choices!

It was another lazy summer afternoon with me having nothing under the sun to do. I was ruminating on the time and space and how man is slave to both. Circumstances he calls it! It was then that I seemed to overhear the following conversation between the blue wall and the red ceiling fan. (Actually neither is the wall blue nor the ceiling fan red. But then, that’s a different story altogether…)

 

 

Red: How is the heat, blue?

 

Blue: Oh don’t ask! You can’t even imagine how hot it’s outside!

 

Red: Well that’s life you know. Sometimes it’s hot, sometimes it’s not. But who are we to question that? Ours is but to do and die…

 

Blue: No choice?

 

Red: None. Not now at least. Your horse was bolted long back, when you decided to adorn the wall and not be the ocean. You could have very well been the ocean you know. You are blue…

 

Blue: And couldn’t you have been the sun?

 

Red: I could have. But I enjoy being the ceiling fan nonetheless. I am happy. Pretty content. With my little world. With those little people down there. I am happy with my own little world. In a way, I am indeed the sun…

 

Blue: But I’d rather be the ocean…

 

Red: but look at your shade. You need to have a tinge of green, a hint of orange… then can you be the ocean. On the other hand, as a wall you are just perfect. Soothing, unobtrusive, obsequious pale blue. Just perfect.

 

Blue: I know I am a very good wall. And as the ocean, maybe I’ll fare very badly. I want to be the ocean because I like being the ocean, not because I’ll be good as the ocean…

 

 

 

 

After that I fell asleep…

I am not alone!

Where have all the flowers gone?

 

There was a time, when you found storytellers at every bend. Over a cup of leebu-cha, in a crowded mini bus, in a perennially late local train, outside schools, offices, parks, plazas, markets, you had them everywhere. Admittedly they didn’t have a face. Ubiquitous, at times with a jhola over their shoulders, at others with an attaché on their lap, in a kurta or a bush shirt, they started off with their tales.

 

They spoke of Marxism and Sourav Ganguly; the rising price of Hilsa and how Siraj was betrayed by Mir-jafar; traffic signals and Jyoti Basu; Hemonto Mukherjee and George Bush; terrorism and Darjeeling tea; with such equivocal ease. Morning walks, office hours, the evening ride home, the after dinner addas, it pervaded all. It was as much about trips you never make, revolutions you never live to see, wars and concerts that have no impact on your lives, as rising prices of oil and inflation, circulation of newspapers and centuries of Sachin. About travelogues and book reviews, about music and manifestoes. A storyteller always had the last word.

 

Today, you don’t see them anywhere. On crowded buses, at parar more on Sunday evenings, coffee shops, book stalls: no, they are not there.

 

Or maybe, just maybe, you stopped listening long back.

Calcutta Learns to Rock

 

A summer day, the mercury touching 40s. 5 pm, the sun seeks refuge behind the sky scraped landscape. But, hardly do you expect, the heat is just about to be turned on!

 

Swabhumi, in the heart of the city, witness high school studs with guitars strapped over their shoulders praying to the Gods of Rock that they have a good day out. What follows is an electrifying display of rock, by school goes of Calcutta. Bon Jovi, GnR, Maiden, Metallica: it was covers galore. At time even self composed numbers that sets the crowds rocking. Sometimes cacophonous, sometimes sublime, at times, just pure rock. Not just because of the guitar notes and drumbeats, but also the typical swagger and swing. The contest threw up a lot of choices for the judges. They decided in favour of the best: Wrong Number, the band from Salt Lake School. Fear of the Dark with gut wrenching guitar solos, and heart thumping drums, and backing vocals from the cheerleaders, stole the show indeed.

 

No, its not the first time fests are playing western rock. No, definitely not. But the response from the crowd and the appreciation it received from the middle-aged mashimas, jethus and kakus in the audience, says something. That Calcutta has finally woken up to a new beat. Rock on!

the late cut

It was sudden, not a gradual realisation that there are a lot of things i cant do anymore.

I cant run after the ice-cream-wallah as he peddles his ice candies down the serpentine lanes of my neighbourhood. I can no longer steal mangoes from Mohitbabu’s orchard, not even when he is not watching affectionately from his window. I can’t, howsoever hard I try, fly a kite at two o clock on a June afternoon. I cant generally pick up a fight with a friend, and forget about the ordeal one hour later.

I cant imagine my bedpost to be a palm tree, and climb it up. I cant be scared of ragamuffins, thinking they’ll pack me up in their ragged sack. I am no longer the best batsmen of underarm spin. I cant dream of becoming Amitabh Bachchan, or Batman, or even Sachin Tendulkar.

Thank God, at least I can paint the sky red, when no one is watching.

 

Bob Dylan Jayanti

When you listen to the obviously anachronistic guitar and harmonica duo accoutering a husky arcane voice, you know that you are not listening closely. And when you do, the mundane world around you fades out, as you are ushered into the world of Robert Allen Zimmerman.

From the days of yore, when Mr. Tambourine Man strummed his tunes to a still pre-pubescent yours truly, and when I strumbled along the narrow corridors of adolescence Like a Rolling Stone, or when I felt, “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright” or when I realized I Shall Be Released, I could feel the presence of the Prophet. Unlike other pop icons that blossomed like mushrooms after the shower of sorrow and bullets of the early 20^th century, this man survived. He found his way as inspiration to millions, even into texts books. Times They Are A-Changing? He lives on…

Today is the day; the master was born. How I wish I were in Shillong today!

A hot noon in Calcutta

 

Summer heat at Calcutta. I wonder what kind of an animal it would make. A mangy dog, yelling at the top its lungs throughout the day. If it was a color, it would be muddy green. A ragged old hag, cribbing about how unfair life is, from dawn till dusk. A shabby inn with foul pig stench and beer spilt on the floor. As masochistic as unrequited love. As irksome as chicken pox. As bickering as the tail enders on a placid pitch. Like a blanket of needles. Eclipsing the bubble of hypocrisy, even, it beams on around you.

But the shower after! Sheer poetry!

Demise of Sunday

Well I don’t know since when but I am missing Sundays. Yes, I know today is Sunday and the sun is shining bright and gay. It’s just not there: the charm Sundays used to have in the old times…

Sundays meant waking up late, Sunday supplements with The Telegraph, of a certain purposeless willful laziness. Not exactly laziness, maybe a meditation on the fact that a week has ended, and another is yet to begin. Ignoring the fact that Sunday was also a day of the week.

I remember we were exempted from studying on Sundays (provided we had finished our homework the evening before). Sundays were exclusively dedicated to crayon and HB pencils, clandestine meetings in mango orchards, para cricket, Mahabharat and kasha mangsho. Sunday was the time when no one was watching.

Of meandering tram lanes, of boulevards of late morning walker, of newness of life, of eternal spring, of crosswords and amateur artists. Sundays.

Today, Sunday is just another day.

F.A. Cup Final: Chelsea 1 – Man U 0

The good thing about watching English football is that you don’t have the prerogative of supporting anyone. You can sit back on your couch, flip through magazines, sip coffee and keep the game in askance. A relief! especially after the Cricket Catastrophe that made you feel the team you support has to lose.

A typical game of Saturday evening English football. A nervous first half, a circumspect second meant the game had to go on for extra time. Three inspired passes saved it from being dragged on to the penalties.

A game that will be much talked about as the comeback of Chelsea. A lot of their injured players coming back to prove a point. John Terry, Peter Cech coming back to strengthen the defence, a defence that again proved its mettle. The injury worries were Ferguson’s : Saha’s presence was sorely missed. Rooney lacked a target man, Giggs from the left and Ronaldo from the right had no one to finish their crosses. A game of midfield maestros: Scholes and Mikel.

The goal game three from the end of extra time. A 1-2 of intuitive passing between Lampard and Drogba, left poor Ferdinand ball watching. A season of untiring marshalling of the back, undermined by sheer genius.

A season when Chesea lost her sheen, the Red Devil smoked fire, Aresenal just emptied out, and a season of sheer Liverpool magic. What next?

Cidade de Deus

Director: Fernando Meirelles, Kátia Lund(!)

Writers: Paulo Lins (novel), Bráulio Mantovani(screenplay)

Made in Portuguese with English subtitles the movie captures the zeitgeist and anarchy of the slums of Rio de Jeneiro in the 60’s like no other movie has done ever . Technically flawless, the effect of a disturbing and unforgiving life at the City of Gods is accentuated by the chilling narrative that Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues) delivers with aplomb. The shots have a strange glow to them, which makes violence seem porridge. Also the gut-wrenching laughter of Li’l Ze(Leandro Firmino da Hora).

Like all good flicks, Cidade de Deus, begin with a gripping sequence of barely adults chasing a chicken with pistols though the by lanes of the slum. The narrative portrays the lives of two children in the violence-infested region of Brazil. One grows up to be a warlord, the other a photographer. However, unlike most gangster films, this one shows the human side of the characters, their insecurities, their perspective, their hubris, and their fall. And by the end of the film you are bound to fall in love with almost all the characters. At least their bravery and the will to survive against all odds. Like a mosaic of moss.

Though the violence and poverty hits you like a speeding train on a winter night, there is no denying there exists a greater evil. Amidst all the blood and gore, truly a tribute to the power of life.