Exotic locale? Countryside sea? Nay. It's off the city `local' terminus - Churchgate. Marine Drive. And shot from the balcony of a sea-side flat. Guess the time? Certainly not the afternoon sun. At 6 pm, the sun's still away from sinking into sea. Isn't it as beautiful as sunset?
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Deja Vu
Exotic locale? Countryside sea? Nay. It's off the city `local' terminus - Churchgate. Marine Drive. And shot from the balcony of a sea-side flat. Guess the time? Certainly not the afternoon sun. At 6 pm, the sun's still away from sinking into sea. Isn't it as beautiful as sunset?
Lost in the din: A tale of 12 annas
(not a review)
Barah Aana. 12 annas. Seventy-five paise. That word is so lost in oblivion...gone from public usage! It took a film-maker to revive the words so prevalent just two decades back.
Barah Aana, the movie is a metaphor of those lost words, of lost people whose labour was given its due, of lost ethics too, in a sense.
In the din of the many releases hitting cinemas - Aloo Chaat, Firaaq, Confessions of a Shopaholic, Dhoondte Reh Jaaoge, Gulaal ...an already running Little Zizou, one jostling over the other at the theatres, even pushing others out, this film simply got lost. No surprise that our Sunday morning dash to the multiplex showed us through a hall filled to less than half its seating capacity. After all, how would 12 annas find takers when despite recession, big money is what rules the mass cinema-goer mindscape!
When the intermission lights were switched on, my husband complained, ``Those d... critics. Just because it is a low-budget flick, they give it two stars. All hung up on money...'' There was some truth to what he said. I checked the papers for the reviews too. Poor ratings. But a hunch told me I would not be disappointed. So three of us who made it to the multiplex dunked Aloo Chaat for this one.
It was touted a comedy, while it is not. It does have humour. It lacked cameo-studded aura of Luck By Chance. But it does to death those million global yells that our film-makers cannot entertain using some realism. A tight narrative. Amazing detail. A simple story. And that understated humour that hits you hard. And makes you gulp you have been guilty of insulting those below you in status or class.
Anger and revolt, vulnerability to crime, an urgency to grab it and make it big - they wait to explode someday among the humiliated masses. Barah Aana is an indication of just that.
The film is worth watching, for the sheer acting brilliance in acting, by not just Naseeruddin Shah, but Vijay Raaz, Arjun Mathur, and every other member of the ensemble cast.
Matching Naseeruddin Shah is no easy a task. But in some scenes, you gape as Vijay Raaz in suffering watchman role moves you with ease.
The film deals with that sense of humiliation and injustice eating away those at the receiving end of the money game - those living in slums, those managing to sleep in dimly lit cement boxes in the name of rooms. On the other hand, is the all pervasive corruption aided by the well-to-do, which can produce the strangest of paradoxes.
Barah Aana's focus is on three characters - a watchman, a chaffeur, and a cafe waiter, all wrestling the humiliation of class troubles. Ever watched a watchman caught in the ego-tussle and double-games of members in a housing society? Swallow a lump in your throat for that all-familiar scene, that ends up subtly victimising the securityman who should be an ideal spectator.
An ambitious waiter who desperately to woo a foreigner girl, but cannot speak English. Sit easy on the multiplex cushion till the waiter complains to his driver friend, that multiplexes charge 10 times more for basic food. Or watch that expression change when a boisterous memsaab stabs her chaffeur with her razor sharp insults. The will-never-speak driver who speaks volumes with his silence and expressions. Naseeruddin Shah can take over an entire scene with his mere expressions. By the time he actually speaks in this movie, you've given up on him only to sit up when he does.
A thin line is what keeps the lower middle-classes and the poor from revolting. From committing crimes against their oppressors. From hitting out at their own employers. What happens when one of them crosses that line, quite by chance at that? No cinematic underworld shoot-outs, but mere `affordable' extortion.
What happens when for all his honesty and perseverance, a watchman is denied money that he needs to send for his ailing child's treatment? Watch him knock at the doors of every home in his housing society, and get the usual excuses - lame and lacking creativity. And when he gets money for an unintended kidnap, the dramatic shift in his gait. After all, even an accidental abduction can fetch you money that you can send home to your wife in the village!
If it does take care of your needs for a while. So be it. The film ends with neither the watchman who entices winning the game, nor the lovelorn waiter. The driver wins it, despite being caught in the act - of claiming ransom for abducting his employer's foul-mouthed wife. Why? Because the man is `dead' as per government records. If a death certificate can ruin a living citizen's life, it can help him too!
So you can laugh it aloud when in the last scene, Vijay Raaz in all awe, asks his driver friend how much he can buy a death certificate for. His own death certificate that is.
Barah Aana. 12 annas. Seventy-five paise. That word is so lost in oblivion...gone from public usage! It took a film-maker to revive the words so prevalent just two decades back.
Barah Aana, the movie is a metaphor of those lost words, of lost people whose labour was given its due, of lost ethics too, in a sense.
In the din of the many releases hitting cinemas - Aloo Chaat, Firaaq, Confessions of a Shopaholic, Dhoondte Reh Jaaoge, Gulaal ...an already running Little Zizou, one jostling over the other at the theatres, even pushing others out, this film simply got lost. No surprise that our Sunday morning dash to the multiplex showed us through a hall filled to less than half its seating capacity. After all, how would 12 annas find takers when despite recession, big money is what rules the mass cinema-goer mindscape!
When the intermission lights were switched on, my husband complained, ``Those d... critics. Just because it is a low-budget flick, they give it two stars. All hung up on money...'' There was some truth to what he said. I checked the papers for the reviews too. Poor ratings. But a hunch told me I would not be disappointed. So three of us who made it to the multiplex dunked Aloo Chaat for this one.
It was touted a comedy, while it is not. It does have humour. It lacked cameo-studded aura of Luck By Chance. But it does to death those million global yells that our film-makers cannot entertain using some realism. A tight narrative. Amazing detail. A simple story. And that understated humour that hits you hard. And makes you gulp you have been guilty of insulting those below you in status or class.
Anger and revolt, vulnerability to crime, an urgency to grab it and make it big - they wait to explode someday among the humiliated masses. Barah Aana is an indication of just that.
The film is worth watching, for the sheer acting brilliance in acting, by not just Naseeruddin Shah, but Vijay Raaz, Arjun Mathur, and every other member of the ensemble cast.
Matching Naseeruddin Shah is no easy a task. But in some scenes, you gape as Vijay Raaz in suffering watchman role moves you with ease.
The film deals with that sense of humiliation and injustice eating away those at the receiving end of the money game - those living in slums, those managing to sleep in dimly lit cement boxes in the name of rooms. On the other hand, is the all pervasive corruption aided by the well-to-do, which can produce the strangest of paradoxes.
Barah Aana's focus is on three characters - a watchman, a chaffeur, and a cafe waiter, all wrestling the humiliation of class troubles. Ever watched a watchman caught in the ego-tussle and double-games of members in a housing society? Swallow a lump in your throat for that all-familiar scene, that ends up subtly victimising the securityman who should be an ideal spectator.
An ambitious waiter who desperately to woo a foreigner girl, but cannot speak English. Sit easy on the multiplex cushion till the waiter complains to his driver friend, that multiplexes charge 10 times more for basic food. Or watch that expression change when a boisterous memsaab stabs her chaffeur with her razor sharp insults. The will-never-speak driver who speaks volumes with his silence and expressions. Naseeruddin Shah can take over an entire scene with his mere expressions. By the time he actually speaks in this movie, you've given up on him only to sit up when he does.
A thin line is what keeps the lower middle-classes and the poor from revolting. From committing crimes against their oppressors. From hitting out at their own employers. What happens when one of them crosses that line, quite by chance at that? No cinematic underworld shoot-outs, but mere `affordable' extortion.
What happens when for all his honesty and perseverance, a watchman is denied money that he needs to send for his ailing child's treatment? Watch him knock at the doors of every home in his housing society, and get the usual excuses - lame and lacking creativity. And when he gets money for an unintended kidnap, the dramatic shift in his gait. After all, even an accidental abduction can fetch you money that you can send home to your wife in the village!
If it does take care of your needs for a while. So be it. The film ends with neither the watchman who entices winning the game, nor the lovelorn waiter. The driver wins it, despite being caught in the act - of claiming ransom for abducting his employer's foul-mouthed wife. Why? Because the man is `dead' as per government records. If a death certificate can ruin a living citizen's life, it can help him too!
So you can laugh it aloud when in the last scene, Vijay Raaz in all awe, asks his driver friend how much he can buy a death certificate for. His own death certificate that is.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Among the ironies
Googling about Shirdi's inter-faith bit made me chance upon the following piece from a 2006 blog. A pity I did not read it before I made the Shirdi trip. It does reflect what made me uncomfortable about the increasing Hindu dominance of the shrine meant for inter-faith worship.
Here goes the piece from Sulekha blogs, by Journoshiv:
Locals say, the number of Muslims showing up at Sai Baba's shrine is declining anyway. Alongside the Hinduisation of the Sai Baba cult is the growth of Islamic fundamentalism. Influenced by the Wahabbis of Saudi Arabia, the fundamentalists ridicule Muslims who follow the Sufi tradition as grave worshippers. With large-scale inflow of funds from the Middle East, backward caste Muslims too are finding regular mosques to go to instead of finding solace at the mazaars of pirs unlike in the old days.
One cannot but help notice the influence of Bollywood here as well. Images of Sai Baba touched up with Eastman Colour sell the most at wayside stalls. “Few people buy photographs of the real Sai Baba clad in tattered robes leaning against the walls of his mud hut,” admits the owner of a local photo studio. “People have forgotten that Sai Baba lived a simple life,” says Shivaji Bhaskarrao Shinde, an employee of the Shirdi Trust. His family heirlooms include coins, notes and photographs of his great grandmother Laxmibai with the Sufi saint.
Old-timers say Sai Baba used to hold langars, or community kitchens, where Hindus and Muslims were served food out of the same pot. “Baba himself used to serve non-vegetarian food to his devotees,” says Shinde. Now, the Maharashtra government has banned the sale of meat near the shrine, to the consternation of local Muslims and dalits. Even the Moharrum procession at Shirdi has been abandoned, in sharp contrast to the opulent Ram Navami celebrations, even though Sai Baba himself insisted on observing the rituals of both communities.
The Maharashtra government’s move to placate the rich mercantile Hindu castes has paid off, with the Shirdi Trust earning Rs 90 crore last year.
With money flowing in the politicians who control the Shirdi shrine come up with more grandiose ideas by the day. A proposal to replace the giant silver idol of Baba with a 250 kg gold murthi had to be shelved at the last minute because of an uproar by Shiv Sena supremo Bal Thackeray. The trust proposed to meet the bill of Rs 20 crores from its own coffers.
As murmurs of discontent grow in Shirdi, the trust has come up with a brainwave. “We have enough land in this town to recreate a model of old Shirdi to educate and entertain pilgrims,” says Bhausaheb Watchure, the bureaucrat who manages the Shirdi Trust.
Here goes the piece from Sulekha blogs, by Journoshiv:
A stone’s throw from the bustling shrine of Sai Baba in Shirdi, 200 km from Mumbai, priceless chronicles detailing the life and sayings of the Sufi saint are crumbling to bits.
More than 200 pages of hand-written manuscripts written by Haji Abdul Baba between 1895 and 1918 -- the year Sai Baba passed away -- are lying at his former cottage which has been turned into a shrine by his descendants.
“Abdul Baba used to write down the utterances of Sai Baba that dealt with the unity of the Hindu and Muslim faiths,” says his grandson Hameed who manages the shrine. The text of Abdul Baba’s manuscripts draws parallels between the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad and the Hindu legends associated with Vishnu, Shiva and Brahma.
Sai Baba’s discourses, as chronicled by Abdul Baba, also dealt with the prevalent Sufi traditions of the time, in parts of Deccan Maharashtra and northern India. According to Hameed, his ancestor’s notes are a blend of Deccani Urdu and the now-extinct Modi script that was widely used in Maharashtra until the mid-1950s.
With little assistance from the Shirdi Sansthan, Maharashtra’s richest shrine, which has annual revenues touching Rs 100 crore, Hameed has been forced to dump the precious notes into a cupboard along with the tattered effects of Abdul Baba. “It would help if the authorities helped preserve these documents,” he says, showing the papers encased in ordinary polythene bags.
Only a small fraction of Sai Baba’s devotees who throng the magnificent shrine next door make their way to the still-humble cottage of Abdul Baba. But Hameed dutifully allows everyone to handle the parchment and other effects of his ancestor, regardless of the resulting wear-and-tear.
The managers of the Shirdi Sansthan are disinterested in Sai Baba’s chronicles. “It is the private property of his descendants,” says Bhausaheb Watchure, government-appointed administrator of the shrine. His tone betrays his embarassment at being reminded of Baba's Muslim origins.
Hameed himself is reluctant to hand over the manuscripts to the trust, saying he is worried about their safety. “It would help if private bodies came forward to preserve these papers,” he says.
Delhi-based researcher Yoginder Sikand, who has studied the evolving worship of Sai Baba, warns that Maharashtra’s politicians who control the shrine are uncomfortable with the saint’s Muslim origins, as depicted in the chronicles. “The Sai Baba shrine is completely Brahminised and all traces of Islam are being erased from here,” Sikand says.
For instance, says Sikand, the trust has abandoned the practice, started by Sai Baba, of celebrating Moharrum along with Ram Navami. Now only Ram Navami is celebrated in Shirdi though the trust’s museum clearly documents the two festivals being celebrated together here.
As he emerges from the little mosque, 85-year-old Ghulam Habib Abdul Rehman Pathan seems an unlikely candidate to sing paeans to Bollywood. A devout Muslim sporting a luxurious beard, Pathan remembers a time when Sai Baba’s shrine at Shirdi was humbler and devotees came in tongas and bullock carts to pray.
“After Manoj Kumar made his movie on Sai Baba, life changed entirely here,” says Pathan. The cult film of the 1970s has paid rich dividends to Shirdi’s residents. With pilgrims flocking from across the country, the simple mud huts of Sai Baba’s early devotees have transformed into brick-and-mortar structures housing small businesses.
Even the dilapidated mosque that Sai Baba made his home has given way to an elaborately carved stone structure. “The mosque gradually crumbled and the place got several facelifts in subsequent decades,” recollects the wizened Pathan who, as a boy, earned Rs 1.50 a month as a watchman.
Working on a project for the National Foundation for India, I am eager to find traces of the legendary amity that saw groups of Hindus and Muslims worshipping side-by-side here. Instead, I find middle-class India swaying to tunes from tinsel town. “You will identify the Muslims in the queue as they usually donate a chador at the mazaar,” says Razzaq Shaikh, a local leader.
Locals say, the number of Muslims showing up at Sai Baba's shrine is declining anyway. Alongside the Hinduisation of the Sai Baba cult is the growth of Islamic fundamentalism. Influenced by the Wahabbis of Saudi Arabia, the fundamentalists ridicule Muslims who follow the Sufi tradition as grave worshippers. With large-scale inflow of funds from the Middle East, backward caste Muslims too are finding regular mosques to go to instead of finding solace at the mazaars of pirs unlike in the old days.
One cannot but help notice the influence of Bollywood here as well. Images of Sai Baba touched up with Eastman Colour sell the most at wayside stalls. “Few people buy photographs of the real Sai Baba clad in tattered robes leaning against the walls of his mud hut,” admits the owner of a local photo studio. “People have forgotten that Sai Baba lived a simple life,” says Shivaji Bhaskarrao Shinde, an employee of the Shirdi Trust. His family heirlooms include coins, notes and photographs of his great grandmother Laxmibai with the Sufi saint.
Old-timers say Sai Baba used to hold langars, or community kitchens, where Hindus and Muslims were served food out of the same pot. “Baba himself used to serve non-vegetarian food to his devotees,” says Shinde. Now, the Maharashtra government has banned the sale of meat near the shrine, to the consternation of local Muslims and dalits. Even the Moharrum procession at Shirdi has been abandoned, in sharp contrast to the opulent Ram Navami celebrations, even though Sai Baba himself insisted on observing the rituals of both communities.
The Maharashtra government’s move to placate the rich mercantile Hindu castes has paid off, with the Shirdi Trust earning Rs 90 crore last year.
With money flowing in the politicians who control the Shirdi shrine come up with more grandiose ideas by the day. A proposal to replace the giant silver idol of Baba with a 250 kg gold murthi had to be shelved at the last minute because of an uproar by Shiv Sena supremo Bal Thackeray. The trust proposed to meet the bill of Rs 20 crores from its own coffers.
As murmurs of discontent grow in Shirdi, the trust has come up with a brainwave. “We have enough land in this town to recreate a model of old Shirdi to educate and entertain pilgrims,” says Bhausaheb Watchure, the bureaucrat who manages the Shirdi Trust.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Ironies of a fakir's home: Soul Search continues
It's been about a week since that whirlwind visit to Shirdi, and I cannot help but to continue wondering about those ironies thrown at my face there.
For a start, in his lifetime, Sai Baba of Shirdi would have used a countable number of clothes. He lived the life of a fakir, frugal, spiritual, and preached love.
His marble statue in the temple (originally meant to be a Krishna temple) and his grave, or samadhi sport colourful, expensive shawls and sometimes even designer cloth, that are changed a few times a day, rather, every few hours. So many, that they are sold away at a special prasad counter inside the temple.
Baba, the saint, taught that God is Supreme. That God is one. Today, he is relegated to another one of the many Gods among Hindus. His path of life was more Sufi, rooted in simplicity. The Baba image merchandising in and around the temple, and elsewhere, running into hundreds of crores defies what he stood for.
The shrine at Shirdi would, under normal circumstances, be considered a dargah. Part of worship of Baba's samadhi (tomb) is such too -- flowers sold outside the temple are mostly a bunch of roses touched up with some jasmine. Enthusing public, those in its managing trust, and others, have for most part, made worship very Hindu.
Am glad though, that the tombs of his peers, those at his service and friends, have been allowed to retain their original character.
Baba's simple living in a mosque on the throes of crumbling was meant to be an open space for all - it is popularly known today, as Dwarakamai. My parents, during our first visit to Shirdi, even spent a night there as they believed that sleeping overnight at the mosque would mean good health and bring blessings. The story dates back to a leper believed to have been cured at the place.
Today, the mosque, attached to the temple is barricaded strongly. You are allowed to meditate for a few minutes, only to be promptly chased out by the tensed ushers.
The 20th century saint spoke about universal love in his own unique sort of way. Shirdi, as a village, continued to be a hospitable one for several decades after his demise. Today, the hired security guards at the shrine are anything but polite.
It's popularly believed that a large chunk of the pilgrim crowd at Shirdi is from Andhra Pradesh. You find the Telugu speaking lot everywhere. When it came to performing Satyanarayan Vrat, that is managed by the temple, the concerned priest rattled out his instructions in chaste Hindi. The audience, was largely Telugu speaking.
When some of them requested him to repeat in another language (ideally Telugu) or go slow in instructing, he just shrugged and said `I don't know Telugu. If you cannot follow my instructions, just fold your hands (namaskar)'. Outside the temple though, you have Andhra restaurants and hotels advertised all over the place, sometimes even boards written in Telugu.
As a shared faith place thronged by Hindus and Muslims, the shrine is a target of hate. By terrorists. When those managing it in some form or the other, be it the ushers, the security men at its gates, or even employees at ticket counters act like they are the bosses at the temple, you have reason to think that the hate agenda is actually working.
My parents and I had to hitch an auto-rickshaw ride for a walking distance from a restaurant near the temple to our hotel on another street, as we were without footwear on roads that nearly burned our feet. Such a ride in Mumbai would cost us Rs 9. The guy charged us Rs 20. When I asked him why people were indulging in such day light looting, he brazenly said, ``Shirdi is all about `lootmaar'. Everyone out here loots.'' He said this, with a voice so unabashed that I was too shocked to react.
So much for the place of a saint who preached selflessness! I cannot fathom how worse it could get over my future visits to the place.
Strange are the ways of humans - examples of insolence. They can convert faith into a billion dollar industry. The mere smell of devotion gets their brains overworking with ideas to cash in on it.
For a start, in his lifetime, Sai Baba of Shirdi would have used a countable number of clothes. He lived the life of a fakir, frugal, spiritual, and preached love.
His marble statue in the temple (originally meant to be a Krishna temple) and his grave, or samadhi sport colourful, expensive shawls and sometimes even designer cloth, that are changed a few times a day, rather, every few hours. So many, that they are sold away at a special prasad counter inside the temple.
Baba, the saint, taught that God is Supreme. That God is one. Today, he is relegated to another one of the many Gods among Hindus. His path of life was more Sufi, rooted in simplicity. The Baba image merchandising in and around the temple, and elsewhere, running into hundreds of crores defies what he stood for.
The shrine at Shirdi would, under normal circumstances, be considered a dargah. Part of worship of Baba's samadhi (tomb) is such too -- flowers sold outside the temple are mostly a bunch of roses touched up with some jasmine. Enthusing public, those in its managing trust, and others, have for most part, made worship very Hindu.
Am glad though, that the tombs of his peers, those at his service and friends, have been allowed to retain their original character.
Baba's simple living in a mosque on the throes of crumbling was meant to be an open space for all - it is popularly known today, as Dwarakamai. My parents, during our first visit to Shirdi, even spent a night there as they believed that sleeping overnight at the mosque would mean good health and bring blessings. The story dates back to a leper believed to have been cured at the place.
Today, the mosque, attached to the temple is barricaded strongly. You are allowed to meditate for a few minutes, only to be promptly chased out by the tensed ushers.
The 20th century saint spoke about universal love in his own unique sort of way. Shirdi, as a village, continued to be a hospitable one for several decades after his demise. Today, the hired security guards at the shrine are anything but polite.
It's popularly believed that a large chunk of the pilgrim crowd at Shirdi is from Andhra Pradesh. You find the Telugu speaking lot everywhere. When it came to performing Satyanarayan Vrat, that is managed by the temple, the concerned priest rattled out his instructions in chaste Hindi. The audience, was largely Telugu speaking.
When some of them requested him to repeat in another language (ideally Telugu) or go slow in instructing, he just shrugged and said `I don't know Telugu. If you cannot follow my instructions, just fold your hands (namaskar)'. Outside the temple though, you have Andhra restaurants and hotels advertised all over the place, sometimes even boards written in Telugu.
As a shared faith place thronged by Hindus and Muslims, the shrine is a target of hate. By terrorists. When those managing it in some form or the other, be it the ushers, the security men at its gates, or even employees at ticket counters act like they are the bosses at the temple, you have reason to think that the hate agenda is actually working.
My parents and I had to hitch an auto-rickshaw ride for a walking distance from a restaurant near the temple to our hotel on another street, as we were without footwear on roads that nearly burned our feet. Such a ride in Mumbai would cost us Rs 9. The guy charged us Rs 20. When I asked him why people were indulging in such day light looting, he brazenly said, ``Shirdi is all about `lootmaar'. Everyone out here loots.'' He said this, with a voice so unabashed that I was too shocked to react.
So much for the place of a saint who preached selflessness! I cannot fathom how worse it could get over my future visits to the place.
Strange are the ways of humans - examples of insolence. They can convert faith into a billion dollar industry. The mere smell of devotion gets their brains overworking with ideas to cash in on it.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Soul-searching in Sai Land
Trips to Shirdi, home to the tomb of the 20th century saint Sai Baba, are always full of revelations. A quick trip with my parents and sister this week was no different.
Ironies up close and personal. Peoples and their faiths. Devotion. Life. Survival. A single trip can flash you photographic soul-search experiences in no time.
Over the next few posts, will pen in a few of these flashes in an attempt to understand their profundity.
Here is one for a start:
`Four of us heads in the aimless crowd of souls in a hurry to finish darshan, are clinging on the the steel barricade towards our right in the main hall of the shrine that houses the picture-perfect statute of Shirdi Sai Baba and his samadhi. We are careful to stick to the barricade as it is one of the queues that takes you close to the samadhi (I prefer to call it a grave, a tomb).
A little kid from somewhere behind is busy yelling out slogans - Sai Baba ki....while the crowd responds `Jai' with great enthusiasm. About 20 people in the same crowd are busy singing Sai songs. The crowd is less pushy than on the previous day. A relief.
Ahead of the barricade separating us, is the space where some of those from the darshan queue are allowed to sit for a minute. And is also the bay where the handicapped, geriatrics and their guardians are allowed entry.
An old man, with not so neat clothes is not willing to leave the area. When the security guards shove him, he flashes a piece quarter the size of a full-scape paper and shows it in the direction of Baba's samadhi. Is he demented? The thought comes naturally not just to me but other people around too. I ignore him. Only for a minute.
He picked up that paper, and with his thumb nail, began etching little curves on to the paper while holding it with his left hand. In about three minutes, he was done with making a lovely nail impression picture of Baba. Although not a perfect replica of the statue across the hall, this was worth a watch.
Facing us and the people around us, he held out the picture said, `Do you want it?' My sister held her hand out. `Take it', he said, as he gave the picture to her. `Is it nice?' he asked with a twinkle in his eye. ``It's very good,'' I said, and my family joined, gleaming. `You say it is good. At the village they kick me and throw me out for this...!'' sighed the man. He was so happy he took out another piece of paper from his pocket, and began another nail impression of Baba. This time, the paper was smaller.
My father, was only too happy to show the picture and its artist to people around. Watching him, another elderly gentleman near us was so impressed that he picked the second picture. And a few seconds later, held out a Rs 10 note to the old man. The old man was amused....`Me? I am just....I am just.....'' His gestures showed he was in no need of the money though. Some were shock amused. How can one treat him like a beggar? He was not doing it for money!
My father tried to diffuse any issue by asking the old man, to accept the money as blessings of Baba. He did, much to the consternation of my mother who said loudly, `How can he pay him? How can he fix a price for devotion?'
Some more praises followed. The old man got on to his next piece of paper. By now, another young girl `reserved' her picture.
A minute later, the queue moved. And we moved ahead.
By the time we returned to the spot on our way out, he was gone. Obviously the security guards who had let him stay for a while, decided to send him out.
Devotion. Myriad are the ways of its expression. Sometimes in the disconnected slogan yelling of a child who is doing it just for fun...sometimes at the tip of the nail of a villager's nimble hands. A villager who took the trouble of travelling all the way to the shrine, faced his own difficulties and yet, brought out his own little curios with devotion.
We did not ask the artist his name. His piece of art is a gift of God for my family now. Somewhere in their hearts, my folks think he was another manifestation of the marble saint seated across the hall.
Ironies up close and personal. Peoples and their faiths. Devotion. Life. Survival. A single trip can flash you photographic soul-search experiences in no time.
Over the next few posts, will pen in a few of these flashes in an attempt to understand their profundity.
Here is one for a start:
`Four of us heads in the aimless crowd of souls in a hurry to finish darshan, are clinging on the the steel barricade towards our right in the main hall of the shrine that houses the picture-perfect statute of Shirdi Sai Baba and his samadhi. We are careful to stick to the barricade as it is one of the queues that takes you close to the samadhi (I prefer to call it a grave, a tomb).
A little kid from somewhere behind is busy yelling out slogans - Sai Baba ki....while the crowd responds `Jai' with great enthusiasm. About 20 people in the same crowd are busy singing Sai songs. The crowd is less pushy than on the previous day. A relief.
Ahead of the barricade separating us, is the space where some of those from the darshan queue are allowed to sit for a minute. And is also the bay where the handicapped, geriatrics and their guardians are allowed entry.
An old man, with not so neat clothes is not willing to leave the area. When the security guards shove him, he flashes a piece quarter the size of a full-scape paper and shows it in the direction of Baba's samadhi. Is he demented? The thought comes naturally not just to me but other people around too. I ignore him. Only for a minute.
He picked up that paper, and with his thumb nail, began etching little curves on to the paper while holding it with his left hand. In about three minutes, he was done with making a lovely nail impression picture of Baba. Although not a perfect replica of the statue across the hall, this was worth a watch.
Facing us and the people around us, he held out the picture said, `Do you want it?' My sister held her hand out. `Take it', he said, as he gave the picture to her. `Is it nice?' he asked with a twinkle in his eye. ``It's very good,'' I said, and my family joined, gleaming. `You say it is good. At the village they kick me and throw me out for this...!'' sighed the man. He was so happy he took out another piece of paper from his pocket, and began another nail impression of Baba. This time, the paper was smaller.
My father, was only too happy to show the picture and its artist to people around. Watching him, another elderly gentleman near us was so impressed that he picked the second picture. And a few seconds later, held out a Rs 10 note to the old man. The old man was amused....`Me? I am just....I am just.....'' His gestures showed he was in no need of the money though. Some were shock amused. How can one treat him like a beggar? He was not doing it for money!
My father tried to diffuse any issue by asking the old man, to accept the money as blessings of Baba. He did, much to the consternation of my mother who said loudly, `How can he pay him? How can he fix a price for devotion?'
Some more praises followed. The old man got on to his next piece of paper. By now, another young girl `reserved' her picture.
A minute later, the queue moved. And we moved ahead.
By the time we returned to the spot on our way out, he was gone. Obviously the security guards who had let him stay for a while, decided to send him out.
Devotion. Myriad are the ways of its expression. Sometimes in the disconnected slogan yelling of a child who is doing it just for fun...sometimes at the tip of the nail of a villager's nimble hands. A villager who took the trouble of travelling all the way to the shrine, faced his own difficulties and yet, brought out his own little curios with devotion.
We did not ask the artist his name. His piece of art is a gift of God for my family now. Somewhere in their hearts, my folks think he was another manifestation of the marble saint seated across the hall.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Whatever happened to eco-friendly colours?
Unlike the Ganesha festival, newspapers do not devote the space needed or the energy needed to propagate using eco-friendly colours for Holi.
It was not until the evening of Holi that I discovered the use of Tesu flowers, shown by a news channel. Here is the link from Clean India, Times of India and Hindu.About.com
Tesu flowers are said to have been used by Lord Krishna, but shop-keepers sellings it dried complained that the demand for these flowers had come down.
Ironic. Because the demand should have actually gone up.
It was not until the evening of Holi that I discovered the use of Tesu flowers, shown by a news channel. Here is the link from Clean India, Times of India and Hindu.About.com
Tesu flowers are said to have been used by Lord Krishna, but shop-keepers sellings it dried complained that the demand for these flowers had come down.
Ironic. Because the demand should have actually gone up.
Holi, the leveller
Pristine off-white salwar kameez with a zari border that reminds one of Kerala's traditional sarees. Past its usable stage, but alright for homewear. Somehow I wanted to make it a souvenir of the day. After all, I was to play Holi after 17 whole years! And did not want to miss it where it is played the most.
My husband and I made it just in time to the Holi party in our colony quadrangle, when I was given a cold welcome -- yeah cold. The coloured water someone poured over me was really cold. Through the next couple of hours, I got drenched in two more buckets. And lots of pitchkari and water packet attacks.
Most of the people there were neighbours. Many who I did not recognise, a chunk who I did not know beyond their familiar faces. But the colour flow on each others' cheeks, hair, and dresses, was generous. Copper Sulphate blue, Green, Yellow, Red, Magenta, Purple, some colours with fragrance. And so was the dancing under make-shift showers drenching people. Upbeat Holi songs made even women hiding themselves away in their homes on other days, break into impromptu dances. For once, it did not matter which region of the country you came from, or if you even understood those Marathi song lyrics. The beats and the lilting music mattered.
My husband, who was reluctant to play Holi last year, made it a point to enjoy himself thoroughly this year. And so did neighbours, some who would never have played with colours all their lives.
If one did not know a neighbour, it wad time for introduction. If it was someone you had a fight with, it was time to forget and forgive. What makes one greet a complete stranger and even hug them during a festival like this? Is it merely the need to feel a sense of community? Or shedding of that bloated ego?
Shedding inhibitions does not come easy in these times of thirst for hate. Nor should one rely on religion to bring about that feeling of oneness. But Thank God for festivals such as this, when even religion takes a backseat in revelry.
During my college days, fellow students from the Christian Seminary Dharmaram run by Keralite priests was a favourite haunt during Onam. Why? Because the seminarians - brothers as we addressed our classmates studying for priesthood, would exhibit amazing flower rangolis during the three day gala. I have seen some of the best ever patterns made by these men in their religious service. In reality, Onam is a very Hindu festival with a legend rooted in Vishnu's dashavatara. But if adopted, it can enrich one's culture so beautifully!
I found such a fervour in Holi on Wednesday. By late evening, when my husband and I went back to the colour-floored quadrangle full of plastic litter, there were more faces we could smile at. Faces we knew no names of. Faces that smiled at us, without hesitation.
Thank God for Holi! Thank God, for those two ours of happiness. My stained salwar kameez bears testimony to it, and will, for years to come.
My husband and I made it just in time to the Holi party in our colony quadrangle, when I was given a cold welcome -- yeah cold. The coloured water someone poured over me was really cold. Through the next couple of hours, I got drenched in two more buckets. And lots of pitchkari and water packet attacks.
Most of the people there were neighbours. Many who I did not recognise, a chunk who I did not know beyond their familiar faces. But the colour flow on each others' cheeks, hair, and dresses, was generous. Copper Sulphate blue, Green, Yellow, Red, Magenta, Purple, some colours with fragrance. And so was the dancing under make-shift showers drenching people. Upbeat Holi songs made even women hiding themselves away in their homes on other days, break into impromptu dances. For once, it did not matter which region of the country you came from, or if you even understood those Marathi song lyrics. The beats and the lilting music mattered.
My husband, who was reluctant to play Holi last year, made it a point to enjoy himself thoroughly this year. And so did neighbours, some who would never have played with colours all their lives.
If one did not know a neighbour, it wad time for introduction. If it was someone you had a fight with, it was time to forget and forgive. What makes one greet a complete stranger and even hug them during a festival like this? Is it merely the need to feel a sense of community? Or shedding of that bloated ego?
Shedding inhibitions does not come easy in these times of thirst for hate. Nor should one rely on religion to bring about that feeling of oneness. But Thank God for festivals such as this, when even religion takes a backseat in revelry.
During my college days, fellow students from the Christian Seminary Dharmaram run by Keralite priests was a favourite haunt during Onam. Why? Because the seminarians - brothers as we addressed our classmates studying for priesthood, would exhibit amazing flower rangolis during the three day gala. I have seen some of the best ever patterns made by these men in their religious service. In reality, Onam is a very Hindu festival with a legend rooted in Vishnu's dashavatara. But if adopted, it can enrich one's culture so beautifully!
I found such a fervour in Holi on Wednesday. By late evening, when my husband and I went back to the colour-floored quadrangle full of plastic litter, there were more faces we could smile at. Faces we knew no names of. Faces that smiled at us, without hesitation.
Thank God for Holi! Thank God, for those two ours of happiness. My stained salwar kameez bears testimony to it, and will, for years to come.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
What does Women's day mean to me?
I had quite forgotten it was Women's day today, until I checked the newspapers. And yeah, felt good to get an sms wishing me a `smiling Women's day' too.
Much as I would love to bask in the oh-so-generous 24-hour attention set aside especially for the womankind of humankind, I do not think women need the pittance of such hype surrounding a day.
Starting morning, it's been a pleasant surprise that the channels are abuzz with movies connected to women. Erin Brockovich, that I do not tire or watching, Dor, a story I love, The Nanny Diaries, Mona Lisa Smile and even The Princess' Diaries. A Perfect Sunday. A pleasant surprise too, that my husband who otherwise switches to AXN, sports, Discovery, or any channel playing action movies, was very interested in watching these movies.
The sad truth, is that I would prefer movies made from a woman's point of view, generally. Women protagonists. Women leaders who actually have a say in their own political sphere, women in the lead.
And I do not need to feel apologetic about it. In a few weeks from now, we vote our Parliament to power again. A Parliament full of people's representatives, whose men are so scared of a Women's Reservation Bill (asking for just 33.3 per cent reservation), they create a ruckus every time it comes up for discussion.
I write this even as the Filmfare show gets telecast on TV. Our women actors have a shelf life of say a few years, while Chiranjeevi, Rajanikant, Shah Rukh, Salman, Aamir and even Akshay, have been around for two decades now. Why? Because the male chauvinist mindset ruling the film industry thinks a woman is not so worth it post marriage.
True Aishwarya Rai has managed to survive beyond her marriage, but it is still to early to judge.
A quick look at the sitcom soap industry shows that even our post-Ekta Kapoor serials wreak regression in the garb of focus on women. It's a relief we at least have serials that now talk of the problems of a working woman and do not project her a vamp. Or for that matter, the promo of a new serial at least shows an expectant father celebrating his baby girl's birth. It is quite a journey from years ago, Kyunki..'s makers openly violated the PNDT Act by showing their characters opting for pre-natal sex-selection.
Ask me if the spurt of the more realistic women's soaps make me happy, and I would say no. We do not celebrate womanhood, nor do we teach our men to do it. And as long as that does not happen, a woman is always an object.
Back in my own life, I cringe when I recall those judgements made about my work, based on my plain-Jane dress sense. I feel sick when my neighbours project me as the one who `controls' her husband, simply because he cares for me when I am sick, he cooks and cleans when I am down and out, and we share a lot of household chores, mainly the kitchen.
They forget that when I am screaming and yelping in pain, I am doing it alone, in the confines of my home. No neighbours would want to spend those extra hours sitting by me, for they are busy cleaning and cooking to please their husbands who would return home at night. Probably envy too, for they've been forced into matrimony even before they finished studies. And their husbands control their lives now. My heart goes out to them.
I pushed my marriage for many many years. And got emotionally abused for it, indirectly, directly, by family, by extended family (mainly elders). Relatives who spoke to me on the phone sometimes had the audacity to tell me I was a disobedient girl who did not care for the welfare of her parents, simply because I was deciding my life.
For the last many months, my health has been such a roller-coaster ride that I have had the reason to hate the insensitivity of the medical system - where an internal sonography can be a nightmare, and yet you cannot complain. Because after all, `it is for your benefit'. Women's health is a complicated issue, but I think there is a billion-dollar sanitary napkins industry riding high on it. I have always wondered and still wonder - why are sanitary pads, that are so integral to a woman's health, month after month and consumed in millions, taxed in the first place? They are products that are necessities, yet the miserly attitude when it comes to lower pricing.
Should governments that go bonkers over condom distribution and HIV/AIDS campaign not have a heart for those millions of women who cannot afford them, and provide them with these vital needs too?
And have we not come far ahead of those days when one could not as much as talk about those `days of the month'? Yet, sanitary pads are too taboo to be `discussed'.
Our programmed thinking that often unconsciously and blindly follows the male whim and diktat, makes sure that we ignore not just issues such as these, but we do not as much as celebrate our women standing up for their own rights, or for others.
On Saturday, Mar 7, I got news that Irom Sharmila, who was on a fast to protest army atrocities in Manipur for several years, was released. It should have ideally made for a scroll on NDTV, or at least a news item on some channel. Not one of the news channels I watched carried the story. I was thrilled to hear about her release, and wondered why it happened just before the General Elections too. In volatile North-east, there is every possibility of her re-arrest. But who would want the frail woman with an iron grit to suffer being force-fed under arrest? And that too, someone doing it out of a sense of immense duty? Her's is a Satyagraha that the country chooses to ignore, time and again. Yet, it is people like her we must be celebrating.
Also openly wondering why Sourabhee, the Agartala girl who won the Indian Idol, was not celebrated as grandly as last year's winner, or for that matter as much as Abhijeet Sawant.
Now does that not provide some Woman's Day food for thought?
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Cleaning is theraupetic
I must admit I do not enjoy cleaning household. Not as much as I enjoy pounding the keyboard and delving into the world of words. The only reason I have just set out to do some `spring cleaning' as some would love to call it, is that my parents and sister will arrive for a break soon.
Plus, I am fitter than two weeks back, able to do household chores, and even play badminton. Throwing away those old bills, memos, rotting veggies in the fridge, even some spices past their expiry date....they're all proving theraupetic. Guess I will indulge more in it for a while. For as long as I am fit!
The more I clean, the more there is to clean. Am reminded of my mentor's words: the more you write, the more there is to write.
Monday, 2 March 2009
And so begins the circus
About an hour back, the Chief Election Commissioner announced the five phased polling the commission plans to hold from April 16 to May 13.
Political circus between politicians, bureaucrats and just about anyone around has begun in full swing.
Elections in our country are not so much about responsibility as they are about power. About that firing ambition to become a prime minister, chief minister, or a minister. If not a minister, an MLA, or a corporator for that matter. Any position of governance is more about the ability to call the shots. For those plum projects. For contracts. Which translate to....you know what. Cash.
As the political one-upmanship takes centrestage, Advani, who we know began with those hate-ideology based Rath Yatras, makes the politically correct, Vote noises -- condemns the Mangalore incident.
Somnath Chatterjee signs off rather disappointed, saying he did his best.
Gowda announces a third front. In Bengal, Mamta Banerjee plays her poll cards.
Bangarappa, has switched sides again, after those umpteen jumps from party to party in search of greener pastures. This time he is with the Congress.
Mayawati, Jayalalithaa, Left, Karunanidhi...everyone's in calculation mode. Numbers. Seats.
At the end of the mela that will cost this country several hundreds of crores, there is no guarantee of a stable government. Our politicians chant coalition, coalition. They stitch up some alliances, tear off some, but have a common goal. Power.
Am already picturing a rag-tag coalition by mid-year.
Nirmala Venkatesh, till yesterday a Congress loyalist, cries foul at being shown the door by the Centre, for messing up with Mangalore's pub attack incident. She has the audacity to say she did not interview the victims as they ...huh...`ran away'. To where? From where? When she makes these hollow statements, she is dressed in impeccable blue with a matching chain to go with it.
At her own press conference, a Mutalik man starts shouting for anyone who dare say anything against Mutalik. Of course he is overpowered by other journalists.
In Bangalore, women get beaten up out of the blue, in a series of incidents. The government does nothing. Fellow journalists say it could be the work of an Opposition politician. But all the same, they get beaten up.
Elsewhere, felling of trees continues. Prices continue to rise. Mumbai's lakhs hang from trains as usual. Bangalore's women seethe at the city growing unsafe for women. The woes of the common folk do not end. Villages reel under the blazing sun.
Governance: heard that somewhere? Or did you dream of it in your dreams?
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