kuch

Apne Moohn Mian Mithhu or The Art of Blowing One's Own Trumpet

2007-10-04T18:57:00.001+05:30

I like being praised.

Teachers ought to be praised. Because that probably is the only asset they would manage to build in a lifetime. They are the monks who can never hope to buy or sell any ferraris.

This is one of my ex-students (no, neither Lekha nor Chinmayi !) talking about the scriptwriting course I took with her batch some years back -

"Cava! And thus he spoke the first word in class ...

The strings and strings of words that followed made so much sense that I felt I had learnt a lot in the very first class. In my opinion, the faculty could not have been better than this.

What was most interesting was the way the faculty handled all types of writing by students. It was the most unbiased approach. If everybody’s leg was pulled in class, everybody was also appreciated equally. Nobody was made to believe lesser than the other and I am sure everybody walked out of the class optimistic of his or her writing skills. At least, I did.

The faculty also gave us constructive criticism which I have not encountered in this place at all. If something was not upto mark in the assignments that we submitted, the faculty not only criticised it but also gave us alternative suggestions which made our minds work on different tangents to find out alternative solutions ..."

I am not blushing.

Now the flip side of the coin, this time from another of my ex-students, in an other scriptwriting course -

"I’m really happy that u criticized me but there wasn’t anything special in ur feed back because I know I have a problem with my English language and I told u from the beginning of it also. And I’m working hard for it. Then you gave me an A in punctuality sorry to say I wasn’t punctual at all so I don’t deserve it, then you gave me B+ for motivation where I deserve more than that because I was injured and my leg was plastered and my doctor tolled me to take rest but I came to ur class. Unfortunately u couldn’t see it. any way I m not here to become an A+ guy. And I’m also not attending any personality development course. U said I’m rigid in learning I will be only rigid when somebody say that you can’t go to that way you have to go this way then I will ask why not? if that person can’t answer it or convince me I will explore the way which he told me not go or he have to allow me to explore the way. Because this is the only time I can explore more and make mistakes and learn from that. The day I pass out from here I can’t do it with somebody else’s money, time, energy etc. before that I have to explore every thing and I’m not afraid of committing mistakes ... In my all life so many people told me that you can’t do that it’s impossible, that is not possible etc when I explored things I was right ... I thing you should read Robert frost’s poem “Road not taken”. You always tolled me that I have to open if I m open you are also bound to be open because I don’t believe in one side opened road. You used the word I’m talent and a made for a movie person to hear these words about me I been working hard for a long time it didn’t came in one day and its not the way you described me that I’m impatient and jumping to achieve the goal. I admit that I was little bit impatient completing my assignments because I can’t sit more than one hour hanging my plastered pain full leg on top of my computer and think creative and type words with all my spelling mistakes and grammar mistakes. If you are taking my physical problem with my attitude then I can’t help it. If you want to tell something to me tell straight foreword don’t go like “you have very good skill and visualization but you have these problems, that problems also. I’m not impressed by telling that I’m talented or I have done a good work I’ll be happy if you talk about my lacking and mistakes so that I can cover it. Tell me directly what problem I have, don’t appreciate first and then take my case. It won’t help me in my learning. With all respect to you sorry to say but you always do this cheap trick ..."

I am still not blushing.

Mysuru Days

2007-10-02T11:50:00.001+05:30

This year I have been to Mysore thrice already. First time, in February, it was for conducting a Film Appreciation Workshop. The subsequent occasions, in June and September respectively, I was conducting Script Writing Workshops. All three times the location was the tranquil & unhurried Dhvanyaloka (Centre for Indian Studies).

My faithful and tireless co-conspirators in these ventures have been two amazing young people - Chinmayi (first from right, with a chunni) and Pavan (seventh from left, in white shirt).

Chinmayi, like Lekha (mentioned in an earlier post), is a former student of mine. Ideologically grounded and sensitive, Chinmayi has an intrinsic reservoir of talent which she is shy of acknowledging.

Pavan is a Fine Arts graduate and Photographer, whose creative output showcases an admirable eye for detail, in compositions which unobtrusively seek out inexplicit relationships.

photos by pavan k j

Upwardly Mobile

2007-10-01T18:22:00.001+05:30

This is Lekha (Washington), at a busy crossroads in Mysore. And that's me looking up admiringly at her.

I am quite fond of her, though she is a wee bit fonder of attention en general. She was one of my brighter students; quite a rebel, often with a cause.

Now she is acting as female lead in one of the upcoming big-budget mainstream Tamil films (having already become a popular model and VJ in Chennai).

http://youtube.com/lekhawashington is the link to two of her fine student films on YouTube. Go watch them.

photo by pavan k j

Ab Dilli Door Nahin !

2007-05-30T13:43:00.000+05:30

Dune Dudes in Doha

Photo 1 by Megha Lakhani
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghalakhani/480970813/
Photo 2 by Haz & Phil
http://www.flickr.com/photos/8048845@N02/486468564/

Beauties and the Beast

2007-05-01T14:11:00.000+05:30

Qatar Tribune, Doha / 25th April, 2007

Kahan Kahan Se Gujar Gaya

2006-12-14T18:34:00.000+05:30

My journey from Class X to now

My Hostel Room at FTII (1985 ?)

2006-12-13T17:13:00.000+05:30

That's Ila !

2006-12-13T16:48:00.000+05:30

Ek Baar Dilli

2006-05-20T12:07:00.000+05:30

Mandakini has started her own blog - http://www.mandakini-m.blogspot.com Her last post there is a very well observed & written piece on coming back to (face) Delhi after a long break.

I responded to her piece with this one (as a comment) -

In some ways Delhi doesn't change (for that matter, neither does Kolkata or Mumbai, except perhaps in their new names - in fact I think people and places essentially remain the same, beyond the veneer). I used to like Delhi once (some 25 years back) - especially the north campus of DU, with large college campuses of the kind one had earlier seen only in films; and the broad, sparsely populated, leafy roads of Lutyen's New Delhi, on those winter afternoon long walks dreaming of 'love'. Also the Mandi house circle, with the Triveni canteen and the Shriram Center book shop, and perhaps the Kamani auditorium. Then there was the Shakuntalam theater within the Pragati maidan complex, which showed cinema of obscure parentage & variety on hot summer evenings, with the just-watered Pragati maidan roads giving off nice moist dust aroma and Jagjit-Chitra Unforgettables softly playing on the PA system. Also, one should not forget the well-kept grand expanse of Lodhi Gardens and the quaint India International Center nearby, home to the moving & shaking bara brown sahebs - strangely open enough for vague underachievers to sneak in and watch some serious Bharatnatyam.

Kafurpur Halt

2006-03-29T15:00:00.000+05:30

A small 'Halt' (below the dignity of even most ordinary passenger trains) station in west UP, Kafurpur was the place where we often went as children for our summer holidays (and sometimes winter ones as well). That's where my eldest Tauji (father's elder brother) was posted as the stationmaster.

The reason for the larger paternal joint family gathering there would probably be the presence of either or both of my paternal grandparents (Ammaji and Babaji).

Being the stationmaster gave my Tauji a lot of importance and dignity in the surroundings, including, of course, the station premises. We children sort of lived in that reflected glory, happy to strut around officiously and without care.

There was no electricity, water was from the handpump, and there were mango trees all over, which gave off real mangoes. Mustard and sugarcane fields nearby completed this incredibly pastoral scene. But one shat in latrines of the manual kind, where the stuff accumulated below in metal containers, which must have been removed by hand by a thus-assigned caste person periodically. The younger children (including me) however did the act directly outside, in spritual communion with mother nature.

Most of us kids had come from restrictive urban environments and thus must have found the rural spread and simplicity (seeming like that to us, then) of Kafurpur brilliant. For me (and my younger brother Aloke) the highlight were the stacks of used cardboard railway tickets we induced Tauji to hand over to us, after he was through with collecting them from alighting passengers. I remember he looked grand in his black railway official coat, kindly but firmly standing at the informal exit of the station, and collecting those treasures.

Not too many passenger trains actually stopped at Kafurpur halt. I think in the whole day there were possibly only two. The rest whizzed past, including some express trains, on their way possibly to Delhi or Moradabad. Possibly Kafurpur was in the Delhi-Moradabad route, with stations like Amroha, Gajraula and Garhmukteshwar nearby. We usually travelled from Calcutta in an Express train upto Moradabad, and then changed there into a passenger train for Kafurpur.

There was intersting exchange of a metal ball placed in a larger metal ring, each time an engine rushed past. One came from the running train, another was given to it. Then that ball was inserted in some formal and mysterious looking large mechanical contraption fixed inside the stationmaster's cabin. This activity resulted in a authoritative-sounding metallic gurgle which seemed to me terribly important and insider-stuff, and I felt privileged.

The winters were bitter and fun. Coal-fires (or was it wood?) kept the temperature friendly (literally as well as figuratively). The comfortably warm and cosy stationmaster's cabin at night was a dream, with a pitch dark freezing neighbourhood outside, and the dramatic aural hurly-burly of the occasional through express. On one such night in that unreal den part of my posterior (actually the side view) got too close to the amiable fire. It was some time before I realised that my skin was badly scalded.

On another occasion we children decided to derail a train. Carefully and scientifically we placed the smooth round stones (ballast, I believe they are called) one by one in a straight line on top of the streakily polished rail track, probably to a distance of about 5 feet or under. Then we waited, half-fearful and half-excited of our deed. The scene-to-be played in our heads (at least it did in mine), with dreadful visuals of the consequences. Finally a train appeared, and passed safely over. To this day I wonder about our good luck.

More About Ila

2006-03-25T13:16:00.001+05:30

I met Ila in 1979. I was 19 then. She must have been few months younger.

Ila was a slightly chubby, reasonably pretty, happy, upper middle class teenager, like any other. Not particularly intelligent, nor significantly dumb. I fell in love - in retrospect, with the idea of Ila in my mush inclined head.

Poor girl. For the next three years, and much beyond, I must have stood for her as an unhappy example of a gentleman pest, fruitlessly bombarding her unwilling but consistently polite self with half-digested ideas of revolution and the meaning of life. My virginal attentions, devoid of any thoughts of real physical contact, must have seemed to her quite odd.

But Ila was a very decent human being. All through the time I knew her (she later got married and went off to Ohio) she never ever (not even once) ticked me off for being so annoyingly persistent. For a very long time afterwards she personified chaste virtuous love for me. I even ran a company called Ila Film & Video (after graduating from FTII) for a few years.

The female lead in my FTII diploma film "Avkash Kal" is called Ila.

Ek Thi Ila

2006-03-23T20:44:00.000+05:30

The last frame of my B&W FTII diploma film "Avkash Kal"

The film was made in 1986. I was 26 then.

Story of an enigmatic meeting many years hence, of a now domestic man in his 40s, with a woman who had long stood for him as an enduringly sad & desperately inviting idea of unrequited love.

Pen, Paisa, Monthly, Chasma

2006-03-20T14:19:00.000+05:30

I grew up in a back of the beyond suburb of Calcutta (now Kolkata) in the 70s. It was called Belghoria (it still is called by the same name, and I still don’t know why and, quite surprisingly, I have never ever been curious to know why).

In 1970 I was 10. I left in 1979, for Delhi.

I have mixed feelings towards Belghoria. It is where I spent much of my growing years. It is also where I felt economically, intellectually deprived - a frog in a hopeless, humourless, prosaic well.

Don’t get me wrong. My parents (bless them!) tried their utmost to provide us four siblings the best they could. But my father was an incurable dreamer, scheming his next big capitalist move every now & then, of course without much success. Trust him to have left a comfy permanent service (of a decade or so long) in a Central government outfit, and move with four young children and an unwilling wife from a familiar & much loved Delhi to an unknown outpost called Calcutta, on the basis of a later-proved-dubious offer from a well-off childhood ‘friend’. He spent most of his working years in Calcutta fighting the sure slide of the family into a barely lower-middle-class existence.

One of his failed ventures (‘Associated Data Processing’, I think, when computers were just coming in – before that he had tried PVC sheets & pipes, if I remember right) left him with a Remington portable typewriter as the lone surviving asset. I still have it. In fact in my pre-PC avatar (not so long back), I used it extensively, lugging the heavy ‘portable’ wherever I went in search of greener pastures – Delhi, Mumbai, Jaipur, Pune, Ahmedabad… My first (and only, till date) feature film script was painstakingly typed using this beautiful, messy mechanical gadget. Mind you, an error on a page meant retyping the whole damn thing all over again (using the liquid whitener meant smudgy letterforms, and I am an incurable perfectionist).

I love my father. The older I become, the more I find myself in his image. He is the one who blindly supported me, much beyond his means, in my often foolish ventures. I was able to go to FTII only because of him – my elder sisters, younger brother and mother knew very well that the family’s economic circumstances could hardly sustain the exorbitant expenses (to us then) of me staying in Pune. And cinema was an inadvisable profession for a middle class lad to try and get into.

I am glad I went to Pune, however. FTII and the dreamy 3-year stint there gave me a clear direction and purpose in life.

Thank you Chachaji (that’s what we call our father, probably because we were originally growing up in a loose joint family, where my father was the youngest brother, and hence Chachaji to most children). Thank you Mummy. Thank you Sandhya, Deepa and Aloke. I am truly grateful.

Coming back to the title of this piece. My father was a slightly forgetful person. So everyday, when he had to leave for work in the morning, either my mother or one of us would remind him of having taken – Pen, Paisa, Monthly, Chasma. The monthly (railway pass) meant it was the phase when he was catching the local train daily to go to Calcutta city proper (earlier he used to work in Belghoria itself, walking back home in the afternoon break, for lunch and perhaps a quick snooze - I sometimes get to do it nowadays - the wheel of life inevitably & uncannily churns).

Chachaji is past 75 now.

My Claim To Fame

2006-03-17T18:38:00.000+05:30

Sunday Times of India, Ahmedabad, February 26, 2006