They sit in silence, staring at an emptying wedding hall. There is a sense of satisfaction in the air, the feeling of completeness. It is like the guests have all collectively, contentedly burped. Her new husband sends some relatives off, somewhere near the entrance to the hall, bidding them farewell, cracking a silly joke or two, promising to visit them soon in their distant towns.
They look at around the hall, still in silence, and they turn to each other. She smiles, he smiles. They turn away and continue staring at the hall.
She wonders what they are to each other. They are friends, she concludes. They have always been. They met, three years ago, as friends. They worked in offices that weren't far from each other, they knew common people.
They met for lunch often. Sometimes, they planned it. Other times, they just landed up at the same little dosa place at the same time, often knowing the other was likely to be there. He always ate a rava masala dosa and followed it up with a mini coffee. She studied the menu and ordered carefully -- sometimes elaborate and sometimes minimal. They ate mostly in silence. Every now and then, one of them would say a sentence or two, and the other would nod.
One day, he declared he had a crush on a friend of hers. She nodded. The next day, her friend was with her at lunch. Conversation flowed that afternoon between him and her friend. They met a few times after that, but that died out. "It didn't work out with your friend," he told her, "She wasn't really interested." She only nodded.
One evening, they went for a long, silent walk down the beach. For some reason, they held hands. They didn't say much about it that evening, and they never discussed its significance.
They met more often after that. They went on long drives to nowhere in particular, they went for movies whose names they didn't register, and plays they didn't know anything about. They ate, they drank.
They spoke more than they did earlier, trading sentences that had little to do with one another, interspersed with lengthy nothings. They had little to talk to each other about. He read, she didn't. She watched sport, he didn't. Their musical tastes were vastly different. But their silences spoke the same language, their silences had common interests, their silences understood each other like their conversations never did.
Love came and went in waves. One day, it lashed against them, throwing them off balance, goading them to hold each other for support. Then, it receded, silently, before gearing up to hit them again. They stood in the sea, soaking in the waves silently.
Only twice did they make attempts to express their fondness for each other in words. The first time, she said, "I want to be kissed." He said, "Let's not complicate us." The second time, after a spontaneous bout of incredible kissing, he asked, "Will you marry me?" She dismissed him with, "You're drunk," before proceeding to bite his ear.
They are friends, she concludes amidst the winding-up of the wedding. His silence indicates that he's come to the same conclusion. Their silences have decided - they can't always be with each other. The waves come, but they always go back.
But they know that they will always share these special silences. Nothing, not her wedding, not his, can take that away.
Are you religious? A little. That was a trick question. You can't be both. Eh?
There's now a judgment of the Nagpur Bench of the Income-tax Appellate Tribunal which says that a trust set up for the worship of Ganesha, Hanuman and Shiva is not "religious" in nature. What?!
Yeah. Because Hinduism is not a religion. Then what is it?
A way of life, sucker. Just like Test Cricket is?
Yes. Did you know that "Lord shiva, Hanumanji, Goddess Durga does not represent (sic) any particular religion, they are merely regarded to be the super power of the universe (sic)"? That's just rubbish. Superman's ability to fly is a superpower.
Sire, I'm talking of a "super power", not a "superpower". Ah. Just like a "superstructure" is different from a "super structure"?
Subtle distinction, no? Get a load of this. A sentence in the judgment starts with the words, "The alleged Hindu religion..." Well done. That's like the Times of India talking about crimes.
Hinduism is not even a 'community', they say. "The word ‘community’ means a society of people living in the same place, under the same laws and regulations and who have common rights and privileges. This may apply to Christianity or moslem (sic) but not to Hinduism." Does this mean what happened twenty years ago on December 6 wasn't religious or communal?
It wasn't. It was about people who were taking revenge for a religion pwning their "super power" hundreds of years ago. I can understand that, yes. Five hundred years from now, I wouldn't be surprised if Spider-man fans bring down a church which stood on the spot in New York where he was allegedly born.
There's that word again, "allegedly". Important word, innit?
When you are in bed all day, wrapped in a bedsheet in the sultriness of Madras, knocked out by a fever, wavering ever so subtly between sleep and waking until you don't know which is which, your brain starts functioning in a zone of its own. Time becomes fuzzy, even irrelevant. Fungible. Ah, yes. That's the word, fungible! I like that word, it's so cuddly, so flexible.
Your brain thinks thoughts, your brain reaches startling conclusions, and when you try retracing the steps you went through to reach there, you find the breadcrumbs eaten away by the demon-like birds in your head.
The little iPod embedded in my brain, constantly buzzing, always on shuffle, sings now in Anu Malik's voice, "She gives me fever, fever, fever." His distinctive inflection, his fake not-Bombay-not-America accent, his slight tunelessness at the end of each line, all ring clearly in my head. This hasn't happened in a while. I open my eyes, and find my neck drenched in fevered sweat, the fan groaning while it whirs unenthusiastically, and vague sounds of a Tamil serial from the adjacent room. I reach out to the bottle of water on the bedside table and drink a rather large gulp. When that water break morphs back into my febrile sleep, I hear that voice again. Anu Malik. That paragon of frivolousness. That antonym of mellifluousness. "She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh."
My closed palms feel warm, my feet feel cold. I shiver a little.
The song makes it way to the core of my existence, it consumes my soul, it kindles the flame within, and it unearths a curious memory that lies buried deep, deep within.
I am now in the summer of 2000. My friend and I have been packed off to Trichy to spend some time with his aunt. The mornings and evenings, we spend cycling in and around the little town. We unexpectedly run into some girls in a park. We make nervous conversation with them. The voices in this conversation seem to come from a well -- there is a slight reverberation about them. Like dream sequences in the movies. The girls ask us if we want to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger's End of Days in a theatre nearby. I hold one of the girls' hands throughout the movie and kiss it just before the climax. She blushes.
The kiss wakes me up. I am back in the present, and I realise that my brain just added its own cinematic masala to a rather monotonous holiday. I smile. I doze off again.
Now we are in my friend's aunt's house in Trichy. It is a dreary, meandering, dull, drooping, dreadful, afternoon. We are channel-flipping between vague Bollywood music channels. And we discover this song. The anthem of my fever. "She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh." A pre-Big Brother, pre-UP-Bihar-lootne, pre-yoga-in-extreme-tights Shilpa Shetty, looking extremely desirable, canoodling a drugged-out Sanjay Dutt on an uncomfortably shaped sofa in a dingy set. And in the background, off-key women chorus singers going "Whose that girl with the lovely, lovely smile...", soon to be joined by Anu Malik trying to sound lovelorn and horny at once.
I am not in that drawing room anymore. I am now in Kalpana Theatre, Udupi, and the moth eaten seats bring a flood of memories. Of the the jail-like ticket queue, of Rs. 18 balcony seats, of drinking local cool drink Ba-Jal during the interval, of vague art deco construction, of actually kissing a girl in the the darkened halls while watching Mission Impossible 2 in Hindi.
"She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh," Anu Malik continues singing, now in surround sound. Shilpa curves and cavorts around Sanjay Dutt and the sofa. I am not sure which of the two is luckier. My friend's hands are not where they should be. Our verdict, "Shilpa Shetty has come out good, man!" She scorches our senses and blanks out the rest of the movie.
(I am now reminded of Sanjay Gupta's previous outing, Khauff, which I watch in the same theatre with the same friend. Until the movie starts, I think I have come for an English movie called Cough.)
As Jung hurtles towards its laborious climax, I hear a threatening baritone from my left. I turn around to see a dark, bulky, french-bearded figure bearing down on me, asking, "You must be a fan. You seem to have seen all my movies."
It dawns on me. The new entrant is Sanjay Gupta himself. I reply, in a voice that isn't my own, "Not all. I missed Aatish: Feel the Fire. Although I must admit, of all your movies, that one has the most thrilling title."
He smiles, "You lucky bastard. Imagine how many times I must have seen it during editing."
"That explains the mindnumbing Hameshaa. I knew it couldn't have come from a straight-thinking mind," I console him. "Your expertise always lay in remaking Hollywood movies, featuring silly, overloud comedy, steamy song sequences, desperate posturing, a bored Sanjay Dutt and faux grittiness."
"Thank you for reducing my life's work to a stereotype," he says.
"Oh, come on. I'm telling you that you're an auteur," I offer, "A French word, monsieur. That must make you feel posh."
He collapses into the seat next to me, and says, "You know. It's funny you use that word -- auteur. It's become famous in India these days." There is a gleam in his eyes, as he turns around to the projection room and shouts, "Projectionist! Start from the beginning!"
I look at Sanjay in horror, "Dude, I cannot go through this movie again."
"I merely want to refresh your memory, pal," Sanjay says. The 'pal' proves he watches too much cheap Hollywood for his own good.
The titles are now on the screen. Familiar names whizz past me. Jackie Shroff, Sanjay Dutt, Raveena Tandon, Anu Malik... And at one point, he stands up and screams again, "Projectionist, pause!"
I stare at the screen in shock at the name on it. Anurag Kashyap. Yes, that very same Anurag Kashyap -- the Hindi New Wave hero, the man they call the saviour of Indian cinema, the toast of the Cannes Directors' Fortnight -- is involved in writing an embarrassing rip-off of a middling Hollywood film called Desperate Measures.
Sanjay roars with laughter, "But Anurag is an honourable man!"
I am dismayed. I ask into the void of Kalpana Theatre, "Et tu, Anurag?"
A pair of dark-rimmed spectacles appears on the screen. Soon these are filled by large, keen, black eyes. A round, stocky face forms itself around the spectacles, and an uneven beard grows. In a barely masked North Indian accent, the face speaks, "I can explain myself!"
"Admit it, Anurag!" Sanjay hollers, "You did this once more. This movie called Paisa Vasool."
I ask, utterly disappointed, "Anurag, you wrote that cinematic excreta also?"
"No, no. Wait," Anurag tries.
But Sanjay interjects again, "Anurag is an honourable man! Hahahaha. You see, young fellow, where Gangs of Wasseypur comes from? It's not him going nudge-nudge-wink-wink at masala. He's just making what he knows how to make, and people are attributing nudges and winks. Auteur, saala madarchod!"
"Order, order," I shout, my legal instincts coming to the fore, "We must allow the accused to present his case."
"Milaard," Anurag starts, "Around 1999, there was this series on TV called Darr starring Kay Kay Menon and Irrfan Khan. Neither actor was well known then -- their career defining roles still more than half a decade away."
I remember it being a fairly gripping series about a dope-head serial killer (Irrfan) called, if my memory serves me right, "Desi Jallad" engaged in a battle of wits with a policeman (Kay Kay). I wonder where the accused is going with this.
"It was directed by my brother, Abhinav Kashyap, and the two of us co-wrote it. At some point during the series, my name stopped appearing in the credits, and the series turned a little less edgy and a little more melodramatic." He pauses, catches his breath, and asks, "You want to know the truth?"
"Yes," I say.
"You can't handle the truth," he says, his voice acquiring a stentorian quality.
"Dude, too many movie references. Stick to your story."
"Sorry, milaard," he says. "The truth is, I never wrote Darr. My brother wrote it, he directed it."
Sanjay laughs. I make notes in my notebook, and say, "Yes, Mr. Accused. Go on."
"You see, Satya was out by this time, and he only wanted me to lend my name to it. You know how far a name goes in show business. And I did this only for my brother. My own brother. My own blood. Same mother. Same father also. Mere bhai ke liye main itna bhi nahin kar sakta kya? We both came from Uttar Pradesh searching for jobs. We slept on benches, footpaths, beaches. We often ate Tiger biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner because you got nothing more wholesome for Rs. 3. Sometimes, we didn't even have enough money for that... Is what I did wrong? My hunger did this, milaard. My desperation did this."
Sanjay wipes a tear off his cheek.
I think for a while and pronounce judgment, "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.' "
Anurag says, "Saale, milaard ke bacche, you think only you've read The Great Gatsby? Even Bachchan Amitabh has read it now."
I smile sheepishly. "Wait. You haven't explained Paisa Vasool. Your co-writer (and director) on Paisa Vasool was a man called Srinivas Bhashyam. He can't be your brother. Even if he his, he's definitely not same mother, same father."
"You must understand. Bhashyam's greatest achievements at that point were that he was Assistant Director on the hilarious Tamil classic Magalir Mattum and Second Unit Director of Mani Ratnam's blockbuster Bombay. He was making a Bollywood debut with Paisa Vasool. I was helping him out... After all, even an artist needs to eat some light Indian breads with lentil soup twice a day, no?"
"Srinivas Bhashyam sounds like he would prefer rice and mulligatawny soup."
I hear a distant voice. It is my grandmother's. Anurag, Sanjay, my friend, the theatre, all dissolve into my bedroom, now bathed in a dim yellow light from a distant bulb. My grandmother says, "Wake up, kanna. Eat some rasam saadam. It will do you good."
I say, "One minute, Paati. Coming."
I start my laptop, open Youtube, find the song, and listen to it.
For some years now, I've been reading a blog by a woman from Japan. I don't know her name, I don't know what she looks like. I know she writes. I know she's been working on a Japanese novel. I know that she finds it weird that her novel is in Japanese, but her blog is in English. She thinks she has an identity-crisis, but, as she asks her readers in one post, 'Don't we all?'
I don't know if she does anything else for a living. If her blog is to be believed, she does have a lot of wandering time. In both senses -- she has the time to wander, and time does wander around her. This suggests she doesn't hold a regular job - at least not the variety that requires you to swipe your smart-card in at 9 am each morning and swipe it when you leave at 6 pm in the evening.
I don't know how old she is. She talks of college in the past tense; she must be twenty at least. She once talked of going to the countryside for an older cousin's wedding. This suggests she isn't 30 yet. Her tone, her life, her world, all suggest she's in her mid-20s. I don't know if she has a boyfriend. She talks of men here and there, she talks of even sleeping with them. But she doesn't reveal more. She does ruminate on relationships, usually in the past tense, and her posts reveal she didn't like at least one. Something tells me she's single now, although if you ask me for conclusive proof, I can't give it to you.
Her writing is beautiful. More beautiful than you or I could ever dream of writing. It's taut, it's precise, it's clear. It's vivid, it's vivacious, it's whacky.
Her writing is delightful. And sad. Sometimes both at the same time. Sometimes she says nothing sad, she just chronicles what she had for breakfast, but you can sense a sadness in her tone. Sometimes, she says a lot, her posts run to pages and pages, but she says very little. I wonder, when I read those posts, if she's blocking something out of her mind with a shield of words.
I think she has no other reader. No one leaves any comment on any post. But nor do I. I just read and leave quietly.
I read each post of hers many times over. Often, she says just what I want to say. Sometimes, I have no idea what she's going on about -- either the references are too Japanese, or she deliberately hides behind a veil. Still, I read them. Still, every post lodges itself inside me. Her words come out, in conversation, like they are my own. Her ideas form the core of my own writing.
Once in a while, I tell people that the idea I just discussed with them was something I read in an odd Japanese woman's blog. They give me a strange look when I tell them this. Some people tell me I'm a stalker. That I'm unnaturally interested in another person's life. That this is a dangerous obsession. I laugh at them and tell them that I'm not really that obsessed.
But I know, somewhere, somehow, that I am. I know that I can recite some of those posts like they were poems in my fourth standard textbook. Love is too far-fetched a word, and infatuation is too complicated a word to describe what I feel towards her. A fondness. That word rings true, I think. I am fond of her. Very fond of her.
It has been three months since she last posted -- she used to post every other day until then. I waited a full month before leaving this comment: "If I say I miss you, will you come back and write more?" I go to her blog every day, hoping there's something new. There never is. I open the last post and eagerly scroll down to the comments, only to find, "Your comment is awaiting moderation."
You know how in competitions you don't want to go after the best act because you fear you'll get judged harshly? That's exactly what The Dark Knight Rises must feel like, as audiences around the world queue up for it with one question lingering somewhere in the back of their minds, "Will it be as good as The Dark Knight?" If I had to answer in one word, I'd say, "No." Two words, "Nowhere close." Three words, "Oh, fuck off!" But then, coming second to The Dark Knight isn't really that sad, and TDKR does a lot of things right.
It gives the Batman a lot of time to introspect (He's been sitting in the east wing of his mansion for eight years, and still doesn't have answers when the movie begins!), it asks difficult questions of him, it pushes him even further down the rabbit-hole he jumped down in Batman Begins. He ponders, at various times, the purpose and price of his life. His parents are central to all this, as ever, but that explanation for his anger grows old -- perhaps even within him. Alfred wants him to run away; he thinks that's the only way to move on. Wayne's wounded, he's rusty, and Alfred isn't sure how battle-ready he is; but he is, on the surface, raring to go. What drives him? Is this impulse true? He isn't sure. He learns, first, that conquering all fear might not always be the best
thing to do, and later, that he hadn't really conquered it in the first
place. He learns that only fear can make you free, only the fear of falling can push you to make the jump. There is, of course, a lot of back and forth on relationships crucial to him -- with Alfred, with Gordon, with crime, with justice, with Gotham. In other words, it gives the Batman a lot of time to be Bruce Wayne, the eccentric millionaire.
With him on this journey, are a quirky set of characters.
There is a smooth, sizzling, scheming cat-burglar with an eye for his mother's pearls, who, strangely, steals his fingerprints. She is as planned and as deliberate as the Batman's other nemesis, the Joker, was impulsive and reckless. Even without the Batman having a vague mix of a crush and suspicion on her, she has dilemmas of her own -- an identity she's trying to get rid of, and an almost unnatural desire for self-preservation.
Then there's the bizarre man in the mask -- Bane. No surname, no first-name. Just Bane. (Clearly he's no boon) A disciple of Bruce's guru, Ra's Al Ghul, and an outcast from the League of Shadows, just like Bruce, he has the brain, the training and the brawn to pose the most serious threat in eight years to Gotham -- a threat grave enough to force Bruce out of his mansion and into his long abandoned costume. His plans are clear for us to see, but his motivations remain unclear.
There is another orphan, a too-curious-for-his-own-good, smart, tough, honest, rookie cop who has discovered Bruce's mask and is intrigued by it. He wants to understand the Batman's motivations, he almost seems like he wants to wear a mask himself. He perceives more than most others, he acts swiftly, decisively and level-headedly.
There are the people of Gotham, basking in the sunshine of the Dent Act, named in honour of the white knight, Harvey Dent -- it gave teeth to the police, the Commissioner says in a speech -- that cleansed the streets of Gotham of organised crime. The very people who believe the Batman betrayed them and murdered their saviour.
Commissioner Gordon lives that lie, repeating it each day, and hoping he will be able to get the truth off his chest soon. He thinks they should know the truth, but he doubts the people's ability to take the truth with equanimity. The lie is eating him from the inside, slowly.
There is a nuclear fusion reactor in the middle of it all -- belonging to Wayne Enterprises, controlled by the redoubtable Lucius Fox and Miranda Tate, a clean energy activist -- that Bane converts into a tick-tocking nuclear time-bomb. The scale of the plot, as you can see, is fairly large.
The gadgets are all there -- the new and improved Batpod with a sweet new wheel move, a flying machine simply called The Bat, and multiple Tumblers rumbling along the streets of Gotham. The action sequences are intense and inventive, the CGI simply breathtaking, and the cinematography broodingly beautiful.
But something doesn't fit. Somehow, the movie doesn't come together as an overwhelming meal that The Dark Knight was. The narration in the earlier movie was more sprawling, more messy. There were many sidetracks, many staircases that led nowhere. But that seemed to work in its favour. The tauter, more focussed approach in TDKR seems almost limiting. You're not plunged into a vast drama that no one seems to have total control over, and that, funnily, takes away from the movie.
For a movie where characters think so much, they seem to think too loudly, they seem to speak their thoughts too often. The movie doesn't ponder enough. In the previous two movies, Christopher Nolan found a way to not let the pace drag while still feeding us enough to think about. Here, he does neither.
Most disappointingly, TDKR's philosophy is re-hashed and superficial. Ra's Al Ghul and the Joker, even the Scarecrow (who makes a guest appearance here) and Dent, had their own set of ideologies -- political, social and economic -- and ethics. And this made them incredibly colourful. One of them was flawed, one greedy, one plainly unhinged and one wronged. They were coloured by what they saw, they reacted to what they experienced. Even the Joker, who unleashed mayhem for the fun of it, did it because he believed it was necessary for there to be someone to do it. "This city needs a better class of criminals," he said. They were all uniformly fascinating exactly because they took strong stands on the world around them.
Sadly, none of the villains on display in TDKR had any of this spunk. Seline Kyle was never really a villain, Bane's motivations were unconvincing. The third villain (shan't let the cat out of the bag!) was pushed by a need for... wait for it... revenge! No, I'm not suggesting that revenge sagas are necessarily simplistic. I'm saying that a revenge saga needs the avenger to lose something dear, and for the audience to feel that pain and that loss. Here, the whole thing is reduced to a plot twist -- now that's flimsy, that's insubstantial, that's fruitless.
And that's why TDKR isunderwhelming -- because it builds a structure that is gigantically grand, achingly beautiful and painstakingly constructed, but builds it around a hollow, shallow core.
The last time I met Satyajit Sarna (unimaginatively nicknamed 'Surd'), in a few hours, and for a few hours, I forgot who, where or what I was. When I met him before that, after being in the legendary Queens Bar in T.Nagar and the highly underrated Ranjith rooftop in Nungambakkam, for some reason, I woke up in a room at the Taj Coromandel. The next day, at the Madras High Court, various people wanted their photo taken with what they thought was an alien apparition -- a six-plus-feet tall Sardar in an advocate's gown!
Here, I talk to him about his first novel, published this June by Harper Collins, The Angel's Share.
***
The author poses with mint vodka that tasted like mouthwash.
When I heard that you were writing a novel, I wasn't surprised. Somehow you seemed like the sort of guy who would want to tell a story. But I must admit that given the range of literature you read, and the sort of things you tend to talk about (in our bizarre interactions over the years), I was a little surprised when I heard you were writing a campus novel. This genre, in the context of Indian writing in English in the last decade, brings its own limitations, expectations and biases, doesn't it? What pushed you to write about Law School?
Well, to the extent I was thinking about it, I was following advice. They say you should sort-of bleed the autobiographical urge out of yourself, write it, get your own voice out of your head and onto paper and then either publish it, or print it out on a nice big sheaf of paper and lock it up in a drawer. The danger, if you don’t do that, is that the stories you need to tell start showing up in the stories you want to tell. So you get science fiction with a little campus novel in it, and your detectives have coming-of-age issues. The way I see it, if as a writer you feel a need to write a coming-of-age book, you might as well write it so your space cadets and detectives don’t end up with student angst.
So when I sat down and started typing, I decided to go with the flow and tell the stories that I did know, and they came together and grew with time to become The Angel’s Share.
What's wrong with detectives who have coming-of-age issues or a sci-fi set on a campus of some sort? Wouldn't that sort of thing set the novel apart amongst that genre? Are literary genres like ragas that have strict goalposts within which an artist’s creativity is channelled?
Ha ha, of course! That would be wonderful, and there is great work along those lines which exists. Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card is one of my favorite books that way – a sort of schoolboy story told against a background of interstellar war. What I meant was an unintentional urge to write exactly what you saw into a narrative where it would sit uneasily…
The IITs had Five Point Someone, and the IIMs got the "MBA" series (Mediocre, but Arrogant; Married, but Available and so on). (Have you read these novels?) Law schools don't have a definitive campus novel yet, although there have been attempts to write one. You think The Angel's Share fills that market void?
I read Five Point Someone in third year, and I honestly enjoyed it. It was a light read which appealed to me because I was in college and it was a college book – there was an immediate empathy. It also perversely appealed to me because I liked reading Big Books, and it was the exact opposite of a Big Book and so it felt like cheating. I read it in the back row of class, returned it to the owner and thought that it may be the last I heard of it. Boy, was I wrong!
Campus novels have fallen a long way in the perception of the reading public, which may be a fair assessment of the quality of work we’re seeing, given how many of them are mass-market clones of Five Point Someone.
Coming-of-age, the Bildungsroman, is a very evocative genre– a lot of great writing has come out of it. And as my friend Aditya Sudarshan says, This Side of Paradise is a campus novel. But the tag does make me uncomfortable still.
The Angel’s Share has a couple of settings; I’m not sure I’d have written it or tried to have it published if I had written only a campus novel. In my head it’s a story about youth and growing up. But I’d like to think that if you wanted to tell a story about law schools or law firms in India, you’d have to think about The Angel’s Share and ask yourself if someone got there first.
It's funny you should mention This Side of Paradise, because when I read it, I actually thought, "Hey, Satyajit could write a novel like this!" And in continuing with the Fitzgerald theme, there was also Zorawar who is, in some ways, Nick Carraway to Sasha's Gatsby.
I think that what you may be doing is upgrading me vastly by association. I thank you kindly, but fear that you are far too generous. The Great Gatsby remains my favourite book of all time, and I reread it every year or so. Every time, I see more than I saw the last time, which is incredible given that it’s an even shorter book than The Angel’s Share.
I see where you’re going when you contrast Nick-Gatsby with Zorawar-Sasha, but there is a little difference in the dynamic, even while Zoju plays the straight man to the inspirational personality of Sasha. If Zoju wasn’t so callow and insecure, Sasha wouldn’t shine so bright, and if Nick wasn’t a non-judgmental Midwesterner, than the East Coast opulence of Gatsby wouldn’t seem so mythical, and Nick’s judgment in the end wouldn’t be so damning.
But, in Gatsby, Jay Gatsby is squarely at the centre of the book. The big question is how big Nick is - does he tell the truth fairly? How much does he grow and change independently of Gatsby? Zorawar is a lot more active than Nick and his growth and story is more central by comparison.
If I may refer to another one of my favourite books, I could venture that maybe, in Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, the relationship between Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty is a better example. Dean appears and disappears and changes Sal’s life, but the story is about Sal. Dean is more the idea of Dean, and less the person of Dean. And so Sasha.
However if you had to point to a hero in these three books, I feel that you could without hesitation point to Jay Gatsby, Dean Moriarty and Sasha Kapur.
Your novel is intensely personal. It is about people you've known intimately, and spaces you've inhabited for a considerable period of time. Did the familiarity make writing it easier or tougher?
Some of the characters are based on traits I saw in real people, and on events that I saw or heard about. But when you sit down to write fiction, it’s impossible to tell it like it happened. The rules of fiction are different from the rules of life. Events happen in a very diluted non-causal fashion. People are a lot more alike than they are different. You blur lines, mix and match, exaggerate – do the verbal photoshopping you have to make an interesting picture. What familiarity does help with is description. When I need to describe a setting, I can just tell it like I saw it.
There are things you take for granted when writing about National Law School. For instance, you mention the "Five Buck Shop" and "Amma" without really explaining who or what they are. Would that put off outsiders? Or are these things not really central to the plot anyway?
Hopefully, neither ‘Five Buck Shop’ nor ‘Amma’ would put off readers. I tested some of these terms on ‘outsiders’ before publishing it, and it appears that anybody who went to college had a Five Buck Shop AND an Amma. There’s an institutional logic to these elements, and its bound to be common to most colleges. If, however, you have ever been to Nagarbhavi and stared into the deep and knowing gaze of Amma, then the reading experience may be so much more the deeper for you.
I’m now trying valiantly to recall whether I still owe any money at Five Buck Shop or to Amma. I think I cleared my tabs at Convocation, but the details are hazy…
There was a moment in the novel when I thought I must launch into a diatribe about Sanskritisation and Westernisation. When you mentioned that for our generation of Indians, cricket was no longer the number one sport, I wanted to jump into the pages of the novel and talk about how Westernising city kids have shifted to football, but for the Sanskritising small-towners (like myself), cricket (which used to be the upper class, elite, city-game) was still number one. This is not a question. I feel like faffing, and I faffed. You may comment, however.
I see your point. Of course I meant this in the context of urban India, where the rise of football is self evident and is definitely influenced by televised international sport and focused marketing by the English Premier League and companies like Nike and Adidas. You are right in that this rise of football is not even across India and that for the vast majority of children in India, cricket is their one true love.
That said, the way I hear it from my granddad, the sports he used to play as a child, and even past independence, the sports that really held the Indian imagination were football and hockey. If you look at the past of Indian football, the Durand Cup predates all but two tournaments and clubs like Mohun Bagan and Mohammedan Sporting have very old and storied pedigrees. Maybe the history of subcontinental sport would have been different if FIFA had allowed India to play the 1950 World Cup barefoot…
I’m no expert but the rise of Indian cricket in the sixties probably has a lot to do with decolonization and the scars it left on the Indian psyche – a need to ape our colonial masters, perhaps. It’s not an obvious fit for our conditions – the equipment is expensive, a proper pitch and grounds are very hard to maintain – but cricket-like games happen everywhere.
I could go on, but so could you. That’s how faffing works.
That’s one skill Law School really taught us, didn’t it? I wouldn’t be half the man I am without it.
Some would say that’s an improvement.
In a report somewhere, it was written that your novel exposes "hard-hitting truths" about National Law School. It made me smile slimily. Your reaction to that (not to my slimy smile, but to the phrase)?
I smiled slimily. I did not intend to write a comforting and sweet paean to NLS. I love the institution and had a fantastic time of it myself, and telling the truth should take nothing away from it. NLS is an amazing college with great alumni, a unique culture and the remarkable achievement of having changed the face of legal practice in India by example. But every institution requires honest assessment, and nothing is perfect.
While The Angel’s Share isn’t a report on the functioning of NLS, it does shine a light on the life of the college that outsiders probably don’t see. The biggest problem with NLS in the years we were there is probably that nobody wanted to tell the truth about anything – infrastructure, safety and security, quality of teaching, lack of effort from students, parochialism, discipline, drug abuse – and nobody wanted to hear it. If the institution and its stakeholders (including us) had been more honest and forthcoming, and more willing to listen to each other, I think we’d have learnt more, done better and a lot of people wouldn’t have graduated with such a bitter taste in their mouths. The courage to talk about things is something that I wish we had possessed as an academic community in those years.
I hear that these things have gotten a lot better, and that’s great to hear. I hear exam papers don’t have roll numbers on them, and that there is an actual functioning ‘open-door policy’. I hear that extracurricular activities get more support from administration. Fewer people lose years now and thankfully, the suicide rate is dropping.
You talk of lack of effort from students, drug abuse, discipline – and these were issues that our professors often cribbed about… Remember the time when a professor said he wouldn’t send his daughter to NLS because he saw a guy and a girl make out on the tennis court? Isn’t this (and the consequential lack of student-teacher dialogue) a symptom of a problem that is fairly central to the incident that led to Sasha’s death in The Angel’s Share – of a cultural disconnect between Law School students and the people around them?
Law School was a bubble. Maybe it still is. The world within was culturally, politically, linguistically different from the ‘Portugal’ outside. I would hesitate to draw that link so explicitly because the saddest part about Sasha Kapur’s death is that it dealt to him by unknowns as random act of unthinking violence. When you attribute causality, you reduce the world to a simpler thing than it is.
If you had to dedicate this novel to three storytellers (novelists, film directors, playwrights -- storytellers), who would they be? And why?
The first would be Jack Kerouac, the patron saint of youth in search of itself. The second would be Bob Dylan, who signals to me that at no point in your life need you run out of stories to tell or avatars to slip into. I think they should hurry up and give him the Nobel Prize for Literature already; it’s embarrassing that they haven’t. The third would be Nick Hornby, because more than anything else I have read, High Fidelity and Fever Pitch spoke to me and my passions and whispered that fiction is a mask we wear so we can speak the language of empathy.
What about sympathy and genuiness?
:)
Your father is a novelist, and a fairly well-known one at that (I must admit that when I first saw We Weren't Lovers Like That on the shelf of a bookstore, I thought it would be vaguely erotic).
That’s because you have a filthy mind.
Guilty as charged. Please tell him that I loved The Exile?
Will do.
Did having him around help you write this novel? Say, in understanding what it takes to write one -- schedules, deadlines, self-discipline and things like that? Did you pick up these things osmotically? Or how to approach publishers with a manuscript? How to deal with editors? Anything?
I only wish I had the discipline of my father, who wakes up early and works at a steady pace, and makes a certain amount of progress on his projects every day. The writing process is something that differs vastly for different people and you just have to find the key that works for you.
It was helpful to have a published author tell you to keep at it, keep your expectations in check and not to give up when the rejections come in, or worse, with the interminable waiting for the rejections to come in.
More than any tangible assistance, I would say that it’s a tremendous boost psychologically. Writers are booklovers first, and I grew up in a house of books. My paternal grandparents are both famous writers in Punjabi. To have books and writing in the family means that writing is not alien or terrifying. After this many years of reading, of hearing one side of a conversation, you just want to open your mouth and say something yourself. Writing makes the world of books a dialogue and not just a monologue.
***
The Angel's Share can be bought online -- this link will tell you the options you have in India. And Amazon has it here. But keep those brick-and-mortar bookstoresalive; look there first?
Somewhere in the mid-1990s, brides, grooms, their families, wedding planners, caterers, philosophers and sundry wedding attendees, buoyed by liberalisation-privatisation-globalisation, exposed to alien cultures and rituals, realised that since the wedding reception -- yes, that very reception that looks like a school annual day prize-giving ceremony, with the groom in a suit that will cease to fit him in two months, and the bride in an ultra-bling ghaghra-choli that she will be embarrassed to wear in any other environment -- was not a religious ceremony anyway, it was alright to serve food that wasn't, um, auspicious and upholding traditional Indian values.
So, out went the avials and the morekozhambus, and in came the soups, chats, cheese dosas and syrup-y gulab jamuns. The sit-down leaf-served meal made way for the posh buffet served from behind canopied counters. Why the canopy in indoor venues, you ask? Aesthetics, my friend -- a wedding must either be pleasing to the eye or overwhelming to the senses. A canopy can do either, depending on the mental state of the attendee. The servers, originally in crisp off-white veshtis (they used to be white when they were first worn) changed to random black-and-white plain or checked shirt-trouser-and-aprons and wore tall chef hats. Yes, chef hats. Aesthetics, again.
The banana leaf disappeared, and was replaced by mega-sized melmac or plastic plates that were large enough to hold one chapati or two puris or both, with an overpowering-masala gravy concealing microscopic paneer particles, one bowl of instant-diabetes-inducing sweet rasamalai, one collapsed dosa with accompanying sambar bowl and two chutneys, ladlefuls of "variety rice", pulao, bisi bele bath and curd rice, chips, a pappadum, and a minuscule quantity of red pickle.
Vegetable and fruit carving became the latest rage amongst the mamis as miscellaneous barn animals, cartoon characters, gods and goddesses were all sculpted out of carrots, watermelons, pumpkins and pineapples and placed on a central table in the middle of the hall with spurious sliced vegetables - god knows when they were sliced - posing as salads.
But this model had its disadvantages. Firstly, as the number of guests increased, the cleanliness of recycled plates became questionable. Many guests took to rubbing their plates dry with the provided tissue. Secondly, while the youth with their limitless energy went back for refills and repeated helpings, the middle-aged and the geriatric often under-ate. Thirdly, many guests left the hall without eating -- a serpentine queue (Serpent is too tame a word. Some of the queues are positively anacondaic, threatening to eat up the wedded couple by the time the photographer allows it to slither along) to wish the couple was bad enough, another one for the buffet was too much to handle and guests preferred rushing to the nearest Saravana Bhavan for some tame plate meals.
Then, at a wedding, a few years ago, I noticed a new trend. I trekked up to the dining hall to find, curiously, a sit-down meal. My inner mama was highly pleased and I rubbed my hands in glee, waiting for some hot kozhambu. First, they placed a paper cup next to the leaf and poured some thick red liquid in it -- no payasam, friends, instead we got tomato soup! Soon, a guy followed with two little bowls in his hand -- one had bread crumbs, and the other, I kid you not, corn mixture! To my horror, a rubbery rumali roti was tossed on to my leaf next. This was accompanied by a lot of gravy with four suspended grains of channa. I ate this gingerly, hoping we would be back to regular programming in the next round.
Then came some sticky ajinomoto-overloaded hakka noodles and tomato ketchup (which didn't taste much different from the soup, mind you). I witnessed the cosmic sight of two hundred Tamilian brahmins eating hot noodles off a banana leaf with their fingers. The culinary world-tour didn't end there. Immediately after the noodles came some cheesy baked vegetable, and I swear I tasted some aamchur masala in it. A friend sitting next to me actually ate the au gratin with mango pickle.
Then, we were served sambar rice with chips and curd rice. I breathed calmly for a couple of minutes, before the waiter shocked me again with the dessert menu -- again, on the leaf, to be eaten with bare hands -- of chocolate mousse cake and mango souffle!
That night, I didn't sleep. I really hoped this concept dinner, whatever that concept was, was an aberration. A one-off. A product of an overactive imagination of an under-utilised mind. But I was proved wrong.
In the three years since that meal, I have consumed off the hallowed banana leaf, naans and kulchas with side dishes as outlandish as malai kofta, manchurian, penne arabbiata (the flavour was more Ambattur than Arabia), and localised versions of kachoris, malpuas, vegetable momos, pav bhaji, cutlets, dhoklas, french fries, and even a bar of chocolate.
This encapsulates the spirit of 21st century India -- an India that's global yet local, an India that borrows but makes it's own, an India that's as outward-looking as inward-looking, a democratic masala of a nation that is, in every way, a true original. (Or so I console myself.)
*** This piece should appear sometime now in an in-house publication of some sort. If you are in that house, you can read it again. If you aren't, you can come back here to read it.
... or How I Fashion a Blog-post From Some Disorganised Thoughts on Cinema ***
I watched Agent Vinod last night, and it wasn't an eye-opener. In fact, I struggled to keep my eyes open every now and then. Let's start at the beginning, in Afghanistan, in that Desert of Doom or Death or Some Other Such Dangerous D-Word where a skirmish between 75 terrorists (Were they terrorists? Taliban? ISI? Business-sponsored interests?) and two Indian RAW dudes - one of them being a slightly overweight Ravi Kishen (whom I totally love, by the way) who looks like he hasn't run 500m at a stretch in two decades. The two Indian dudes win, of course, bharat mata ki jai etc., and while they are at it, they rescue a scantily-clad damsel trapped in a sack (bharat mata ki jai!). The action sequences are slick enough, if not particularly spectacular, and Saif and Ravi Kishen exchange endearingly silly banter. I want to see more of that woman (in both senses of the phrase). I am hooked.
But then, over-long opening credits ensue, taking one through not just the key actors and technicians, but also the lawyer and chartered accountants. This got me thinking - when the lawyers decide to do the legal work for the movie, do they say, "Boss, we'll waive some part of the fee if you credit us." I mean, I can't think of why a lawyer must be credited for a movie. He doesn't contribute to it creatively, does he? I mean, are the credits about everyone who did anything for the movie? Are they a vote of thanks? Or should they only credit people who worked on the movie itself? The fellow who brings chai for everyone on the set - should he be credited? What about the caterers? Or the hotels at the various locations where the unit stayed? The travel agents? Kareena's dentist?
You see what happened there? When the credits began, I was thinking of spies in Afghanistan. By the end of it, I am engrossed in the health of Kareena's gums. Detailed opening credits, a hat-tip to an earlier era of filmmaking, no doubt, probably work best when there is no action before them. It's like putting lengthy acknowledgments after a gripping prologue in a novel.
And this was the issue with Agent Vinod. There is some pretty engaging stuff - a smart joke here, a fun sequence there, some boiling tension - only to be killed by inconsistently paced and plotted stuff.
For instance, there was that brilliant scene with the Empress of Blandings-esque pet camel that Prem Chopra mercy kills with a heavy heart and moist eyes. There was a silliness to this scene, yes, but it was pitched and timed perfectly that I couldn't stop laughing. Was I the only one who thought Prem Chopra as David Kazaan was himself a bit Lord of Emsworthy - slightly out of sync with the world around him (he gets conned by Vinod, Iram and one man he believes is his own - the Colonel), slightly old, slightly beyond his prime, slightly clueless.
The camel made another appearance, as the password to a nuclear bomb in the last scene. There, it was just downright silly. And, somehow, not funny. The greatest password to defuse a nuclear bomb in all cinematic history still remains "Dulhan ki bidayi ka waqt badalna hai" from the seminal 16 December. Not only did the bomb in that movie require a password, it required the password to be spoken in Gulshan Grover's voice. The bomb has been smuggled into a college fest (yes, a college fest - who would expect a terrorist attack in an engineering college!) as "musical equipment", and Gulshan Grover immediately does what every terrorist does before launching a nuclear attack. He plays the drums. Fakely. With an expression conveying heightened calm and fulfillment. Like he's just slept with three supermodels at the same time. (If you don't believe me, watch the movie here.)
And how do they get him to say the password? They have a phone conversation with him where they "trick" him into saying the relevant words out of context. So ingenious. So yummy.
You know the other great thing about 16 December? The "agents" are not coolly RAW or Intelligenec Bureau or any such thing. They are from the vastly underrated and underrepresented Revenue Intelligence. (If you're sniggering away, let me remind you that it was the very same Revenue Intelligence that exposed the Nira Radia scam.) But then, I'm not sure the Revenue Intelligence are even one-hundredth as cool as this movie makes them out to be. I don't think they have posh snipers, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, an army of hackers, Milind Soman and an informer as hot as Aditi Govitrikar. For that matter, I don't think RAW has a single fellow like Agent Vinod either. As far as I know, these agencies have your standard-issue, slightly pot-bellied, middle-aged, mustachioed Government employees who do their job and come back home at 5 pm and lounge around their verandah in a torn banian and faded veshti and complain about corruption and rogue politicians. None of the hanging-from-a-cable-car-in-their-childhood nonsense.
I met a detective once, at a wedding, and I was aghast. He wasn't one of those, as Lauren Bacall so eloquently put it in The Big Sleep "greasy little men snooping around hotel corridors". Nor was he fast-talking, super-smooth, gun-toting Sam Spade variety. Not even the highly analytical, verbose Byomkesh Bakshi types. He was a Brahmin mama who lived in Mylapore, and when I spoke to him, was scooping paal payasam off his banana leaf and slurping it off his palm greedily.
But this is a thing about making films about spies or detectives (or even lawyers for that matter). You have two options. You can either stick within existing tropes, and re-imagine or reinvent existing cliches - they are lies anyway, so you make a slightly different lie. Or you can go research the truth, and show them as they are. (No, while making films about lawyers, don't try being realistic. Some incoherent murmuring, an adjournment, and the bench clerk calling out the next case does not make for watchable cinema.) Sriram Raghavan was, clearly, doing the former. But he didn't go the whole hog - he seemed too constrained by prior art. Barring stray sequences, like that unbelievable sequence in that sleazy hotel in East Europe - that heart-stopping four-minute tracking shot gun-battle weaving in and out of corridors and rooms, with a dreamy song playing in the background, the blind pianist, those silent guns and their muted noise - he was stuck, not knowing which way to go.
There is another kind of spy movie. Vinod, a quiet family man, runs a gas agency, called "Vinod Agencies". But that is only a front. When he is not answering innumerable inquiries from various angry customers on when their gas cylinder will arrive, he is a super-agent. But he finishes all his work so subtly and clinically that he's home at 6 pm each evening to play cricket with his children. Something like a Bob Biswas working for the good guys. Now that's a compelling spy movie.
For the last decade, if Sehwag was dismissed within the first five overs (which was often), I would just turn off the TV. His opening partners weren't always the most attractive - Bangar, Chopra, Das, Jaffer, Gambhir - and one-drop was usually the man who went by the moniker "The Wall", which means that, for hours, one had to endure some splendidly dull Test match batting.
I never liked watching Dravid. Somehow, even with that blemish-free technique, that picturesque backlift, those cuts and arcs, those flowing cover drives, that deadly pull (oh, what a sight that was - straight from shoulder to the ground, and across the ropes in a flash!), his style never appealed to me. It was the minimalist freakishness of Sehwag, the wristy sweetness of Azhar, Laxman and Mark Waugh, and the sheer theatre of Brian Lara in full flight that I loved more. I like effortlessness, I like a certain nonchalance, I like a measure of subtlety. I'm a sucker for drama, I have a fondness for exuberance. I like the man who throws an occasional tantrum, I like the combustible character, I like the batsman who, when the mood strikes him, wants to put every ball beyond the ropes. (I still hate Ricky Ponting, but that's a subject matter of another post.)
Dravid could be effortless on occasion - I remember more of that side of him in the one-dayers - but he revelled in the struggle. Someone remarked, I forget who, that he has never seen a top batsman find the fielder more often that Dravid. That struggle for runs was his home turf, that was his comfort food, that kept him going. That's what made him bat like none in his generation on pitches that were either deadly difficult or downright dangerous.
Maybe it took effort for him to be effortless.
He was never nonchalant - always intense, always pushing the bar, admonishing himself, correcting himself, egging himself on - batting seemed to take a lot out of him. That he could keep up this intensity and this pressure on himself and bat in the same vein, come rain or runs or neither, for days together, was the Dravid Paradox. Seems almost apt that a man of his nature had an over-sweating problem.
Dravid's batting was drama, yes, but not in the same sense as one of Azhar's madcap bouts of sizzling artistry or Lara's knife's edge balancing acts. He was a Tarkovsky, while the others were Scorseses - the drama had no punchlines, it boiled over slowly, often going round and round in circles. He was never exuberant, in person, in batting style, in celebration. I can't remember him throwing a tantrum or combusting. It was not that he wasn't inventive or incapable of strokeplay. There was simply a decidedly old-school measuredness about his batting. He was always deliberate. If he was ever spontaneous, he hid it very well.
My crassness, my disdain for gentlemanliness, my Joker-like penchant for the theatric, all meant that Dravid never made me watch him. Still, I was glad he was there. I was sure that if I switched on my
TV (or logged in to cricinfo) an hour later, he would be there,
resisting away, on a reassuring 19 off 45 balls. And, I could sense, that that score would swell, slowly, surely, into another pondering Dravid epic.
I have been battling rats for a few days, and various people have advised me variously.
***
"The good old grandfather rat trap, nothing works like it."
(I live with my grandfather, so I have an actual grandfather rat trap.)
"Mortein Rat Kill."
(Clean and easy. Hmmm.)
"You know that thing.... That sticky sheet with Tom and Jerry cartoons on it?"
(Oh god. No. I don't want to scrape the rat off it afterwards.)
"In a rat trap, you must put a masala vadai."
(Why don't I open a branch of Karpagambal inside the trap for good measure?)
"This
Mortein is very tame, da. There's this thing called Shakti Get Out.
That can even kill you if you're not careful."
(Shakti Get Out. Oh man.
This looks promising. Actually, it looks like a flattened ellurundai.
Noxious only.)
"You think it's in a cupboard, you say? Hmmmm. Open
the cupboard, find it and hit it repeatedly with a heated iron rod."
(That will make sure it's not cold-blooded anymore.)
"When you use
Mortein Rat Kill, make sure you leave one exit open somewhere. Once I
came back from some travels and had to scrape off a dead rat from my
floor with a spoon."
(Dude, really. Did you have to tell me that?!)
"Rats breed very quickly. A kill in time saves fourteen."
(Oh fuck. I've delayed it for three days now!)
"Saar, I will give you the most important advice. You can put tengai and nei in the rat trap, you can put masala vadai... But the one that will work the best is NV. I had a bhai neighbour in my old house. He told me this. Find some NV neighbour, put the rat trap in the room in which the rat is, leave the NV in it, close all doors and give it ten minutes. That's all. You have your rat."
(NV in this house! Siva, siva. My thatha will catch me in a rat trap next.)
"Dip whatever you have left in the trap in coffee decoction. In our households, we get only Brahmin rats."
(Oh, that's why it was collecting all that string. To make itself a poonal.)
"I have the number of this pest control guy. It'll cost you a couple of grand. But he'll do a clean job."
(For a couple of grand, I'll do a clean job.)
"It's all about strategy, brother. Guerrilla warfare. You are the Mughal emperor. The rat is Shivaji. You have to understand how it strikes, where it strikes, when it strikes. Only then can you beat it. Don't underestimate your foe, like the Mughals did."
(My problem is that I overestimate it, really.)
"Can you claim the damage caused by the rat as a deduction under Chapter IV?"
(Hmmmm. Current repairs? Or Section 37? This is an interesting legal issue.)
"In these hard times, it is crucial that you are brave."
(Hum honge kaamyaab, I say to myself, repeatedly. Hum honge kaamyaab.)
"Your fan stopped working? Dude, this might be a flying mutant rat."
(Or a bat.)
"Once you catch the rat in the trap, don't kill it. Release it in the wild."
(Guindy Snake Park?)
"Killing a caught rat... Hmmmm. That's an art form."
(Yeah. We'll demonstrate it at the Modern Art Gallery.)
"Tie it to a rope, and beat it incessantly."
(The blood will spurt all over, its insides will be outside. That grisly mix of flesh, blood and bone. Tempting.)
"The most painless way to kill a rat once you've caught it is to pour boiling water on it. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak and its gone!"
(It's not really gone, is it? There's a boiled rat carcass right there for you to dispose.)
"Make sure you don't have to scrape it off the floor with a spoon."
(Don't remind me of that image repeatedly, da. Please.)
"The rat might go, but it's soul will live on. Community memory, brother. They will remember your house. They will seek revenge. They will fight to reclaim their land."
(Thank you for those words of encouragement.)
*** Really, thank you all for being so supportive. The Family was exterminated yesterday. Two adults and four kids in all. The house feels like my own again.Now to par-tay.
"Park your car in that corner, you won't be able to take it inside the street," the old lady said, hauling a mridangam from the back seat onto her shoulders. I parked the car, picked up the other mridangam, the heavier one, and followed her onto the street. With a sprightly gait that belied her age - she was seventy-two - and unmindful of the weight of the mridangam on her shoulder, she turned into the most invisible of gullies that led to this sprawling network of narrower gullies.
"They really should fix that streetlight," she said, pointing to this dark pole. It was eight-thirty in the evening, and it was too dark to even tell if there was supposed to be a light on that pole. Then she realised, "Oh, there's no power!"
She shined a torch from her phone, and took a right turn into an even narrower gap between two buildings only wide enough to admit a small motorcycle - even a malnourished Royal Enfield wouldn't make the cut. The buildings on that street were locked in a tight embrace, covering every inch of space, almost growing into one another, sharing walls, terraces, balconies and doors. Compound walls were forgotten as a concept, breathing space was given a go by, and the view from any window was only another one. Even in near darkness, I could sense that I had stepped into another age. I had to remind myself that I was still in Central Madras.
She stopped at a narrow iron gate leading to a long, tapering, snaking corridor lit by two tired bulbs and lined by three worn out motorcycles. "We have a small generator - I can use one light and one fan when the power is gone," she said. At the end of the corridor was a dull blue door that had surely seen happier times. When she opened that door, a new world unfolded behind it. I didn't realise that there was so much space behind that iron gate. Her torch light revealed more iron gates next to the one we entered, and I wondered if all of them hid worlds like this.
"I used to live closer to the tank, but the owner wanted the house back for his daughter's family," she said, "But this is not too far from the tank. I walk down, sometimes, but I'm growing a little old, no? I am looking for a house closer to the tank, though." I smiled. Civilisations grew around water bodies, I had read in my history classes, but I couldn't believe that proximity to a tank was still a prime consideration for choosing where one lived.
On the ground floor was another blue door, of the same construction as the one outside, and the indistinct hum of a Tamil serial - that mix of pounding background music and thundering melodrama - floated from behind it. I thought I heard a child scream, but that might have also been the serial.
In the corner of the corridor was a closeted flight of stairs that had been standing for half a century at least. I didn't ask her how old the building was, but the stone stairs had a particular kind of construction that suggested that era. "Thank you so much for coming. You see how difficult it would have been for me with two mridangams up these stairs." The stairs were steep, and the mridangam I was carrying was boring into my shoulder. If the walk were a little longer, I might have needed a little break. "You're carrying the big one," she said, "I can't even lift that anymore. It's that heavy. But that naadam..."
We reached a landing that was almost cruelly taken over by a large and incongruous asbestos door. She unlatched it, and led me into what used to be the landing - it had a tap in one corner, a chair and two pairs of slippers on a tiny wooden shelf - now converted into her sit-out. She kept up the chatter, as she fumbled through her handbag for the keys to the inside door. Her nephew, a well-known mridangam player himself, lived in the next street, she said. The neighbours here kept to themselves, she hardly knew who they were, she complained. "They don't even come and talk, you know," she moaned. She still gave me a fairly detailed biography of the family living in the house watching the Tamil serial.
The inside door said, "Mridangam and vocal classes" in a scribbly Tamil handwriting. No one could see this board when the asbestos door was shut. I wondered if that door was a new addition.
She found the key, finally, and opened the door and led me into a room that was not much wider than the door itself. On one side of the room was a wooden bench with two pillows on it. The other side of the room was a thin shelf that held a bewildering assortment of things. She put her mridangam on the bench, and I followed her. There were two more mridangams in that room, both standing proudly on their thoppis. I walked up to one and struck it. "Tom!" it rang across the house. I was quietly proud that even though I hadn't played one in three years, I could still get a clear tom out of it.
The narrow room ended in another door, beyond which there was a columnar kitchen, about two-thirds the length of the first room. "That's about the entire house," she said, proudly, "The first room is where I sleep and take mridangam classes. This is the kitchen. And there," she said, pointing to another hidden door on the right side of the kitchen, "Is a bathroom." The entire house was built like two coaches of a train with a toilet and bathroom in the vestibule.
A thought struck me - it would be nice to disappear into a house like this, in a gully like this for a few months. It was hidden away from the madness of mainstream Madras, but it was still right there, in the centre of it all.
"Sit down," she said, "I'll make coffee." I had to go back to a friend's concert, I protested. I'll come back another day, definitely, I promised. "It will take me five minutes to make you the coffee," she insisted. My friend would be most upset if I missed her concert, I said. Another day, one-hundred percent, I assured her. "At least have some kali," she said, "Today is a special day for Nataraja. You know that, no?" My grandmother had mentioned something in the morning, and so, guiltlessly, I nodded. She hurriedly put some kali on a steel plate and handed it to me. Suddenly, she said excitedly, "Oh wait. I wanted to show you. I have Anna's photo here on the wall." I looked. It was her much more famous older brother, and it was the photograph most widely released to the press. "A very nice photo. He looks so happy!" She attended almost every one of his concerts in Madras, "I am not able to travel too far these days. You know, Anna plays in places like Madipakkam and Annanagar... Then I can't come. But otherwise, I come, somehow or the other." And she always sat in the front row, and enthusiastically kept taalam for the stage.
Next to her brother's, was her own photograph. She was with our dark-glassed leader in it, receiving an award. "Kalaimamani," she said, as I finished my kali and handed the plate to her, and added "I got that years ago. You can wash your hands in that sink," like the two were a part of the same thought. I looked closely at the photo. She did look younger, and so did our leader. I had heard strange things about that particular award, about when, why and to whom it was given, but she didn't look like she could pull any strings.
There was another photo next to it, a still from a popular Tamil film. I remembered that scene well - a bunch of mamis reinterpreting a popular Hindi song Carnatic style at the behest of a man dressed as a mami. There she was in that still, in the left-hand corner, playing the mridangam. I remember being amazed by the fact that they had actually found a mami to play the mridangam.
I smiled, as I bid her goodnight and walked out the door, but I couldn't help wondering, given her talent, if her life would have been different as a man.
I was at Zaras last night with some friends, sitting at the absolute edge of a table of nine people. I didn't hear a word of the conversation at the table. I was distracted by a little thought-breakthrough, an idea that took over my mind last evening, whose clouds will not leave for a while - not a full-blown cyclone, no, but a refreshing thunderstorm. But this post is not about that thought-breakthrough. I just worked it in to make myself sound posh. It is about another idea that intensified when I couldn't hear the conversation over the DJ-din last night.
Music at Zaras, and most other decent pub/bar/lounge-types in Madras, suffers from three issues. First, it's homogenous. It's the same kind of music everywhere. If you don't like that particular kind of music, you're stuck, you have no option (of course, there's Queens Bar in T.Nagar that plays SS Music, but those are exceptions). Second, it is usually too loud, yet not of danceable variety. So, you cannot talk, and you cannot dance. Which means you end up staring at each other with a rather silly expression on your face for most of the evening. Third, the music simply sucks. Last night, at Zaras, they were playing The Offspring. For Lord Kapaleeshwarar's sake, The Offspring! I count buying that cassette with Pretty Fly (For a white guy) in eighth standard amongst the most embarrassing moments of my life. Sheesh, Offspring!
So, I told my friend, a fellow Carnatic musician sitting next to me, "Dude, we should start a bar that plays Thodi raagam." He demonstrated an exaggerated Thodi, and I said, "Yes. Exactly."
Here are some preliminary thoughts:
1. Music: The music will be hardcore Carnatic - you are likely to hear Punnagavarali or Asaveri over Kurai onrum illai. There will be no songs in Marathi. There will be no Meera Bhajans in badly pronounced Hin-dee. We will play English Note, don't worry.
Of course, lots of Thodi will figure.
The evening will typically begin with some KV Narayanaswamy, and over the course of the night, it will progress through Brindamma's wailing padams, Mali's broken spurts of beauty, and S. Balachander's overwhelming raagamalika taanams. And then, after the waiter asks you for the last order and makes the lights a little brighter, and you're in that phase when you get up and realise you're drunker than you thought you were, we wind-down with MD Ramanathan's baritone that seems to emanate from the centre of the earth. It will give you a sense of balance and purpose.
There will be regular occasions, like November Nadaswaram Nights (ideally live, open-air, late night), February Fusion Week (we have to attract youngsters also), Mridangam Mondays (featuring extended tani avartanams where you will get free drinks for putting correct taalam), Tambura Tuesdays (Where you drink to the drone that somehow signifies the omkara, that primordial sound that contains a universe. Yes, yes. We have philosophical pretensions also.), Flute Fridays (cocktails will be served in a large flute the size of the table - you can put straws in each hole and drink), Violin Wednesdays (where if you tune a dummy violin correctly, you get extra sundal), and the occasional Seshagopalan Saturday or Sanjay Sunday. Cheesy things like playing music by musicians called Krishna or Krishnan or Krishnamurthy on Christmas will be encouraged. Occasionally, like the Music Academy, the bar will feature a Hindustani night (and the mama who comes there every week will identify every raga as Mishra-Maand) or a Ghazal night (which will be popular amongst those mamis who find Hariharan cute and his voice mellifluous, and amongst posh Sowcarpet residents and the Annanagar North Indians.)
For the sake of inclusiveness, themes like "Raga-based songs of Maestro Ilayaraaja" and "Golden Melodies of AR Rahman" will appear once a year.
The sound system will be uniformly bad, the recording quality worse.
2. Decor: The walls will be plastered with portraits of "doyens" of "yesteryears" who rendered "yeoman service" to Carnatic music, with appropriate flower garlands, incense sticks and a solitary, small, red zero-watt bulb. Drinks will be served in steel tumblers with davaras. Plates will look like kanjiras, spoons like morsings, straws like flutes (with fake holes, of course), pitchers like ghatams. Just so that the electronic tambura doesn't feel left out, one will be left on each table for no reason. You can irritate everyone at your table by constantly changing sruti. If they tell you off, tell them you're playing jazz.
3. Decorum: Decorum without rum is mere deco. Therefore, the worse you behave, the better the ambience is. You will be expected to let out an occasional "Mtch-mtch," or a "Tut-tut-tut-tut..." or a "Bhale" or a "Sabhaas". You are expected to noisily put taalam. You are expected to bring along a small raga book for ready reference.
If you wear shoes, you will be asked to remove them at the entrance (take that, Zaras!), if you wear a veshti, you will get extra ribbon pakoda, if your shirt is un-ironed and nondescript, you will get the title of Rasikar Vendhar along with some coconuts, bananas, a dilapidated orange, two suspect apples, a few betel leaves of no use to man or beast, two packets of pak, a shimmering ponnaadai that no human being can publicly wear, a citation and a purse of Rs. 101.
Men and women will be made to sit in separate enclosures (oh wait, they already do this at Bikes and Barrels). Then we won't do this, we don't want to copy. Like Kamal Hassan, we will be different.
4. Food and Beverage: Whileall the regular items will make an appearance, there will be some raga-based cocktails. The Gandharam Gargle is a tribute to Thodi's ga - its taste will be ambiguous yet heavy, and it will taste differently when drunk from different parts of the glass. A vodka-and-red-bull-based cocktail is planned for Kadanakuthoohalam's jumpiness. Prussian Blue, based on Neelambari's lullaby will lull you into comforting slumber. Piping hot filter coffee with a dash of brandy will be available.
As a tribute to the local, Vorion 6000 beer will be given prime importance.
Keera vadai, samosa, ribbon pakoda etc. will form the side eats. Special sundal during navaratri. Pongal and chakkarapongal during pongal. Adirasam, murukku and mixture from Suswaad, T. Nagar, throughout the year.
5. Karaoke Night: Once a fortnight, there will be a Carnatic karaoke with live mridangam and violin. They will play the raga and song of your choice, which you will choose from an unmemorable yellow and pink printed file, to which you will be required to do elaborate neraval and swaram. Sometimes, there will be a Royal Challenger RTP Challenge where each table nominates one person, and the pallavi goes around the bar in sequence. Tables will be eliminated if they muff up their round. The eduppus and the ragams get tougher as each round progresses.
More ideas are welcome. This is a work-in-progress.
***
(I wish to acknowledge the occasional inebriated inputs from one Shri. Aditya Prakash (Los Angeles).)
kahiin building kahiin traamein, kahiin motor kahiin mill miltaa hai yahaan sab kuchh ik miltaa nahiin dil insaan kaa nahiin kahiin naam-o-nishaan zara hatke, zara bachke, ye hai Bambai meri jaan!
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