You Are Here

You Are Here

I managed to finish reading Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan’s debut novel ‘You Are Here’  in about a week. Not that it is over-the-top intellectual, or just plain boring, but the story of Arshi’s ‘here n now’ is such that makes you pause and ponder, draw parallels, and meditate on how we all lead such similar lives. For all you know, the book could have been my story, with a few little adjustments, written just how i’d write it, again maybe not in such bold strokes.

The book is good.It is obvious that the writer is a blogger, because there’s that style of writing which gives primacy to telling your own story and your own thoughts. Long monologue type flashback sessions everywhere, intricate detailing of what she’s wearing and what he’s doing and even psychoanalysis make that much apparent.

But there are also glaring flaws that bring out the first-timer syndrome. Reddy’s thoughts and flashbacks sometimes don’t hold your attention like she’d like them to. In short, it gets boring at times. You can also sniff out a desperation to paint her protagonist and contemporaries as the new liberated Gen Y, where drugs, sex and alcohol are very important and unassuming parts of the misc-en-scene. I mean, sure, they really are part of this lifestyle, just not as glorified as she’s tryin to make it sound.

But despite these turn offs, the book managed to sustain my wandering attention, simply because i could identify with this twenty-something, who’s tryin to live it up in New Delhi and the New Times, and well, simply be part of the crowd. There’s a  description of how Arshi would have an Orkut-like social map in her head, where she’d link all her friends and acquaintances into a vast web of socialness. The book cover draws inspiration from this idea and flags the important chronological stations in her life. That’s probably the best part – deriving a tool for some semblance of organisation in life through cartography. Map up, i say!

Re-discovered Patriotism

Michael Wood in Amritsar

I recently laid hands on (or more like, was persuaded into getting hold of, by Shishir, and all thanks to him) this BBC  TV series by Michael Wood called The Story Of India. A six part documentary, shot over 18 months of extensive travelling across India and the extended subcontinent, he traces India’s roots, the circumstances of the birth of its diversity, the richness of a land that has seen civilisations old, new and constant and varied. So far, I’ve reached the point of entry of the East India Co, with the Mughal era just about descending into depravity, aka Chapter 6 in this fantastic story.

Considering the fact that history was not my favourite subject at school, since then, I was still dreaming of being an engineer/CA/big shot corporate honcho at some MNC, it comes as a pleasant surprise that a lot of what the man talks of in his travels still rings a bell in distant dusty cabinets of the mind. And then again, a whole other list of things he talks about are completely new.

Like the fact that king Kanishka’s empire included Afghanistan and a sizeable part of Central Asia.

And that Ayodhya was not a precise location till Chandragupta Vikramaditya II decided to use that myth as a guiding force of governance and good living.

And then some even more astonishing revelations: India has, over the past 2,500 years or so, been under the rule of almost every dominant existing religion in the world today.

That the so-called hatred between Hindus and Muslims isn’t a product of Partition, but has been an ebbing and flowing undercurrent that has existed since Muhammad Ghazni’s invasion, but which came to a significant rest during Akbar’s reign.

What Michael Wood, the historian, does is build up an enormous tale of various warriors, religions, holy men, gods, kings, peoples, philosophies, events and look at how all the many traditions the land has hosted and what they left behind for this soil. Effectively, the point he’s trying to make, it seems to me, is that India’s richest attribute is its multiculturalism. There is such a depth behind what has happened here, when time and space have coincided, over and over again, to generate myths, legends and reality still more fabulous.

What Michael Wood, the presenter has done, is to stand in a busy Mathura street and chat with a party of 9 female pilgrims, sit down to lunch with a Tamil agricultural family, watch Krishna kill Kansa and rid Mathura of it’s evil king in one of our local stage performances, talk to professors, play holi and basically get wholly enamoured and embossed into the colours of the land. And he speaks with such awe, love, amazement, enthusiasm and what not, that you are intoxicated, not only with him and his unending warmth and readiness to embrace, but also by what our own country has to offer us.

After all, we do live in a country where there are maybe 3 million gods ( “Or is it 3,30 million gods?!” he muses many a time), where the monsoons have revealed the treasure trove that this land is to the West, where some of the greatest discoveries and inventions, and religions, it is important to add, have not faced the kind of stigma and trauma that Galileo was forced to undergo, whose GDP was the largest at more than one point of time in AD history and whose people know the art of adjustment and happiness, at least from a macro, Western point of view.

The man is proud of himself for having discovered this beauty. It would be travesty not feel proud of actually being part of it.

One Hundred Years Of Solitude

Here’s an old piece, rediscovered. I love this book. And the man behind it.

one hundred years of solitude

When human nature endeavors to survive the arid desert of Time with all its might, Time too brings out its most ruthless weapons to quell it. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ most famous novel, One Hundred Years Of Solitude, dictates such a hopeless predicament, while bringing forth much more of the fantastic in the face of the gross mask of reality the world feigns to wear. The novel talks of the rise and fall of Macondo, a secluded civilization in a distant plain somewhere in South America. More specifically, it talks about the trials and tribulations of five generations of the Buendia family, who are the founders of Macondo as well as the last ones to die in its ruins. We are given a vivid description of characters such as Ursula Iguaran, an unlikely but powerful matriarch, under whose rule the Buendia family as well as Macondo prospered; Colonel Aureliano Buendia, who had 17 boys during his days in the war; Remedios the Beauty, who ascended to heaven (literally!) as her rightful place of being; and Aureliano Segundo and Jose Arcadio Segundo, the twins, who changed names in juvenile mischief and whose identities remained confused till their death as a consequence.
Macondo,a fascinating place, is endowed with all the characteristics of growth and existence and enriched by the imagination of the writer. Written in the post colonial form of writing called Magic Realism, the novel contains a myriad imagery, where storms of butterflies, clouds of yellow flowers, blue houses and incessant rain for four years seem more believable than the ugliness of civil war, the capitalism of a Banana Company, Guerilla warfare and a dictatorial government.

What is most fascinating, however, and what essentially is the crux of the novel is the final, irrevocable and endless solitude of each character of the Buendia family as well as of the whole community. Trapped in the cells of their minds, tortured by insomnia the characters seem to transcend the normal and exist on an exotic plane making them very enticing to the reader.

The novel is a masterpiece of read-between-the-lines revolutionary ideas, and what we as readers can enjoy is his somewhat satirical notion of a civilization. The existence of a strong political statement makes it intellectually stimulating and issues of life, love, identity and death are brought up without any answers. All in all, One Hundred Years of Solitude is a must read for all those who would like to indulge in a bit of contemporary reading. And otherwise.

Emotional Atyachar that liberates

red pickle

Disclaimer: This review is hugely biased, mostly because the critic (hah!) is totally, head-over-heels floored by the brilliance of the movie and has written from a slightly starry-eyed vantage, so all pointed-out flaws are purely coincidental.

“Do you touch yourself?” whispers Dev to Paro, over a long distance call between two countries, while in the back seat of a cab in London. And from the word go, Anurag Kashyap’s embodiment of Devdas makes you cringe with his absolute self-involvement, submission to desire  and with his utter disregard for others’ feelings.

The story progresses largely on the lines of the classic, but with a twist, a dash of lemon in a pretty damn tame cocktail, or in the way the traditionalists, romantics and fundamentalists would  have it. What our director has done, is to contemporise a story so outdated, that made Shahrukh Khan look laughable, probably even to himself, in Bhansali’s version about 5 years ago. To make a story like Devdas contemporary means a healthy dose of raw, animal passion, and admitting to the ’sin’ of raging hormones in one’s prime, peppered with drugs and alcohol and gross self-indulgence. And so, the driving force behind Dev D becomes a physical expression of a horizontal wish (to alter the line from Shall We Dance), and not sacrificing, soppy love, which, lets face it, hardly exists anymore.

That’s your post-modern touch, the honesty of which is a refreshing bloom – where contradictions, confusions and the ensuing pain is not in the domain of sentimentality, but in-your-face self-love and craziness which is painted in shades of grey and blue on every just-human face. The message is clear: Nobody’s a saint, howsoever much they might fall in love, not Paro, not Dev, not his father. And the irony of it all – there is still some redeemable good in everybody.

And then there is Chanda. An inspiring character, consistent and solid. Subject of scandal, daughter of a civil servant who shoots himself, and a mother who abandons her for her evilness, the 16-year old girl shows inordinary spunk and becomes a (surprise, surprise) randi, who can talk dirty in any language you want her to, in any getup you desire. And, she does this to put herself through college. So there – the good in the stereotypical baaad. There’s no plain surfaces in this one.

It is not just the characters in the movie who reflect a point of departure as alter-egos of purer selves intended by the author. The movie is a product of art – and finely engineered stuff at that. Beautiful shots of Chandigarh, the rustic village and Delhi, excellent cinematography (from close ups to the attempted making out session in tall grass), poignant moments – like the one where Chanda and Dev stand in her balcony, she’s painting his face into that of a joker and unmasking herself – and very good music. The Jonas Brothers make an impression too, acting as the chorus, Dev’s three-headed conscience, and comic relief, all-in-one. or three. The point is, such perfectionism usually gets botched up, but here, you get the feeling that he’s handled it very very carefully, like holding a still beating heart – his own – in his hands. You love it as much as he does.

And the final point of departure is from postmodernity itself – the happy ending. Lightning strikes, reformation happens. Sitting in a red tub, being scrubbed by the love of his life, our anti-hero’s self-love brings him back to his senses. So then, all’s well that end’s on a slightly less morbid note. And you’re allowed to fall in love with Abhay Deol for an excellent performance.   

Maybe a dose of this is what the likes of Muthalik need to shock them into their graves.

The most disciplined eating I’ve ever done

Mavalli Tiffin Rooms, more fondly known as MTR, is most definitly a harbinger of the good old days of yore, when the pomp and fanfare accompanying dining was still a matter of importance. And this you can tell just by the larger percentage of gold-decked, gajra-ensconced, sandalwood-smelling gentry in the line that snaked almost till Lalbagh, waiting for the clock to strike 12.30 pm.
When the clock does oblige, an old white haired man shorter than me ( and I’m all of 5′2”, for the record)  in white dhoti and white shirt hanging loose opens the door and ushers everybody in to make another unending, rather silent line at the cash counter. And as he nudged and budged one and all to pin-dropness, he glowered down his long royal nose, and he informed us of the treat that awaited us.

So, we bought our coupons and were directed up a flight of stairs  lined with Thanjavur paintings, to be greeted by another old man perched on his wooden stool of authority, also maintaining the silence and strict discipline that is due to these esteemed halls steeped in spicy tradition. He pointed us to our table in a corner, and we obediently walked to our proximate destiny.

Looking around, it struck me that this unnatural behaviour wasn’t just specific to me, my mother and her sister. Most people seemed unsure of talking in decibels higher than a whisper. And consequently, even big moustached men seemed inordinately giggly. Thankfully, my prayers were answered and the food came around sooner than we expected.

And whatever misgivings I had about overly snobbish places, took flight with my taste buds as the men with buckets coaxed us into overeating like never before. Typical kannadiga food, complete with bisi bele bath and payasam, made for a very memorable meal. And even when you’re replete with satisfaction, and loving it totally, you’ll be dissed into eating some more. They’ll make sure they give you your money’s worth.

A must visit place for all those who visit Bangalore.

Elizabeth Gilbert, and now Julia Roberts, ‘Eat Pray and Love’

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Sheer indulgence, this.

 Imagine travelling to three countries on the other side of the world, within the space of twelve months, and living on a thematic basis for four months at a time, the primary themes being gluttony, meditation and sheer adolescent romance. Imagine meeting people of all sorts in all sorts of situations, living in beautiful edenic garden full of orchids in the middle of Bali and steeping oneself in culture and heritage, totally getting under the skin of a place. and the people who make that place. And now imagine being paid (n i mean being sponsored from day 1 of said journey to the time one manages to settle back into everyday life back in dear ol’ Manhattan) to write a book about all the ‘adventures’ one might have on this stupendous trip of a lifetime!

Hell, you n i might not even ever be blessed with such good fortune. But the author of above mentioned book sure was. (And that’s a tautology). Liz Gilbert’s romantic fiction bestseller  sure shows that she was fortunate to have had the chance to account for all the wonderful things that populated her life for an entire year, and she knows it. Which might be why she spends quite a large part of her time being thankful. By doing the ’smile meditation’, putting it through in her little diary, by helping her poor Indonesian woman buy a house, by hunting down restaurants that serve the best pizza in the world, and chomping her way through all she could eat, and finally, by falling in love with a ’good’ man.

Of course, it all came at a price. She actually troops out in search of herself, her spirituality and some much needed happiness after a horrible divorce and more heart break while on the rebound.

Gilbert’s expression is as precious and endearing as the many people she meets and the many experiences she cherishes. Witticisms, insights and emotions tumble out in an unceasing outpour -she opens her heart out for you, and as you accompany her through sunshine and high tide, you’d feel like she was your closest buddy or even family. She builds her narrative around complete honesty, a fine sense of what goes into the makings of the world like we all know it, a highly liberal frame of mind and flexibility of the heart, a readiness to embrace it all, for she’s got love enough for the world. (mosquitoes, again, not included).

This journey is pivotal to her life in more ways than one. (And here I will display all my English Hons credibility.) It’s a lot things rolled into one trip of a lifetime. It’s a pilgrimage at one level, an eat-all-you-want parade, a nomadic irresolution of one’s destination in life and a transcendence of all sorts of boundaries which any society or upbringing maps into psyches. (Hah! i told ya!) And the fact that she goes beyond physical continental lines to attain her spirituality only becomes symbolic of the three different ‘I’s that she reveals to herself.

In all, terribly delightful. She makes you laugh and cry with her. Breathe the air around the world and feel the spirit of different civilisations. She finds her answers in the end, and she finds the handsome, rich, fabulous South American man for cherry on her cake, that she finally, finally has, and eats too. It’s a whole different science-fictional level of transformation - the tired but persevering snail (who carries her house on her back) turns into the New Age Buddha. Talk about transcendentalism!

Hope the forthcoming movie, and Julia Roberts, make the magic come alive on screen.

Jump! for my love…

The jumpsuit is back! more flowy, feminine and pret than ever before. this amazingly convenient item of clothing was once the need of assembly line workers, astronauts, and was generally something that must’ve been a harbinger of all those moments of boredom spent at dreary work.

Then some high flying fashion designer, on a hot, tedious summer afternoon, with the weight of heat and unproductiveness, glanced in the direction of his son and realised the beauty of the coverall he was wearing. And decided to display it to the world. On the ramps and on the profiles of hot bods of the time. since then, there’s been no stopping the jumpsuit from hopping to the forefront of any fashion show.

And then, it gained mega-celebrity status when Elvis Presley did a number in it.

And today, although in and out of fashionistas wardrobes and the racks of haute couture, it has gained the status of the stiletto- not always in the limelight, but forever sexy. and its sexiness is largely attributed to its comfort-ability. like that favourite pair of dungarees that you’d never want to take off, all those days ago. And altered to a little less here, a stitch there, it can make the most (unwantedly) curvacious bodies look like flat ironed steel. this time, its chanel, zoya and even Indian designers like Arjun who are doing the honours.

time for another swagger down high fashion’s memory lane. (and that is such a pleasantly vicious circle!)

the whole nine yards

We are the tropical modern. The sahibs may have translated our texts into English. Hollywood’s celebrities have helped us rediscover yoga and our own godmen. But as the new middle class gets wealthier, as the NRI need for ‘Indian culture’ spurs a return to the root, as the competitive economy sends us scurrying to the Upanishads, we have never been so comforted or so decorated by India. We mix family with fun, God with surround sound and martinis with Mallikarjun Mansoor. Six decades after Independence, we are unapologetic about our freedom to choose.

- Sagarika Ghose

“Lassi on the Rocks” in Marie Claire ( June 2008 )

Amen. There is an India which grows more liberated by the day. incorporating myriad cultures, philosophies, ways of living, characters and characteristics, worlds within itself, it is now a brand in its own right. a brand name which is a harbinger of all that is exotic and the erotic (India is still probably most famous for kama sutra).

the cocktail generation doesn’t need reason to run out partying, rocking to angrezi music, drinking cans of imported beer, sing and head bang under the sun, under the sometimes admonishing gaze of tradition. but we are equally ready to sing the national anthem with our hands on our hearts and our minds in the right place. the choice remains- and the freedom to make those choices we proudly claim as ours today.

it is the flight of the phoenix. which rose from the ashes more than half a century ago. and now, Donna Karan, Louis Vuitton and Walmart all want to be a part of this steep flight alike. Now Bollywood can boast of a truly global audience. Now, the Indian middle class becomes the jet-setter, globe-trotter sort, with the world lying an open book, yearning to be explored, before them.

We’re going places bay-beh!