tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33900044988199562612024-02-06T17:58:21.166-08:00Urban VoiceFrog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-36398877304166730922010-07-02T06:20:00.000-07:002010-07-02T06:21:59.213-07:00Pune launch of G A Kulkarni's book<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJ1t8GK3REX-Oz9EuCnNWrlfZhE4ZYvsaXi_o1FCvLfc6ed9V0XFH8JdHI_vFzEVgvJpPXxOsoN3Sz8n3Z-iivnaK3KYBRA45qRjgFkvqvdIL1RxqqwRFV5cUBbSQ0qgF0AilseyhQYU/s1600/Kulkarni+book.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJ1t8GK3REX-Oz9EuCnNWrlfZhE4ZYvsaXi_o1FCvLfc6ed9V0XFH8JdHI_vFzEVgvJpPXxOsoN3Sz8n3Z-iivnaK3KYBRA45qRjgFkvqvdIL1RxqqwRFV5cUBbSQ0qgF0AilseyhQYU/s400/Kulkarni+book.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489298448121896194" /></a>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-86857469240920179922010-06-11T23:16:00.000-07:002010-06-11T23:21:24.437-07:00Urban Voice New Issue SoonDear Friends<br />Urban Voice, the literary journal we had started a few years ago, for reasons many, only came out with just three episodes.<br />Now, we plan to convert Urban Voice, an imprint of Leadstart Publishing Pvt Ltd, Bombay, into a quarterly exercise, to involve and feature good writings from India and elsewhere.<br />In our next issue, which should come out next month, we plan to focus on this theme: ‘India: What Makes Us Strong (or Weak) in This Millennium’. It would contain essays, each about 2,000 words, from distinguished and talented writers from different walks of life, on subjects as varied as Polity, Business, Sport, Literature, the Arts and Lifestyle.<br />In this regard we take the liberty of seeking an essay from you, on a subject you are familiar with and accustomed to. It should ideally be a new piece of writing by you, but we are also open to accept an article that might have appeared earlier, but updated or/and tailor-made for this volume. We leave it to you to take any stand and employ any style or substance.<br />I hope you do not disappoint us and if you have any more queries related to the same, please do feel free to write back. The deadline: asap.<br />Waiting for your reply.<br />Best<br />Sunil K Poolani<br />Executive Director, Publisher and Managing Editor<br />Leadstart Publishing Pvt Ltd<br />Mumbai<br />sunil.poolani@leadstartcorp.com / poolani@gmail.com<br />Phone: +91-9820478950Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-58870037814096484532009-02-23T04:04:00.000-08:002009-02-23T04:12:25.161-08:00Consulting Editors of Urban Voice<span style="font-weight:bold;">Gouri Chatterjee</span><br />Has worked in many national English newspapers as a very well-respected editor and columnist. She was a senior editor with The Telegraph and DNA and is a reputed media columnist.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XflWDrdUlJ03t4jQSnFDxB7_Q9mCoJrEK8dt80WEjTPXl00n8KpOELLZpcrQZne5QijMRj3id598HArSgPB5dHaR39URaU08dlHZhrQ6cnwvn5A5k1VQem16r72nR3h9ZGA38cNQ3fA/s1600-h/ramguha.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XflWDrdUlJ03t4jQSnFDxB7_Q9mCoJrEK8dt80WEjTPXl00n8KpOELLZpcrQZne5QijMRj3id598HArSgPB5dHaR39URaU08dlHZhrQ6cnwvn5A5k1VQem16r72nR3h9ZGA38cNQ3fA/s200/ramguha.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305963178181283314" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ramachandra Guha</span><br />Was recently named as one of the 100 most influential public intellectuals in the world. His latest book is India After Gandhi: The History of the World’s Largest Democracy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSOuWOR_8uY7ZcVaJQPfJpHjjROy2fn7_IrENPwv_qjOcaqnT88lkKYUkFXHFfqDxsemOZ7Bl-p3m0iLg7SUtL80DdClV2UObXjo3_xbCgXWfVFyy6fsAmnz0uwWaYmiafn4GNfxrczM/s1600-h/taslima.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 103px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSOuWOR_8uY7ZcVaJQPfJpHjjROy2fn7_IrENPwv_qjOcaqnT88lkKYUkFXHFfqDxsemOZ7Bl-p3m0iLg7SUtL80DdClV2UObXjo3_xbCgXWfVFyy6fsAmnz0uwWaYmiafn4GNfxrczM/s200/taslima.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305964282865003874" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Taslima Nasrin</span><br />Is the controversial author of Shame. In her poems, novels, and newspaper columns she has advocated equal rights for women and attacked male chauvinism in a country dominated by conservative Islam.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Padma Prakash</span><br />A long-time editor with The Economic and Political Weekly, she is a well-known writer on economic and social issues. Presently she edits he online multidisciplinary social-science portal, eSocialSciences.com.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SgCXenWpf-04V16DYYTR_2jo0OkU2Z3EWBAWU78IMOGD6iWD4bl_NeHDXePua1IXcZx6Pnsb4zs7t6YOQPa9AoyzYDTVZ6qECC1ywr0_C6x5Cege7EwBTusY70EB0s0c9kVZgTUpfik/s1600-h/sudeep.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SgCXenWpf-04V16DYYTR_2jo0OkU2Z3EWBAWU78IMOGD6iWD4bl_NeHDXePua1IXcZx6Pnsb4zs7t6YOQPa9AoyzYDTVZ6qECC1ywr0_C6x5Cege7EwBTusY70EB0s0c9kVZgTUpfik/s200/sudeep.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305963564364713666" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sudeep Sen</span><br />Is an acclaimed poet living in London and Delhi. He is the editor of Atlas, and is on the editorial boards of The Journal of Commonwealth Literature and Six Seasons Review; and an associate of The Paris Review.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVXb6A1EGTLO9UuN_yiGUq5t8cg5gbsUGsk44D9zAUBdS8regJG3iwA-kqSvXNHuaBqgqM4HZWaO1PenQ-zwGYMSgHLIZjYwgWbONFkKBwCJUEsgDwcjtZ7xs4iCNhfbgm-99mVLFfrxw/s1600-h/shashi.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 113px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVXb6A1EGTLO9UuN_yiGUq5t8cg5gbsUGsk44D9zAUBdS8regJG3iwA-kqSvXNHuaBqgqM4HZWaO1PenQ-zwGYMSgHLIZjYwgWbONFkKBwCJUEsgDwcjtZ7xs4iCNhfbgm-99mVLFfrxw/s200/shashi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305964459327315138" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shashi Tharoor</span><br />A former Under-Secretary-General of the United Nations, and an author of nine award-winning books, he is the chairman of Dubai-based Afras Ventures. He was termed as ‘Global Leader of Tomorrow’ by the World Economic Forum.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">A J Thomas</span><br />Is a translator and writes poetry in English and Malayalam. Presently the editor of Sahitya Akademi’s Indian Literature, he is the winner of Crossword Book Awards, Katha Award and the AKMG Prize.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxe_WJIWCRhem45ne1uOgwoeuQUzYsJwk2Wp1rN_CtkIpKGo8S7_k5vKesxjwFkEsMwdSJ35EtGxMyEa6ElrWL6iPP2pAUzfODFDePukHrnIEsKmafQbkh30zJJpUAYuKB13gf0k-wpfA/s1600-h/abraham.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 85px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxe_WJIWCRhem45ne1uOgwoeuQUzYsJwk2Wp1rN_CtkIpKGo8S7_k5vKesxjwFkEsMwdSJ35EtGxMyEa6ElrWL6iPP2pAUzfODFDePukHrnIEsKmafQbkh30zJJpUAYuKB13gf0k-wpfA/s200/abraham.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305963767205728530" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Abraham Verghese</span><br />His celebrated non-fiction works are My Own Country and The Tennis Partner, a bestseller all over the world. His first novel is Cutting for Stone and is board-certified in internal medicine and in pulmonary and infectious diseases.Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-9655019164733511582008-11-24T08:12:00.001-08:002008-11-24T08:20:27.243-08:00Urban Voice 4: KeralaDear Friends<br />Hope this mail finds you in the pink of health and wealth.<br />As you would know, <span style="font-weight:bold;">Frog Books </span>(www.frogbooks.net) has been publishing a literary magazine, <span style="font-weight:bold;">Urban Voice </span>since last year and so far three issues have come out. The last one was on Bombay: New Writing. It has, as you could see if you do a Google search, got tremendous response from discerning readers and critics.<br />Our next issue is on <span style="font-weight:bold;">Kerala: New Writing</span>. I would like you to contribute any one of the following for the issue, which will capture the essence and spirit of the State:<br />1) Essays<br />2) Short Stories<br />3) Poetry<br />4) Play<br />5) Travelogue<br />6) Art<br />The contributions can be either in original English or in translation; and I leave that to you.<br />Hope we could get a favourable response from you soon.<br />The deadline is 15 December.<br />Please send your contributions to poolani@gmail.com<br />Best<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sunil K Poolani</span>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-8460698382313496202008-11-24T08:11:00.000-08:002008-11-24T08:12:04.255-08:00In the City of DreamsTHAT there is a multitude of writings available on and about Mumbai, more now than ever before, is not surprising. The city forms an opinion in your mind before you can even breathe in the humid air wrapped deeply around its fish. So much so that sometimes even the most obvious bring out musings and yearnings that we hope sound different. These voices are many as Urban Voices 3 showcases earnestly.<br />Unfortunately, not much is fresh or newly baked. Most voices sound world-weary and worn not just with Mumbai but sometimes even with life. Is that the irony of Mumbai or the choice of writings, you decide.<br />But what makes this volume worth riffling through is a heart-felt attempt at bringing different genres of writings on Mumbai under a single pointed roof. An interesting selection of writers, film-makers, journalists and poets takes you through a city that is beloved to them.<br />Here poems mingle with ponderings and short stories meander through the narrow, clustered by-lanes of Mumbai bumping into dialogues, at turns.<br />The city, one of extreme contrasts, flutters between subjects as varied as Muses Over Manholes (by Murzban F. Shroff) related through the eyes of a despondent and repeatedly rejected writer standing on the rain-drenched streets and the very metropolitan Prickly Solution (by Dilip Raote) set in a typical Mumbai high-rise home. While these two writings are in no way definitive of the collection, they give an indication of the width and depth of a city constantly at play.<br />What is missing perhaps is a affectionate perspective, an inkling of which is offered in Vimla Patil’s Magical Memories, a warm piece that delves into a nostalgic, gentler past of this frenetic City (by Abha Iyenger) ... "enchantress, seductress, nibbler of souls, monstrous maw, et al".<br />However, more often than not, the selection reiterates the clich`E9s that Mumbai has come to stand though the structure and layout of this magazine-style volume is a special endeavour to break stereotypes. When viewed within this framework, the two interviews included come as a pleasant surprise and addition. Unluckily, the first one with Time Out magazine’s editor Naresh Fernandes toes a predictable unruffled line of questioning while the other with poet Sudeep Sen is too indulgent to provoke energetic debate.<br />Nevertheless, Urban Voices 3 is worth a look. It may not be in the same class as the must-reads on the city like Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found (Suketu Mehta) or the heady-paced Shantaram (Gregory David Roberts) but it introduces something new and invigorating towards growing writings on Mumbai, much like the city herself.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">-- Gayatri Rajwade / The Tribune </span>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-26316850623350979442008-11-24T08:10:00.000-08:002008-11-24T08:11:24.588-08:00A Small Review<span style="font-weight:bold;">Urban Voice 3: Bombay</span> (Frog Books, 2008, pp 185, Rs 195) Capturing the radical transformation that is occurring in the Indian literary scene, this book has provided a platform for thinkers to express themselves.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">-- Deccan Herald</span>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-11120129656988587492008-09-20T22:30:00.000-07:002008-09-20T22:35:58.816-07:00Mumbai, Cutting it Fine<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The third volume of writings on Mumbai has pen portraits of a city that Bollywood has already told us enough about. It offers variety, but not much style, writes </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Shana Maria Verghis</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Bombay: New Writing Volume 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Author: Frog Books</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Price: Rs 195 </span><br /><br />Roselyn D' Mello's poem 'Absolution' presents a familiar image of Mumbai to an outsider like oneself. It refers to "the enchanting sight of the sordid landscape rolling / through the barred windows of a local train;" And "....cigarettes all dangling on display in sync. ..with the / wavering sounds of a flute being played by a man with / black, painted nails at Colaba Causeway.' Then it gets more tactile, with: "the perennial confected aroma of freshly baked apple / pie (with cinnamon and raisins) at the blue-coloured Yazdan bakery; /...frankies at Linking Road, tickling sheikh pao at Premier/road Naka...pao bhaji at Khao Galli/ragda pattice at Elcos..."<br />'Absolution' has been included in a collection, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Urban Voice 3: </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bombay, New Writing (Frog Books), </span>which picks up various strands of the city by 31 writers, journalists, poets and film makers who seem to know it well.<br />D' Mello we are told in the acknowledgement, is 22 years and lives in Delhi. But the first piece in the book is by Monideepa Sahu. Her short story 'Going Home in the Rain' reminds us about Ruchi Narain's short in the yet-to-be-released portmanteau film, Mumbai Cutting. Here you have a newcomer to the city and an autodriver who turns out to be less sinister than her imagination.<br />Rajender Menen's 'Loving and Deliverance in Kamathipura', seemed, to our jaded reading, like another of those "brave prostitute life stories." Ramendra Kumar's 'Mumbai 2020', is the only bit of comic relief in this set. He writes of Aamchi Mumbai in 2020 and thinly veiled references to 'Raja of Maratharashtra', Raj Thokoray watching an India Cup Twenty-Twenty final between Marathas and Ulta Pradesh.<br />By this time, the writer says, India has been spliced into 28 nations with a separatist movement by doodhwalas in Jharkand demanding new states called Doodhkhand, Dahikand and Shreekahand. There's a language problem all over. 'Rajnikaat' has been pushed out by Chennai for being Marathi. Marathis disown him for working in Bangaluru and Tamil Nadu. 'Amitabhi Bachha', now 77 is making it big in Bhojpuri movies. But back in Mumbai a Marathi version of Sholay is burnt for hurting Sena sensibilities with a line: 'Tera Kya Hoga, Sambha', which apparently insults 'Sambhaji -- the Bhau of the nation.'<br />Atin Dasgupta makes a point with 'Rupees 42 Profit,' where an "upright citizen" yammers on about beggars then helps himself to loose change from an elderly beggar woman's bowl.<br />Derek Bose's 'Stones in My Mouth' is about exorbitant fees at Nanavati hospital versus proper healing at a cheaper place, with surgery bills costing one-fourth the price.<br />Some pieces like Joy C Raphael's 'Local Guardian' and Anjali Purohit's 'The Subway' and 'Bombayana' by Freny Manecksha are observations about people in stations, on the street.<br />Murzban F Shroff's 'Muses over Manholes' reads like one of those godawfully self-indulgent I-am-a-writer-let-me-bore-you-with-my-writer-travails-and-leave-you-with-nothing-else-to-take-back meanderings. While Sunil K Poolani's 'Missing that Nagging Feeling' is written in the voice of a recently divorced man who sounds like he enjoys being a pain in his wife's arse.<br /><div dir="ltr">There are two interviews. With poet Sudeep Sen and <span style="font-style: italic;">Time Out Mumbai</span>'s Naresh Fernandes. The latter unfortunately does not give you anything new about the city. And the former is so flowery it could have done with massive editing.<br />Dilip Raote makes no bones about being influenced by Roald Dahl's stories about precocious children giving it back to annoying adults in 'A Prickly Solution'. His protagonist, a little girl Geetika, who puts a hole with her compass into her dad's condom, leading to her mom's unwanted pregnancy seems motivated only by boredom. Vimla Patil editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">Femina </span>for nearly 25 years reminisces about local herbs in 'Magical Memories'. Abhinav Maurya pays tribute to 'The Oldest Bombay Bitch', the Bombay Rail. Riya Terri's 'The Day I Found The Real Me' should not have left the writer's personal.diary.<br />As portraits of the city, most do their job. In terms of stylistic storytelling, however the writings are a bit passé and some are guilty of being very lazily written. Several should have been trashed.<br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">-- The Sunday Pioneer</span><br /></div>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-4941686020593600942008-08-19T05:08:00.000-07:002008-08-19T05:28:43.086-07:00Amchi Mumbai 2020<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US"><o:p>By </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Ramendra Kumar<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p>Circa 2020. Place: Amchi Mumbai. All eyes were glued on to the telly.<span style=""> </span>The Twenty-Twenty India Cup final was in progress. The two nations in the fray were reigning champions Maratharashtra and the challengers Ulta Pradesh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">The Raja of Maratharashtra, Raj Thokoray, was watching the match in Marathi while Kaya Palti the Maharani of Ulta Pradesh was witnessing the action in Bhojpuri. The game was being played in a neutral country — Dravid Nadu. (Nothing to do with Rahul Dravid who had retired long back and was now coaching Bangaluru boys in Kannada for the next India Cup.)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Dear reader, by now you have guessed that <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> had become a continent of 28 nations — each nation with its own language, culture, flag and currency. An idea of a common currency called indigo on the lines of the euro had been floated but had been vehemently opposed by Thokoray and Kayapalti. They did not want to have anything to do with each other. Even the cricket match was more like a war.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">The splitting trend was threatening to spread like a virus. In Jharkhand, the <i style="">doodhwala</i>s were agitating for three separate nations — Doodhkhand, Dahikhand and Shreekhand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">The link language of continent <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> was English and even that was creating a problem. The English spoken by the Malayalis was not understood by the Biharis. The Haryana version of English did not make any sense to the people of <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place>. As a result interpreters had to be hired and the sales of ‘Learn Tamil, Punjabi, Etc in 30 Days’ skyrocketed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">This creation of independent states had had other interesting fallouts. Poor Rajnikaat’s plight had become horrible. He had nowhere to go. The Dravidians from Chennai were refusing to accept him since he was a Maratha. The Marathas had rejected him because he had worked in Bangaluru and Chennai. The Kannadigas did not want to touch him since he was a Maratha by birth and Dravidian by growth!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Shacrook Khan had been banished from Amchi Mumbai and had been forced to make Dilli his home. When last heard of he was making a film in which the hero coaches the female <i>kabaddi</i> team to victory in the World Cup in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mongolia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. The title of the film — Chak Di Dilli.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">For some individuals, however, the fragmentation of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> had proved a blessing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Amitabhi Bachha had shifted from Amchi Mumbai to Ulta Pradesh and was now the biggest draw of Bhojpuri films. At the age of 77 he was acting in 77 films a year and advertising for every product ranging from <i>tambakhu </i>to <i>churan</i> and <i>dhoti </i>to <i>lota</i>. His latest hit <i>Kabhi Bhaujai, Kabhi Lugai </i>had been nominated as UP’s entry for the Oscars in the foreign films category.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">With all the top stars fleeing Amchi Mumbai, Ritesh Pradeshmukh was now hero number one. His film <i style="">Mazha Sapna, Rokda, Rokda</i> had celebrated golden jubilee in all towns of Maratharashtra — from Pandurna to Pusla.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">The Save Tiger campaign launched by NDTV in 2008 hadn’t created much impact on the survival of the four-legged mammal, but it had sure resurrected the two-legged homo sapien Balls Ihave Thokoray. Though his growl had become more a purr he was still crawling along at 95. His tirade against anything north Indians had led to some strange results.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Doodh was now a four-letter word in Marathi and even kids were denied their quota. When they cried for milk they were given Shreekhand diluted in water.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">All the taxis on the roads were replaced by <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Victorias</st1:State></st1:place>. To popularise the use of <st1:state st="on">Victorias</st1:State> the Amchi Mumbai Mayor had offered tax exemption to Marathi producers who depicted a <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:State> chase instead of a car chase in the climax scene of their film.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">The history taught in Amchi Mumbai schools had undergone a radical makeover. The Father of the Nation was Chhatrapti Shivaji, Grandmother Maa Jeejabai and <i>Bhau</i> of the nation Sambhaji. A theatre screening the ‘dubbed in Marathi version’ of <i style="">Sholay</i> had been burnt since the one-line retained in Hindi had raised the hackles of the leaders of Shav Sena: “<i>Tera kya hoga, Sambha</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">“It is an insult to Sambhaji — the <i>Bhau</i> of the nation,” the leaders had screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">With the Gujaratis, Sindhis and Marwaris having left Amchi Mumbai, it had lost its financial muscle. The stock market had crashed so many times that <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Dalal Street</st1:address></st1:Street> had been renamed <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Halal Street</st1:address></st1:Street>. Mumbaiwallahs were now looking up to the Dabbawallahs and other such success stories for inspiration.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">The disappearance of Madrasis and Telugus was creating a very peculiar problem. With <i>idli</i> and <i style="">sambhar</i> no longer available, the Mumbaikars were on a strict diet of <i style="">pau bhaji</i> and <i style="">usal pau </i>and bloating up by the day. The buses and trains of Mumbai could now accommodate only half the number of commuters which was adding to the chaos on the streets.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">But Balls Ihave Thokoray was happy. He had patched up with his nephew Raj.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">He had decided on his succession in a very democratic manner. He had held a Sledgefest contest on the theme ‘<i>Uttar ko gaali</i>’ in Amchi Mumbai’s Wankhede Stadium. The judges had been Symmonds and Hayden from <span style="">Neecha-Gira</span> Pradesh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Well, Raj had beaten his cousin and senior Thokoray’s son Oodhav hands down. Raj’s colourful verbal and obscene body language had made even the honoured guests blush.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">So Balls Ihave Thokoray had anointed Oodhav Mayor of Aamchi Mumbai, Raj, Raja and himself, Maharaja of Maratharashtra.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Nevertheless, the state of bliss which senior Thokoray found himself in did not last long. Raj started a vicious campaign against Oodhav and the other Marathas with <i>moochh</i>. Soon Shav Sena split up into Shav Sena <i>Moochh</i> or SS(M) and Shav Sena <i>Moochh-less</i> or SS(M-L). The SS(M) comrades started beating up SS(M-L) <span style=""> </span>workers. Terrified, the SS(M-L) workers went on a <i>mooch</i>-shaving spree. As a result the barbers began doing a brisk business. An enterprising <i>nai </i>called Sharad Barber launched a Barbers’ Consortium for Cutting in India (BCCI). The BCCI launched an IPO, which was oversubscribed, and this made the barbers the richest community in Amchi Mumbai. They formed a party called Barbers’ Jagran Party or the BJP.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Statehood was declared for Mumbai and when the elections were held the result was a hung affair — with the three major parties needing 13 seats to form the government. And since none of the party chiefs was ‘well-hung’ they ended up wooing the minorities — that is the Taxi Drivers and Doodhwallahs who had managed to somehow survive in Amchi Mumbai. They had formed a Taxi and Doodh Association, or TADA, which won the crucial 13 seats. After a lot of donkey trading and auctioning the result was finally out. Aamchi Mumbai had finally a stable government: Oodhav and Raj were the deputy chief ministers and Sharad Barber the Governor. Now, I bet you can never guess the name of the chief minister? He was none other than the leader of TADA — <i>bade bhaiyya’s chhote bhaiyya</i>: Bhramar Singh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-US">Amchi Mumbai’s cosmopolitan fabric was finally restored with <i>sattu </i>and <i>shreekhand </i>coexisting in the same <i>thali</i><span style="">.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-6418347938921796312008-08-09T13:38:00.000-07:002008-08-09T13:43:03.944-07:00Mumbai Mélange<div style="float: left; width: 50%;"> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;"> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span class="writerName" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 11px;">Shinie Antony</span><span class="serviceName" style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 11px;"></span></span> </div> <div class="displayDate" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Saturday, August 09, 2008 23:02 IST<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">DNA</span><br /></span><p><strong>Urban Voice 3 Bombay: New Writing<br />Frog Books<br />182 pages<br />Rs195 </strong></p> <p>There is a clamouring din out there, many voices are shrilling, the blind groping the elephant are confusing it with its tail or trunk. City-specific perspectives can make an interesting collage as never-before angles loom to the fore, dark corners are lit and one is forced to pursue visions otherwise disturbing or baffling. </p><p>A cross between a magazine and book, Urban Voice 3 zips through the much-maligned, much-adored city, well, maligning and adoring. Monideepa Sahu’s ‘Going Home In The Rain’ rides an auto through the menacing monsoons, from a crowded railway platform to a plate of hot samosas with mint chutney. “It was good to be home,” she tells us. </p><p>And Mumbai is home to millions from all over the world. They have adapted to its potholes and rains and crowds and the last local and a description of any of these may not evoke the right level of awe. These are a given, an almost endearing trait of an adopted or natural terrain. To have, however articulately forwarded, view after view dwell on karma, train travails and the overflowing drains can feel a bit repetitive despite the undeniable fact that they are true. Mumbai as a concept can stand deconstruction, but may barely be able to brave the clichés coming its way. </p><p>Thankfully, there are multiple inflections here; from the familiar landmarks like the Gateway of India to the subtle nuances of a newly-christened cowardice, the searchlight sways in its focus. Rajender Menen’s ‘Love And Deliverance In Kamathipura’ ducks into an alley where Tara twinkles among the debauched, destroyed lives around her. Jane Bhandari stirs this Mumbai mélange when she says in ‘Meri Jaan’: “Mumbai is Bombay/Sounds fatter to me”. </p><p>Perhaps it is the format — of mixing stories with essays and even an interview where we are twice informed of Sudeep Sen’s website and his poetry collection is alternately called ‘Postmaked India’ and ‘Postmarked India’ — that disorients. When Urban Voice “aims to capture the thrilling transformation (in India’s literary scene) by creating a platform for thinkers to capture ‘next-in-line’ trends and go beyond”, expectations prise open this big ugly maw. </p><p><em>The reviewer is a novelist. </em></p></div> </div>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-82560703027389756972008-07-27T00:57:00.000-07:002008-07-27T02:36:25.986-07:00Two Mixed Reviews<span style="font-weight: bold;">Hi Folks</span><br />This week saw two reviews of the recently-launched <span style="font-style: italic;">Urban Voice 3</span>. Nothing much to talk home about, but I thought I will share them with you, patrons, as criticism is what makes one grow, not just bouquets.<br />So here they go:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >Bombay book<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis5JwW6rBfO3mvDZzs1XFXgkK8QbfiL4fTM8Y7Vmn5H9Z_TotcqvByltga1jMMoNEpkErohJhsSBPZBItjDJt8LBEuP7v94Y7hyphenhyphenci2PhHEKPm6w66lp-5u-efu-1mBFIAIQuqFdF79Dkg/s1600-h/timeout.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 62px; height: 83px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis5JwW6rBfO3mvDZzs1XFXgkK8QbfiL4fTM8Y7Vmn5H9Z_TotcqvByltga1jMMoNEpkErohJhsSBPZBItjDJt8LBEuP7v94Y7hyphenhyphenci2PhHEKPm6w66lp-5u-efu-1mBFIAIQuqFdF79Dkg/s200/timeout.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227621275669533666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;">Thi</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;">s</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"> fortnight's addition to our shelves.<br /></span></span>Frog Books' <span style="font-style: italic;">Urban Voice 3 </span>features new writing from Mumbai. The opening piece, by Monideepa Sahu, is about an auto ride and there are pieces about riding the train, buying a train ticket and about the pedestrian subway outside Churchgate railway station. The series' editor Sunil K Poolani says it aims to be a "platform for thinkers to capture 'next-in-line' trends and go beyond."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Frog Books; Rs 195</span>)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-- <span style="font-weight: bold;">Time Out Mumbai</span>, 25 July 2008</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKFzXW-VAtsX2XdJoiiHrosPEYOd68lbPCsvEjxbc_FLU6-kayBR3rf3H6EtBE4Ihgdwm-FkTIX91gS7Qbl7bmOHBKNJLMCV7n_7AQyBcEPZe1aT4hO34AXofDOMIBQvZK9Gqb0omYrgQ/s1600-h/telegraph.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 44px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKFzXW-VAtsX2XdJoiiHrosPEYOd68lbPCsvEjxbc_FLU6-kayBR3rf3H6EtBE4Ihgdwm-FkTIX91gS7Qbl7bmOHBKNJLMCV7n_7AQyBcEPZe1aT4hO34AXofDOMIBQvZK9Gqb0omYrgQ/s400/telegraph.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227618923185661026" border="0" /></a><b>Urban voice 3: Bombay </b><i>(Frog, Rs 195)</i> brings together “writings from and on Bombay”. There are short stories, poems and even the odd interview, but they have nothing new to offer, save clichéd themes depicting this bustling metropolis. Thus, we encounter (again!) tales about Bombay’s resilience after the bomb blasts, the warmth of its people, Bollywood, and so on. Vimla Patil’s “Magical memories”, surprisingly, touches a chord, with its earnest longing for a world made of tile-roofed houses, old temples and curative herbs that is now lost forever.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-- <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Telegraph</span>, 25 July 2008</span>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-91004297449344121362008-07-10T08:31:00.000-07:002008-07-10T08:38:03.079-07:00Urban Voice 3: Bombay is outDear Friends, City Cousins and Romans,<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Urban Voice </span>is finally out (am I hearing the applause!?). As you of course now the focus is on Bombay </span>one of the most vivacious cities of the world. Writings on and from Bombay.<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><br />The contributors include: </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-GB">Ranjona Banerji, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Jane Bhandari, Derek Bose, <span class="gmailquote"><span style="">Pratik Chowdhury, </span></span>Atin Dasgupta, Rosalyn D’mello, Fiona Fernandez, Reshma Ghosh, Aijaz Gul, <strong><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-weight: normal;">Dan Husain, </span></strong>Abha Iyengar, <span style="">Radhika Iyengar, </span>Lajwanti S Khemlani, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";" lang="EN-GB">Ramendra Kumar, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Freny Manecksha, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Abhinav Maurya, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Rajendar Menen, Vimla Patil, Sunil K Poolani, Anjali Purohit, <span style="">Joy C Raphael, </span>Dilip Raote, Monideepa Sahu, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; color: black;">Murzban F Shroff, </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Riah Terri and Salil Tripathi.<o:p></o:p></span><br />And there are interviews with Sudeep Sen and Naresh Fernandes.<br />So, folks, need your support to make this issue, and the coming ones too, a success.<br />Will keep you posted.<br />Best<br />Sunil K Poolani (poolani@gmail.com)<br /><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> </span>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-66261511521900995592008-07-01T14:36:00.001-07:002008-07-01T14:46:48.636-07:00Urban Voice Cover<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7bKKabrJvyH9GtZcmyJKfeIUVbxJxwbamWvPj6_iyp5XOmBN3mCEM-TPUxQ3P_SftXOxZ3H1D6rYDGtcjQYXvW6AyhyjZwNM9L4JoTjdcnaiEMcF1ZHyTHZ2wdplagRxvRsY0HOOSJg/s1600-h/final+UV+cover+page.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7bKKabrJvyH9GtZcmyJKfeIUVbxJxwbamWvPj6_iyp5XOmBN3mCEM-TPUxQ3P_SftXOxZ3H1D6rYDGtcjQYXvW6AyhyjZwNM9L4JoTjdcnaiEMcF1ZHyTHZ2wdplagRxvRsY0HOOSJg/s400/final+UV+cover+page.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218164261654800658" border="0" /></a><br />Dear Romans, friends, and country cousins, Urban Voice is coming out soon.<br />Sample the cover. BestFrog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-50538424396824184372008-05-08T13:22:00.000-07:002008-05-08T13:34:23.823-07:00BI-POLAR BRILLIANCE<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The Bengali, The Indian, The Internationalist<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The</span></i></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" lang="EN-US" ><span style="font-size:180%;"> </span><span style=""><span style="font-size:180%;">SUDEEP SEN </span><i><span style="font-size:180%;">Interview<br /><br /></span></i></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghw67w6tlBtc84gSKNJmDp7sqUrc3l5G9PBgovpqPjkHQ-jZdsDPUzU9u-N74p07E6PTKC0U8l-4Gpkk1bNMmaTrC0PfWJKqjh2wzjPNThIqDUB7VVPJY5-OJAcqsnJOiv9t0x756tQso/s1600-h/Sudeep+Sen+Colourphoto+by+P+Dave.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghw67w6tlBtc84gSKNJmDp7sqUrc3l5G9PBgovpqPjkHQ-jZdsDPUzU9u-N74p07E6PTKC0U8l-4Gpkk1bNMmaTrC0PfWJKqjh2wzjPNThIqDUB7VVPJY5-OJAcqsnJOiv9t0x756tQso/s400/Sudeep+Sen+Colourphoto+by+P+Dave.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198107426264743538" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Critical Introduction by Shormishtha Panja, Professor & Head of English Department, University of </span><st1:place style="font-weight: bold;" st="on"><st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><o:p></o:p></span> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Interview, Head Notes by </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Ziaul Karim</span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">, executive editor, <i>Jamini</i>, an international arts magazine<i>.</i> <span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-weight: bold;"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sudeep Sen</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> talks about architecture, topography, music, body politics, invention, fusion and balance in his art & poetry.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Wingdings;"><span style=""></span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sudeep Sen</span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>[www.sudeepsen.net] was born in <st1:city st="on">New Delhi</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region> and studied literature there and in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>As an Inlaks scholar he completed his MS in Journalism from <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Columbia</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>He grew up in an atmosphere of cultural sophistication.<span style=""> </span>His first poetry collection, <i style="">Leaning Against the Lamppost</i> (1983) expressed formal competence with end rhymes, half rhymes and stanza variations, including emblematic poems like "The Tin Can."<span style=""> </span>In his next volume, <i>The Lunar Visitations</i> (1990), the evidence of Eliot is marked in the eye for detail and the careful detailing of the urban landscape.<span style=""> </span>The moon recurs in the poems as a romantic image and, more darkly, as a reminder of madness.<span style=""> </span>The locale of the poems ranges from <st1:city st="on">Hiroshima</st1:city> to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mathura</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>The volume is carefully structured: the man, the woman and the child, the seer, the poet and the beggar act as uniting principles as does the movement from day to night, from season to season.<span style=""> </span>This collection is followed by <i style="">Kali in Ottava Rima</i> (1992) which as its title suggests brings together the east and the west and also departs from the accepted norms for Indian English poetry.<span style=""> </span>It is more ambitious than the earlier volumes, less romantic and somewhat more political.<span style=""> </span>The Hindu deities, Kali and Shiva, are celebrated through occidental rhyme schemes and verse forms like <i>ottava rima </i>and the villanelle and unorthodox images like "God's wig."<span style=""> </span>The structure of the Sanskrit <i style="">sloka </i>with its long lines and delicate rhyme scheme, suggestive of the chant,<i style=""> </i>is used in "Durga Puja" but the images are resolutely grim and secular: Durga "wades her way upstream / miraculously through the ... debris, dirt, sewage and homage."<span style=""> </span>"Night with Lakshmi" is an understated love poem while "Mid-Term Polls, Yet Again" expresses the poet's sense of weary <i>deja-vu</i> with regard to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s unscrupulous politicians.<span style=""> </span>The eponymous poem in <i style="">New York Times </i>(1993) rhymes ‘abxba … cdxdc …’ (which is Sen’s very own invention), the five lines saluting the five boroughs of the city, and captures through rhyme, assonance, alliteration and run-on lines, particularly at the end of stanzas, the unrelenting pace of a New York City day: <o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Every morning in relentless hurry, I scurry<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>through the streets of <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place>, turn around the avenue, flee<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>past the red and white awning of the Jewish deli,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>walk out with a bagel or croissant or spilled coffee,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>disappearing underground in a flurry,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>speeding in a subway of mute faces…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The city returns in "Night in Times Square" ("Late nighters like me, amblers, whores, / all gesture in silence, /…understanding / each other with an everyday skill") and at the end of<span style=""> </span>"Third Week of August" where memories of the past year appear as a "long / song, sung in inseparable couplets."<span style=""> </span><i style="">South African Woodcut</i> (1994) written as Sen toured the country just before the historic elections that ended apartheid is disappointing in its political understatement.<span style=""> </span>The people "tongue-tied, colour-coded, land-locked" ("Independent Homeland") are praised for their "muted, saintly serenity" ("South African Woodcut") </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> surely a misreading of black struggle and resistance.<span style=""> </span><st1:place st="on"><i style="">Mount Vesuvius</i></st1:place><i style=""> in Eight Frames</i> (1994) is accompanied by Peter Standen's illustrations.<span style=""> </span>This poem-sequence is spare and crisp and follow the story of a couple in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Pompeii</st1:city></st1:place> from living lovers to "glass-encased" corpses in a museum.<span style=""> </span>The refrain of these poems runs "Death has an invisible presence / in the Vesuvian valley, even the corpses / bear an insidious resemblance…." <i style="">Dali's Twisted Hands</i> (1995) is one of Sen's longest volumes of poetry.<span style=""> </span>Along with the accounts of travelling around the world, <st1:city st="on">Edinburgh</st1:city>, Neemrana, <st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city>, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>, Vrindavan, Orissa, and remembering fellow poets and artists like Jayanta Mahapatra and Louis I. Kahn, runs the abiding concern for the rival claims to reality of art and life.<span style=""> </span>The man who buys a ticket to a Hindi film describes it as "<i style="">ek dum dream-like</i>" "nothing like his own life" adds Sen, sotto voce and yet it swamps his waking hours in the factory.<span style=""> </span>In "Dali's Twisted Hands" he asks himself if his past "was merely part of a myth, a myth / to which the present's locked door and unlocked time / testifies."<span style=""> </span>This is a demystification of the whole process of mythmaking which he had believed in in the earlier <i>The</i> <i style="">Lunar Visitations</i>: "A large myth was looming all around" ("The Lovers and the Moon").<span style=""> </span>"Line Breaks" turns everyday conversation into poetry: "My lover / likes it [milk] creamy, / I like it smooth, / the sheep like it plain, / and the rest, I doubt / they like it at all."<span style=""> </span>The romantic in Sen appears in the misleadingly titled "The Garland of Stars" where the urges of love and friendship with a male, married friend are seen to overlap ("we / would still be woven thick in her <i style="">tangail's </i>weave, never to sever"). <i style="">Postmarked <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> </i>(1997) is in many ways the culmination of the first stage of Sen's poetic developments.<span style=""> </span>Old themes and techniques recur: the question of location, of home ("I am going home once again from another / home" ("Flying Home"), the uses of nostalgia ("Old Room"), romantic love expressed through everyday images reminiscent of the French Impressionists ("After Sunday Breakfast"), the meeting of east and west (the rhythm of the Indian classical dance form is used in "Bharatanatyam Dancer," the second line indented to echo the tabla's beat, and the end-rhymes mapping the dance-steps).<span style=""> </span>However, the expression is effortless and unself-consciousness: this is a poet sure of his voice.<span style=""> </span>In the last six years Sen has translated, edited volumes of poetry and published a number of chapbooks (<i style="">Bodytext: Dramatic Monologues in Motion</i> [1999], <i style="">Retracing American Contours</i> [1999], <i style="">Lines of Desire</i>, [2000]) containing a mix of old poetry and prose and new.<span style=""> </span>The chapbook, <i style="">In Another Tongue </i>(2000), is a collection of translations of Bengali, Hindi, Hebrew, Macedonian and Persian poetry.<span style=""> </span>The haunting translation of Jibanananda Das's "Banalata Sen" is noteworthy: "Birds return home, so do rivers; as life's trade </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> its give and take </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> cease. / Only the dark stays.<span style=""> </span>And just as it remains, so does sitting by my side, / face to face, my own Banalata Sen." <i style="">Lines of Desire </i>(2000)<i style=""> </i>is a sequence of erotic poems in which he eschews his tone of a Bengali <i style="">bhodralok</i> (middle-class, respectable and decorous) to travel from what he calls in an interview, the inside to the outside: capture the raw emotion in all its intensity: "the silk of your shirt </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> now transparent in heat </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> / painting the outer circle of your nipples / to a hardened edge, tasting the sweet / skin" ("Indian Dessert"); "a languorous kiss / the faintest smell of ocean / salt-lipped breeze, pleading" (the haiku, "Kiss").<span style=""> </span><i style="">Postcards from <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Bangladesh</st1:country-region></st1:place> </i>(2002) is a collaborative work with the photographer Tanvir and the designer Kelley Lynch.<span style=""> </span>This collection celebrates the weaves ("Tangail, Jamdani, Benaroshi, Taat"), rains ("Monsoon has arrived </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> persistent in intent, green in jealousy"), rivers ("As the oar hits the water </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> / it sounds like laughter"), bricks and mortar (Shilaidaha Kuthibari, Armenian Church, Lalbagh Fort), diet ("I use my finger-tips / to pry open, / feel, and sense / the hidden taste / of fish") and people (Jacquard Master Babul the weaver, Shafula Begum the feminist activist) of Bangladesh.<span style=""> </span>It has the lush and sophisticated look of a coffee table book but is much more than that, including poems, lyric prose, prose poems, interviews, travel writing and information.<span style=""> </span>Like <i style="">Monsoon</i> (2002), prose poems accompanied by breathtaking black and white photographs by Mahmud, this volume expresses Sen's sense of a poem being an artefact, a visual as well as an oral delectation. <i style="">Monsoon</i> came out as <i style="">Rain</i> in 2005, this time Sudeep’s text being accompanied by art by <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s top twenty artists on the same theme. The most recent book is <i style="">Distracted Geographies: An Archipelago of Intent </i>(2003)<i style=""> </i>an ambitious book-length poem about the politics of body and text, the twelve sections corresponding to the twelve bones in the ribcage.<span style=""> </span>The twenty-six poems, composed in sparse, short couplets, flexibly move and come together to form a whole like the twenty-six bones in the vertebrae ("I stand, / wanting /…the dream, / the wet, the salt, / the ink, the rain, / and, / the underside / of her skin." "The hair’s / fine / invisible / venom" "Bone and / bone / meet…Carpal / architecture / change their / spine matrix").<span style=""> </span>Occasionally Sen can appear sentimental; however the times when he successfully adopts the emotionally spare and verbally sparse voice </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> and this is very often </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> his work sounds delicate yet full, intense yet mature.<span style=""> </span>Also published in 2003 is a multi-media CD/book </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> <i>Prayer Flag</i> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> that includes a selection of his poems, his photographs, and his reading which is described by a critic as “a wonderful oral rendition of poetry by the poet in a baritone that is full of reverberating gravitas, depth, and richness </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">¾</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> and all that subtly layered with professionally choreographed sound effects and music”. His productivity, so rare among Indian English poets, is one of his greatest assets: it enables him to continually hone his skills and experiment with style and language.<span style=""> </span>He is one of the main exponents of the new, global voice in Indian English poetry, admitting to influences as varied as Jibanananda Das, Kazi Nazrul Islam, Milton, Baudelaire, John Donne, Rainer Maria Rilke, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>— Shormishtha Panja in <i style="">The Routledge Encyclopaedia of Post-Colonial Literatures </i>[<st1:city st="on">London</st1:city>/<st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place>]<i style=""><span style=""> </span></i><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Wingdings;"><span style=""></span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sudeep Sen</span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">’s [www.sudeepsen.net] Spanish edition of <i style="">Rain</i> (translated by M Dolores Herrero under the title, <i>Lluvia</i>) recently appeared from <st1:placetype st="on">University</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Zaragoza</st1:placename> in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Inspired by this book, a concert length score has been composed by Javier Coble Quartet in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and the resultant CD is forthcoming soon. His new book-length poem, <i style="">Distracted Geographies: An Archipelago of Intent </i>and<i style=""> Prayer Flag: Poems & Photography,</i> came out in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place> (from Wings Press) to immense critical acclaim. The British editions (from Peepal Tree) were nominated for the Poetry Book Society Choice earlier, and the Indian editions have appeared from Indialog and Mapin respectively. He is currently working on his <i>Collected Poems & Translations 1978-2008, </i>and editing a landmark anthology of English Indian Poetry, <i>Midnight’s Grandchildren 1947-2007.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sen was awarded the prestigious ‘Pleiades’ honour </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">at the world’s oldest poetry festival in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Struga</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Macedonia</st1:country-region></st1:place> in September 2004. As the Pleiades title suggests, seven internationally “famous poets” who have made “significant contribution to modern world poetry” were chosen to receive this prestigious honour — the other six on the year’s list included the Nobel prize nominated Chinese poet Bei Dao, Herder European Award winning Romanian poet Ana Blandiana, the Irish poet John F Deane who has won innumerable international prizes, Arturo Korkuera from Peru, Al Janabi from Iraq, and Philip Johns from Belgium.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sen is the author of over thirty titles, including <i style="">Postmaked India: New & Selected Poems</i> (HarperCollins) which won the Hawthornden Fellowship (UK) and nominated for the Pushcart Prize (USA). His writings have appeared in the <i style="">Times Literary Supplement, Guardian, Independent, Financial Times, Evening Standard, Scotsman, Scotland on Sunday, Herald, London Magazine, Poetry Review, Literary Review, Harvard Review, Prague Literary Review, Times of India, Hindu, Statesman, Observer, Gentleman, Biblio, Little Magazine,</i> <i style="">Indian Review of Books, Outlook, </i>and <i style="">India Today</i>. His poetry appears in important international anthologies published by Penguin, HarperCollins, <st1:place st="on">Bloomsbury</st1:place>, Routledge, Norton, Knopf, Everyman, Macmillan, and Granta. As an invited author representing his country, he has read his work worldwide, and has been translated into several languages including Arabic, Bengali, Czech, Dutch, Finnish, French, German, Greek, Hebrew, Hindi, Hungarian, Italian, Korean, Macedonian, Persian, Polish, Romanian, Slovakian, Slovenian, Spanish, Swedish, and Turkish.<b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sen’s poetry is highly rated amongst the contemporary international poets, writers and critics. The Russain Nobel laureate Joseph Brodsky was an early critic and admirer of his work, as were Yehuda Amichai, Donald Hall, William Matthews, the senior Indian poets Dom Moraes, A K Ramanujan, Nissim Ezekiel, Jayanta Mahapatra, Adil Jussawalla and Agha Shahid Ali. Peter Porter, Les Murray, David Lehman, Tomaz Salamun, Charles Bernstein, Naomi Shihab Nye, Daniel Weissbort, John Hartley Williams, Alan Ross, Ruth Padel, Kwame Dawes, Amir Or and a host of contemporary poets have lauded his work.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">John Berger,<span style="font-variant: small-caps;"> </span>one of contemporary world’s leading thinker and writer, <span style="">the Booker Prize winner and author of</span><i style=""> The Ways of Seeing </i>(Penguin/BBC) wrote, “<span style="color:black;">Sudeep Sen’s poems are a present which bring — like all true poetry — so much companionship”. </span>Amit Chaudhuri in <i style="">The Statesman</i>’s ‘Best Book of the Year’ wrote, “I read <i style="">Rain </i>with considerable admiration and pleasure. It is a word-perfect collection and its subject matter is both the measure of the rain and the spoken line”.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">“Sen has emerged as a leading poet of the English language — has a painter’s eye when depicting a scene — commands superb skill,” wrote Khushwant Singh in Sunday <i style="">Observer. </i><span style="color:black;">“A highly sophisticated poet” [Kaifi Azmi, <i style="">Selected Poems</i> (Viking Penguin)]; </span>“A wonderful poet” [Yehuda Amichai, <i style="">Selected Poems</i> (Faber)]; “A gifted<span style=""> </span>poet”.[Dom Moraes in <i style="">Sunday Midday</i>] — are oft-quoted citations. John Thieme in the scholarly and exclusive <i style="">Cambridge Guide to Literature in English</i> wrote, “Sen is an eclectic poet whose understated work eschews fashionable trends, while exhibiting considerable technical virtuosity and versatility.” Gregor Robertson on <i style="">BBC Radio</i> hailed Sen as being “among the finest younger English-language poets in the international literary scene. A distinct voice: carefully modulated and skilled, well measured and crafted”.<span style=""> </span>The English novelist and film critic of <i>The Guardian</i>, Peter Bradshaw calls him “a rich, fluent, cosmopolitan voice” in a review in the <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> <i style="">Evening Standard.</i> “Sen [has] extended the range of Indian verse in English to encompass a variety of alternative views of language, history and culture,” states an entry in the prestigious Penguin <i style="">Pears Cyclopaedia. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sudeep Sen has been an international poet-in-residence at the Scottish Poetry Library in <st1:city st="on">Edinburgh</st1:city>, and a visiting scholar at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Harvard</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>. He is the editorial director of <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Aark Arts</span>; is on the editorial boards of <i style="">Atlas, Orient Express, New Quest,</i> and<i style=""> Six Seasons Review; </i>and is an associate of <i style="">The Paris Review</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">“Art in its purest form never reveals all”, writes Sudeep Sen, as evident in the unfathomable depth and beauty of a ‘Bharatanatyam Dancer’. This inspired line from his poem serves as a fascinating commentary on his poetry. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sen essentially loves to express himself in a clear, crisp, logical fashion, while building his ideas line-by-line, and stanza-by-stanza. The belief that ambiguity is at the core of poetic beauty is not true for Sudeep Sen. His poetic beauty works at a very different level.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">However he may conceive a poem, the final result is always a well-knit fabric. If you try unravelling the threads of the fabric itself, it will gently reveal subtle layers, which otherwise go unnoticed to an everyday eye. It is worth comparing his poems to a treasure-chest — one that appears simple, concrete, and well-constructed but upon opening, it starts to “slow-release” its many secrets, splendours, and gifts. The voice in his poems is soft, gentle, though persuasive — one which murmurs and hums its <i style="">mantra</i> into our ear, a <i style="">mantra</i> that is, to quote the end of the same poem, “poetic, passionate, and ice-pure.”<span style=""> </span>This poem, dedicated to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s foremost ‘Bharatanatyam Dancer’ — Leela Samson — is quoted below in full:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Spaces in the electric air divide themselves<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>in circular rhythms, as the slender <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">grace of your arms and bell-tied ankles<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>describe a geometric topography, real, cosmic,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>one that once reverberated continually in<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">a prescribed courtyard of an ancient temple<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">in <st1:place st="on">South India</st1:place>. As your eyelids flit and flirt, and<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>match the subtle <i style="">abhinaya</i> in a flutter<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">of eye-lashes, the pupils create an <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>unusual focus, sight only ciliary muscles <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>blessed and cloaked in celestial <i style="">kaajal</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">could possibly enact.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The raw brightness of <i style="">kanjeevaram</i> silk, of<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>your breath, and the nobility of antique silver<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">adorns you and your dance, reminding us of<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>the treasure chest that is only <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>half-exposed, disclosed just enough, barely —<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">for art in its purest form never reveals all.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Even after the arc lights have long faded,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>the audience, now invisible, have stayed over.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Here, I can still see your pirouettes, frozen <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>as time-lapse exposures, feel<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>the murmuring shadow of an accompanist's <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">intricate <i style="">raga</i> in this theatre of darkness, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">a darkness where oblique memories of my<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>quiet Kalakshetra days filter,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">matching your very own of another time,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>where darkness itself is sleeping light,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>light that merges, reshapes, and ignites,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">dancing delicately in the half-light.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">But it is this sacred darkness that endures,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>melting light with desire, desire that simmers<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">and sparks the radiance of your<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>quiet femininity, as the female dancer <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>now illuminates everything visible: clear,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">poetic, passionate, and ice-pure.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">It might be interesting for readers interested in form to note that the line-end rhyme-scheme — <i style="">a b a c c a<span style=""> </span>... d b d e e d ...<span style=""> </span>f b f g g f ..— </i>maps and mirrors the actual classical dance step-pattern and beat — <i style="">ta dhin ta thaye thaye ta. </i>Also the left-hand margin indentations match the same scheme and form. <o:p></o:p></span></p><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:Wingdings;"><span style=""></span></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Ziaul Karim</span></b><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> </span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">(ZK): If I were to try and locate the central theme of your poetry — or by extension your <i style="">weltanschaung —</i> I think I would cite the line — “I love the luxury of secrets” — that is quoted as an epigraph at the beginning of <i style="">Postmarked India: New & Selected Poems</i> published by HarperCollins.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Sudeep Sen</span></b><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> </span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">(SS):<span style=""> </span> I suspect part of the reason why I was attracted to that particular line was because of what it implies — the fact that imaginative spaces occupy a zone of secrecy that is limitless, expansive, and full of mystery. It is a space that allows for creative unfurling of ideas and energies because so much of that area is unknown, untapped, uncharted, waiting to be realised, experienced and learnt. I am not sure that the epigraph entirely sums up everything I write about in my poems, or the essence of the book itself, but certainly it is true for a certain aspect of my writing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: You have a penchant for digging deep into life’s experiences, or at least the Sudeep Sen as he appears to me as a poet, loves to discover the intricate mysteries of living. You are essentially a poet whose voice is understated. Even though you are politically conscious and aware, you are not overtly political. Are you a cerebral poet?<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: I try very hard not to sound too political or overly cerebral. In fact when I revise poetry, these are aspects that become very important to me as I don’t want to sound either overly politicised leaning one way or the other, or consciously cerebral. I think that the whole point of a poem is lost if you cannot appeal to a wide cross-section of sensitive readers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Different readers with different backgrounds bring with them a unique personal sensibility by which they understand and appreciate a piece of art and all of them have a perfectly valid point of view. I imagine my audience as anybody who is literate and culturally-inclined in the widest sense of the words — he could be a banker, teacher, sports person, model, ice-cream seller, or working in the garment industry. I definitely do not write specifically for the English departments of universities, or students of English literature.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I write because I enjoy writing, because I enjoy language, because I enjoy how words sound when they are strung together in an interesting manner. If one consciously tries to insert sexy politically-correct<span style=""> </span>terminology or jargon, references which largely an English literature student (or an academic/critic) understands, then I think I would be terribly limiting myself. I would feel claustrophobic if I just dwell in<span style=""> </span>the inward world of academic discourse. My interests are serious, and at same time much wider — sports, popular culture, alternative music and drama, underground literature, and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">There is a lot of politics, comment, perhaps even a pinch of intellectualisation in my poems — how can one avoid what is around you in a daily sense. However, what I try to do is not make them obvious. And that can be quite hard because having written the poem/s, subverting the obvious is a serious challenge. Being understated and quiet is much more interesting to me than the other way around.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Often one reads poetry that sound like statements, as if the only aim of poetry is to give expression to a set of ideas or agendas. In myopic terms, this kind of writing does not interest me as this could be done by a political speechwriter or ad-agency copywriter. To me, if you have an interesting thought, then how can you write about it without being obvious or blatant, there lies the challenge for me. So, it is a question of writing in a nuanced and textured way, with multiple levels, with various layers, all overlapping and distinct at the same time, as well as being lucid.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Are you obliquely referring to Coleridge’s maxim “poetry is best words in best order”, or is that subconscious when you write? From an architectural point of view, it seems Louis MacNeice has heavily<span style=""> </span>influenced you.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The architecture of a poem is very important to me, partly because of my own inherent interest in architecture itself. Had I not read English literature, I would have been an architect now. In fact, it was<span style=""> </span>very close choosing between the profession of being an architect and teaching literature and film. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">To me, a poem should not only be linguistically challenging, but how it appears visually is an important factor to me as well. There are two kinds of structures — one of course is the use of rhyme and various rhyme-schemes, and the other is visual rhymes. And then, depending on how important structure is to that particular poem, it can have a considerably significant impact.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">For instance, in the poem ‘New York Times’, I invented a rhyme-scheme — <i style="">abxba cdxdc efxfe ...</i> and so on ... the middle line, i.e. the third <i style="">x</i> line, in fact is the mirror-line which reflects the first & second lines with the fourth & fifth lines of each stanza. The other reason I used the five-line stanza-format in the poem is because the city of <st1:city st="on">New York</st1:city> itself has five boroughs <st1:city st="on">Manhattan</st1:city>, Queens, Brooklyn, <st1:place st="on">Bronx</st1:place>, etc. The other thing about this poem is if you turn the poem 90 degrees on its central axis, then a different kind of mirror-line mimics the shape of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Manhattan</st1:placename></st1:place> itself and its reflection on the surrounding waters.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Another poem, a book-length sequence, <i style="">Mount Vesuvius in Eight Frames</i> (subsequently broadcast on BBC Radio as a verse-play, and premiered in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> as a stage-play by Border Crossings / directed by Michael Walling) is based on a series of eight etchings of a British artist, Peter Standen.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The entire poem is set in rhymed couplets reflecting the presence of two principal characters — man /woman, lover/other, life/death and the other essential dualities. But they do not appear as obvious rhymes (like the translucent choral refrains in the poem)—they are wrap-around rhymes as opposed to end-stopped rhymes. The four stanzas in each section reflect the four seasons, the four side of a frame, the four corner of a visual space. I also use alternating line-indentation for each couplet and stanza with the idea that the entire poem works on a cyclical principle. So, if you join all the stanzas together using the left-justified margin as a reference plane, they in fact fit in a perfect dove-tail joint.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The poem ‘Single Malt’ is one grammatical line, without any full-stops, mimicking the way when whiskey poured gently in to a crystal glass, caresses its sides and subsequently the tongue’s palette. Therefore the slim verticality of this poem’s structure:<span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>The single malt<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>explodes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>from its husk,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>swirling <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>in the cranium<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>of its own <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>shell,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>flooding <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>the mind<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>with images<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>that alternately<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>switches<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>shutter speed<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>and lens, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>distilling <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>sight,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>that whisks <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>away <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>from the mundane,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>what is <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>absolute<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>and essential,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>and leaves out<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>what is not.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">However, in the end, typography and structure of a poem are just as vital as the inner-spirit and content of any poem.<span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Right from the beginning of your career, your poems are brilliant examples of great control as regards rhythm and syntax, which is a testimony to your own interest in poetry as a craft. Later you went through creative writing programmes at American universities. Did your interest in the architectural aspect of poetry inspire you to go for a Masters Degree in Creative Writing?<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Thank you, those are very kind words. The creative writing classes I took in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region> were much later. I first started writing during my boyhood in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>. In <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> in those days, creative writing was only deemed as a hobby, albeit a laudable one. Nobody took it seriously, certainly not in a career or an academic sense. So by the time I went to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> and took my first creative writing class, I already had a typical South Asian bias against the teaching of creative writing itself. I thought that how can anybody teach you how to write poetry you either had it in you or not or so I was led to believe until then.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">But what I did learn when I was enrolled in these workshops were aspects of craft, prosody, stylistics, and technique. It is very important to know and learn these things, and I cannot over-emphasize their importance. We also read sheaves and sheaves of contemporary poetry which is very exciting for me. A lot of bad name to modern poetry has come about because people think that they can just write a sentence, break it up, and then rearrange it in a column-format. It may be poetry for some people, but for most it is not. These amateur poetasters do not necessarily have the skill, technique, or the inclination to actually write in formal stanzaic patterns. When I say formal, I do not necessarily mean that it has to be always rhymed there is blank verse, free verse, concrete poetry, other kinds of structures involved. I think creative writing classes are useful both if you are particularly interested in the aspects of prosody, as well as it teaches you to think seriously and critically about contemporary writing itself.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: In the post-colonial literary scene, poets and novelists writing in English from the non-English speaking world, do suffer in most cases, from a sense of displacement this is a strong phenomenon in the writings from the South Asian diaspora. You are remarkably free from such feelings of being uprooted. One discovers that in the pages of your various books, you move smoothly between one home to another.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: I think the reason why you don’t see any sense of displacement in my writing is because I’m actually a very rooted person. My rootedness comes from my family and the way I was brought up. I’m first and foremost a Bengali writer, who just happens to write in another Indian language that is English. So, my cultural and intellectual spaces are very much defined by the fact that I come from a thoroughly Bengali milieu.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I am also fortunate to have grown up in a tri-lingual situation—I spoke Bengali at home, Hindi on the streets, and English at school not by design but by circumstance. So, this wonderful tripartite situation was such that I could slip in and out of several mother-tongues and languages at the same time it certainly made it linguistically richer, and we as South Asians are very lucky because of that.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I also come from a typically liberal educated middle-class Bengali family who have always been an immense source of strength for me. So, that kind jargon-ridden “post-colonial” displacement you are talking about is very alien as a concept to me, and even more difficult for a person with my background to rationally understand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The other aspect of this is that I grew up in the capital city of Delhi which is a very cosmopolitan place it has a curious mix of the First and Third World atmosphere depending on where or what you are engaged in at any given moment. So wherever I have travelled subsequently, be it a cosmopolitan place or a rural one, I was in some manner or the other, somewhat familiar with that new place from before at least I was never in a state of cultural shock, however remote.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">We, in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>, have been exposed to the western culture, along with our very own, from our early childhood so neither of them are unfamiliar to us. So, when one is actually inhabiting these so-called Western (and Eastern spaces), they are places one feels equally at home. In fact I quite enjoy being in both worlds. I love the taste of<i style=""> singara, sandesh, kabab,</i> and <i style="">phuchka</i>; and at the same time I love blue cheese, smoked salmon, wine and single malt. I do not personally see any conflict in these two worlds, rather I feel lucky and infinitely richer in experience, since my taste-buds as well as my intellectual and emotional terrain, can accommodate all of that happily and simultaneously.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Is it then, your trans-national self, that writes “I / am going home once again from another / home, escaping the weave of reality into another / one, one that gently reminds and stalls / to confirm: my body is<span style=""> </span>the step-son of my soul”?<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The poem ‘Flying Home’ partly reflects the trans-national quality I have been talking about. Many writers and artists nowadays are in this sort of situation. When I’m going from one home to another in a<span style=""> </span>plane, which in itself is such a peculiar kind of controlled space, it is a sort of perennially-transitional home, a home that is elastic it all depends on how you visualize space and how you demarcate geography. To me, that in itself is an interesting concept, one that allows for an expansive canvas. So, I suspect there is something inherent in me that makes it very difficult for me to feel displaced.<span style=""> </span>Here, let the poem speak for itself:<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I meticulously stitch time through the embroidered sky,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>through its unpredictable lumps and hollows. I<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">am going home once again from another<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>home, escaping the weave of reality into another<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">one, one that gently reminds and stalls<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>to confirm: my body is the step-son of my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">But what talk of soul and skin<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>in this day and age, such ephemeral things<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">that cross-weaves blood and breath<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>into clotted zones of true escape.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">What talk of flight time and flying<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>when real flights of fancy are crying<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">to stay buoyant unpredictably in mid-air<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>amid pain, peace, and belief: just like thin air<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">sketches, where another home is built <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>in free space vacuum, as another patchwork quilt <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">is quietly wrapped around, gently, in memoriam.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b>: Poetry and dance are constant sources for your poetic inspiration. Through your poetry you constantly refer to other forms of art and its architectural beauty, e.g. in the poem quoted earlier, ‘Bharatanatyam Dancer’.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Absolutely. It accurately reflects my penchant for various sorts of art-forms, in this particular case, the South Indian classical dance. But I’m equally interested in music, film, theatre, live and performance art, and more. If a particular dance or a particular painting, or even a particular piece of dramatic writing moves me, I may write about it directly or obliquely. And this poem ‘Bharatanatyam Dancer’ is a clear case in point.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">An aspect of the poem that may interest you is the architectural and topographical mapping of its poetic structure. I invented another rhyme-scheme for this poem that reflects the actual dance-step pattern on stage that is in consonance with the <i style="">bols</i> and <i style="">tals</i>, in this case—<i style="">ta dhin ta thaye thaye ta …abacca dedffd</i> ... —the actual rhyme-scheme of the poem itself. That of course is only one thing. The more important thing is that I was completely moved and entranced by the performance, skill and beauty of the dancer herself, Leela Samson so I had to write the poem. It was almost written for me by her, I didn’t have a choice... the whole process was quite magical really.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">As is perhaps evident, I do enjoy writing about other art-forms which have inspired or moved me in some way or the other. In fact, my new collection of poems I am currently working is called <i style="">Blue Nude</i>. The title poem is a sequence that has been inspired by Henri Matisse’s cobalt-blue cut-out figures by the same name. Then there are other poems in that book that were inspired by photographs, drama, film and other media. So one can say that the central unifying theme of this book-in-progress, comes from my pleasure and response to the genre of creative arts itself.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: By the time <i style="">Postmarked India</i> was published by HarperCollins, you had already polished and crafted you own poetic voice. You were awarded the prestigious Hawthornden Fellowship in the <st1:country-region st="on">UK</st1:country-region> and nominated for the Pushcart Prize in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">USA</st1:place></st1:country-region> bears testimony to that fact. But somehow I detect that Louis MacNeice’s influence still seemed to linger on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">:<span style=""> </span>I am not entirely sure whether I agree with that last comment, in fact I don’t, various critics have said various things I believe you in this case you are referring to the poet and literary critic, Angus Calder, who compared me with Louis MacNeice in <i style="">The Scotsman</i>. It was an interesting comparison, but Calder perhaps was referring to the “variousness” in my writing, its range and latitude. I never thought that I was ever inspired by him or wrote like him.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Similarly, other people have written that they have found influences/similarities of T.S.Eliot, Joseph Conrad, Hugh MacDiarmid and W.H.Auden in my poems. This could all be temporarily very flattering, but at the end it is completely up to the reader or the critic as to how and what they feel about a particular piece of my writing. I don’t think I have at all been influenced by any one of them, even though I admire their writing enormously.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">No one poet has directly influenced me, and this is evident in the kinds of poetry I like which tends to be rather varied and eclectic I adore the poetry of Jibanananda Das, Kazi Nazrul Islam, Milton, Donne, Wordsworth, the French symbolists like Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarme, Verlaine; Rilke, Neruda, Paz, Walcott, Heaney... it is too varied to list them all. Also the ticker-tape is so dissimilar and expansive that I can’t think of any one or two who, could have possibly influenced me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Again, if have to find one source or fountainhead of influence it would actually be Bengali culture that has affected me ultimately, directly and indirectly. For instance, my interest and sense of rhythm and rhyme comes from my very early childhood through my mother and grandmother. They used to recite stories or sing lullabies to me, and I regularly heard them chant their prayers with a typical Bengali rounded lilt. All these were very inherent rhythms which quietly slipped into my psychological system by a curious process of osmosis. So, these perhaps are my influences very localized and genetic, completely spontaneous. However, the received and learned knowledge as well as the exposure they subsequently lent what I was talking about earlier is a very different sort of thing altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Your voice as a poet is very subdued. And your poems are soliloquies?<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: I would just replace the word “subdued” by the word “understated” which is perhaps more apt. I find that there is a lot of power in understated writing. If you write in a dramatic fashion then you are just advertising the superficial, and often there seems to be nothing very much beyond that.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">To me, writing ought to be a quiet kind of a thing where the reader can read and then take in its effect in a slow-release fashion, much like time-lapse photography. It this sort of style I am personally attracted to. It is so much more effective, because once you influence a person gently over time, then the effect is a lot more permanent and effective, rather than someone who is impressive one minute and altogether forgettable the next minute like certain fashions or trends, or even like a loud noise which soon disappears. A slow well-paced murmur, or an elongated baritone of a hum, actually stays in the sensibility of a human being a lot longer and is perhaps more meaningful.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Does emotion compel you to write? Or do you wait for the right mood to inspire you?<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: I think it is a combination of both. Being a writer is like being a strange kind of a beast. Writers tend to have invisible antennas on top of their head which pick up radar-signals odd-things while you are<span style=""> </span>looking at ordinary scenes, snatches of other conversations, a glimpse of something somewhere so the ordinary everyday scenario acts as a rich well-spring of ideas for me. Even as I speak to you, I might be<span style=""> </span>simultaneously processing an entirely different idea or thought that might have just struck me it is a complex parallel process. These, of course, may be just fragments, or overheard figments, voices, or images. If it is something strong and compelling, I generally try and make an effort to write it down. I don’t necessarily carry a note-book, so it could be on the back of a bill, or on the palm of my hand. If I am in a restaurant I would write it down on a piece of napkin, or find an excuse to get some toilet paper to scribble on it.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">So when I sit down to write, I have all theses ideas and phrases in front of me. Sitting down and writing requires discipline because writing doesn’t just come from the middle of nowhere that is just the inspiration perhaps. But having had the inspiration you need time to put it all together and build the piece brick by brick. I sit down with poetry two or three hours everyday and it is not necessarily that I write a new poem every time very often I don’t, but I could be revising poems that I have written before, or maybe review a book of poetry, or simply just reading and enjoying a book of poetry. It’s my own quiet way of staying with poetry.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">It is quite important to write things down when they first strike, because often I find that if I don’t do that and try to remember it later, it might altogether leave me, go away or vanish. Sometimes of course, it might happen at the most oddest and inconvenient time when I’m already in bed at four o’clock at night / morning especially if it is winter you really do not want to get out from under the duvet and go to the desk and write it down. Sometimes I feel lazy and postpone writing it down until the next day, and very often it has completely gone by then. It is always worth that extra effort to swiftly pen it down and keep it for later.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Does contemporary literary theory in any way come between you and your writing of poetry? Do theories influence your outlook?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: I find intelligently argued theory interesting and worth a rigorous read, but a lot of what is churned out does not inspire me at all. In some odd way, I even dislike theory especially when it is presented to a literate public making simple things overly complicated for no apparent reason. If theory has an intellectual positive base, original and rigorous, then I’m keen on it, only then. But it certainly never influences my creative writing at all. In fact, it stays very far from it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I’m constantly surprised when I read a review, critique, or an essay on my work, as to how much theory is being used these days, especially in the so-called post-colonial circuit. I am not impressed by writers who put poly-syllabic jargon just for effect. Frankly this sort of writing is of no interest to me.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: But certainly you have theories of your own. Just because you don’t adhere to contemporary literary theories, doesn’t mean that you don’t have a theory of your own? Certainly your responses to different stimuli are not passive.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: You can’t be passive when responding to different stimuli, especially if you posses the invisible antennas I had mentioned before if you are passive you cant be writing at all. All the writing I have done<span style=""> </span>over the past fifteen years are responses to various stimuli. The published results are in front you, clearly then one is not passive.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">But when it comes to literary and critical theory, of course I’m aware of what is going on around me. But I don’t let that tarnish or complicate my writing, because as I have said before they are completely separate categories and disciplines. Art should really exist independently on its own merit. Intelligent analysis and critique is surely exciting, but the two genres and purposes are entirely different.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">At the end, what excites me is a piece of original writing that is well-written, thought-provoking, intelligently argued. But ultimately it needs to move me, it needs to create quiet indelible waves that constantly haunts me, changes me in some slight modest way. Otherwise it is simply a cerebral exercise like playing and solving a Rubic’s Cube which only has limited pleasures.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: You have a strong liking for fluids—its intricate flow and glide. There are plenty of references to milk, wine, blood, juices of passion, in your poems such as ‘Single Malt’ that is quoted earlier, in the long poems ‘Line Breaks’ and ‘Mount Vesuvius in Eight Frames’, [and most recently in <i>Rain</i>,] for example. It seems you want to achieve some kind of linguistic fluidity in your poems.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The concept of fluid itself is I think quite interesting. In a sense it is a cross-over phase, or point the of intersection, between the liquid and solid states. So, we are talking about an in-between state, a state that has its own definite rhythm, flow, deliberateness, and so on. It also is a state which typifies the unobvious. The clarity of liquid is very clear and the concreteness of solid is equally concrete. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">But the fluid state is almost like a penumbra, which is the title of a poem I have written. It is a space which allows you to do a lot because it is infinitely multi-layered—it is much more textured, as much depends on the viscosity and density of the fluid itself. It is certainly a worthwhile, languorous, languid space to control and be creative with it. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: This brings me to your superbly written, inspiring treasure of a book, <i style="">Rain </i>[first issued as a limited edition as <i style="">Monsoon</i>]<i style="">.</i> This is at the same time beautiful poetry, prose poem and fiction, one that is balletic and precise, poetic and minimalist, stylised and wise, combining the virtual and visual — coalescing to convey the intensely special magic of monsoon rains as felt in the Indian subcontinent. In such a bold celebration, Derek Walcott, the 1992 Nobel Prize Winner for Literature, wrote: “At the end of this sentence, rain will begin”.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: <i style="">Monsoon</i> is a reflection on rain — its passion and politics, its beauty and fury, its ability to “douse and arouse”. I ultimately explore the various moods that water and fluids inherently unravel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">It is a sequence of twenty-two tightly wrought pieces set in three sections — ‘the first octet’, ‘the second octet’ and ‘the only sestet’. When it was first published as a limited edition in <st1:place st="on">Dhaka</st1:place> by an arts foundation there in 2002, it was accompanied by wonderful pictures by a young Bangladeshi photographer, and the entire book was a duotone production. The new four-colour <i style="">avatar</i> with <i style="">Monsoon</i> reborn as <i style="">Rain</i> is published by Gallerie & Mapin in <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region> and Grantha in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">USA</st1:place></st1:country-region>. This book contains artwork by twenty leading contemporary Indian artists, such as Paritosh Sen, Paresh Maity, Jehangir Sabavala, Gulammohammed Sheikh, Jatin Das, Gieve Patel and many others.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The evocative art that accompany my writing in this book isn’t meant to illustrate the text, but simply to act as an aesthethic counter-point, leit-motiv, and antithesis — thus creating a fine tension and balance between words and images. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Your taste as a poet is very broad, open, and wide-visioned. You are a poet who cannot be conveniently pigeon-holed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Is that a good thing or a bad thing, i.e. the fact that you can't put me in a pigeon-hole?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: As a reader, I have enjoyed the varied landscapes that you portray, the stream of emotions and themes that you give expression to. The good thing about all this is that Sudeep Sen is not a prisoner of a specific style, or a set of images, or even an agenda.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Well, I suspect you have answered your question yourself. Which is precisely why I was trying to ask you the question back. I'm glad that one can't pigeon-hole me, because my interest, my themes, my forms, my rhythms are very varied indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I still think in spite having written a fair bit for the past 15 years or so, I am still in the continuous process of growing and learning new things. Every time I work on a new book, I realise that there is so much more to learn, and so much more to explore. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">When it comes to writing itself, it is always a progression—you start from point A, to point B, and onwards. One of the most interesting grammatical punctuation for me is actually the ellipse, the three dots [...] which simply says—as such, nothing ends. It makes one's way of looking at things as well as one's own writing organic. I feel it is a good thing because otherwise if you work in a very myopic kind of a way then you are only narrowing your scope further and further. Whereas simply being open to growth, you have the entire canvas and palette open, to choose from. And that is very useful and at the same time unconstraining.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Your early interest in the external architecture of poetry, i.e. the overt formal construction of poetry over the years has grown and graduated into an internal, much quieter, perhaps spiritual, and sparer organization of poetry.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: You have put that quite well in fact. In my early poems, the architecture of the poem itself was visually much more apparent. Whereas over time, I have been able to be much more subtle in my writing. It is essentially because of a greater experience, both in life and writing itself. You learn how to use craft and words, and hopefully you get better and better to a point that you can in fact hide very complex formal-constructs in a poem to an uninitiated eye, one that is only apparent if you dig deep into the skin and tissue of the poem. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Of course, there is also a shift in sensibility, in the sense that I was much younger then. Life's circumstances change, with that your sensibility changes and grows. I think these aspects are also reflected in my later poems.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Your poems are visually rich, but they do not just end there. You have been influenced at the same time by ancient Prakrit poetry, Japanese haiku, Chinese poetry, Imagist and Metaphysical poetry. But you don't just try to stir your reader with only images. Your frames and conceits cast a deceptively soothing spell, one that goes beyond the physical as well as metaphysical reality.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Certainly that tends to be very true. There is an immense visual quality in my poetry, partly influenced by the fact that I worked for many years as a film-maker. Besides, I do have more than a part-time interest in photography. As I mentioned before, architecture was an important area of interest of mine, a field I might have actually pursued as a career, but circumstances took a different turn. But I still am interested in visual and graphic art, and in the whole nature of light, photography, and fibre-optics. So all that somewhere along the line must permeate and stain my poems. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">However, that’s only one aspect of the poetry—only the stretched-canvas, only the surface of the parchment where the colours you see are brightly dabbed upon. Once you go beyond that level, there is an intensely quiet, an inwardly deeper depth of field in my writing—an aspect of my poetry which perhaps what you are alluding to. I don't know whether it is spiritual or not, but certainly it is an introspective kind of<span style=""> </span>writing. So in that sense, you are right. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: One of your recently published chapbooks, <i style="">Almanac</i>, contains poems corresponding to the twelve months of the year. What inspired you to write poems on the different months?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: It was completely accidental actually. At the time, I was trying very hard to write poems for my new-born son Aria, and I increasingly found that writing poetry for children very difficult. One of the things that I was experiencing in my writing was—when I was consciously trying to write for a child, I realised that I was speaking down at them rather than to them as a colleague. So, I thought the other alternative could be poems about each month of the year as a calendar so that my son could learn the different months of the year in a creative way. Part of it was that. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Part of it was also that I realised that I had enough poems that had some reference to some month or the other. So, when I pulled all those poems together, some published and others unpublished, I realised there were poems that represented about eight of the months. Since I already had eight poems, I thought why not try and write four new poems relating to the remaining four months to complete the sequence. From reading the poems you would realise that not all the poems are directly related to month concerned as such. They are obliquely related to the months. For instance, there is poem called 'April's Air' which is set in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> and about rice-harvesting that takes place in April. So, the poem conveniently fit into the April month-slot. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Similarly, ‘One Moonlight December Night’ obviously comes in the December section. But the poem, for instance, which refers to the month of May is a recent poem which I wrote for my son whose birthday falls on the 21st of that month. Even though the poem is titled ‘Aria’, the reference to people who are in the know is to the month of May. So, I had quite an enjoyable time putting this volume together.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The most difficult task for any reader of your poetry is that there is no one specific geographical location or boundary to associate you with. The landscape, seascape, and airspace that fill your poems are borderless and trans-national. There is practically no one central location that can be identified as your own personal territory in the broad sense of the term.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: That’s the way I have been brought up. I was brought up as a Bengali within a Bengali family-milieu, but in a non-Bengali landscape of cosmopolitan <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>. I spoke English in school, Hindi on the streets, and Bengali at home. So, it was an essentially and inherently multi-lingual and multi-cultural space that I started from.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Also the range of landscapes and topographies that influenced me were both Eastern and Western at the same time. Through literature, art, and film, I had access to the Western culture, but at the same time I was immersed in my own in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and the East so to speak broadly. So, obviously it is very difficult to pin me down in one place. And I’m glad that is a difficult thing as it also relates to the earlier answer I gave you. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">As you travel both vertically and horizontally, perspectives change. It is not just the diverse landscapes in terms of different countries and topographies, but it’s also diverse in terms of different levels we are talking about—whether it is purely visual, purely cinematic, purely structural, purely architectural—moving from one level to the other, moving from one plane to the other, some time it is two dimensional, some time it is three dimensional, some time it is much more. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The only thing that links me to some sort of centre is the ‘centre of gravity’ itself. Otherwise, the only tangible thing that links me to a centre is my own family and the Bengali culture, something that is either obliquely or directly omnipresent in my work.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The volume, <i style="">Retracing American Contours,</i> takes us back again to an American landscape, a terrain that you explored in your highly successful third book, <i style="">New York Times</i>. Why the return to the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The poems in <i style="">Retracing American Contours</i> are poems that were originally written in the period from 1987 to 1990, much of it around the same time as the poems in <i style="">New York Times </i>itself. Originally, I had planned for all these poems to have come out together as one volume. But since the book became very large, my British publisher thought it would be a good idea to cull out the New York based and New York related poems, to form one independent book. I went along with that idea and was very pleased about the eventual results. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">So the poems in this new volume <i style="">Retracing American Contours </i>are the ones that I want to preserve from that original group that were not published in book form. Publishing them now, almost after a decade they were first born, is also a private way of visiting those places again. There are so many important events and significant memories attached to those places that it is almost like a journey down memory-lane, but with a fresh considered perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Your volume, <i style="">Lines of Desire,</i> is stunning — quite a stylistic revelation. As a poet you strike similes and evoke metaphors that are original, cool, untainted, soothing, and the same time, urgent. In addition, they also remind one of conceits in metaphysical poetry. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: That is an interesting observation. <i style="">Lines of Desire</i> is basically series of very tightly written short erotic poems. In fact, I re-reading and savouring the poetry of John Donne, Sappho and the erotic Sanskrit poets quite a lot while writing some of the poems in this volume. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">It is very difficult to write about love and passion in an original and fresh way because it is one subject that has been completely exhausted. So I wondered, how does one write about it without actually sounding old. My way of getting into it was to turn them inside out, rather than going from outside into the inside which is usually the case as it is a much safer and controllable route. I wanted to capture the raw passion and essence of the particular range of emotions, and at the same time be subtle and unobvious. Also I wanted to give these poems a meditative and chilling quality, an edge that is at the same time sharp and well as mesmerising.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Tell us about <i style="">In Another Tongue — </i>an impressive volume of translations you have recently published, something quite new for you.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: <i style="">In Another Tongue</i> is my first volume of translations that gathers poetry from well known and lesser known poets from Hebrew, Macedonian, Persian, Hindi and Bengali languages. Since its publication, I have translated more — from Dutch, Slovene, Swedish, and others. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">William Radice, one the foremost Tagore translators, pointed out that this volume is quite a departure from what I have been engaged in the past. I have enjoyed this relatively new process a lot. Translation is at the same time very different and similar to writing original poetry. But the dynamics and energies are completely unusual and difficult to quantify when translating.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">One of my favourite pieces of translation include Jibanananda Das’s poem, ‘Banalata Sen’. Clinton Seely, the authority on this poet, commented that this is one of the best translation of the poem he has seen to date. Here is my translation:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">For thousand years I have walked this earth’s passage <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>by day and night—from Lanka’s shores to Malay’s vast seas.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I’ve travelled much—been a guest at Bimbhishar and at Ashok’s courts,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>stayed in the distant nights, in the town of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bidharba</st1:city></st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I’m long worn-out; around me waters of sea and life have endlessly swirled.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>My only peace—a fleeting moment snatched with her—<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Natore’r Banalata Sen.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Like the dense ink-night of Bidhisha, her hair—black, deep black;<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>her face—like the delicate-weave of Shrabasti’s filigree-frieze. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Just as a lost boatman, rudderless, tossing in the far seas<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>chances upon a lush-green Isle of Spice, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I too caught a sight—saw her, a mere glimpse in the dark. Gently, raising<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>her eyes like bird’s nest, she whispered: “Where <i style="">were</i> you, all this while?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>[And there she stands at my dream’s end—my own Banalata Sen].<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">With soft-settling hiss of dew, evening closes the day’s end;<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>kites erase from their wings, sun-stain smell of flight.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">When colours of the earth gently fade, fireflies light up their palette,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>and old songs find new lyric, old stories new score.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Birds return home, so do the rivers; as life’s trade—its give-and-take—cease.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Only the dark stays. And just as it remains, so does sitting by my side,<span style=""> </span>face to face, my own Banalata Sen.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>— Jibanananda Das, ‘Banalata Sen’ [Translation © Sudeep Sen]<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I especially enjoy translating from Bengali and Hindi—languages I know well. Growing up in <st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city> was truly trilingual—Bengali, Hindi, and English are the languages I use (but understand quite a few Northern Indian languages—Punjabi, Rajasthani, Urdu, even Gujarati and Maharastrian from <st1:place st="on">Western India</st1:place>). When I am in the West, it is predominantly English that I am using — though in non-English speaking countries, one realises that English can be so redundant, and thank god for that.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: Let us talk about <i style="">Postcards from Bangladesh, </i>a lavish 300-page full-colour coffee table book — elegantly written, beautifully photographed and designed. It is really a high-calibre literary book in the guise of a illustrated book!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: It is a unique and personal account of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bangladesh</st1:place></st1:country-region> as seen through the eyes of three creative professional — Tanvir (a Bangladeshi photographer), Kelley Lynch (an American designer), and me. The book revolves around the idea and metaphor of a postcard — snapshots, snippets of life in one place that capture a moment in time — reflecting something larger about the culture as a whole. It is not meant to be encyclopaedic or all-inclusive. Rather, it portrays what Bangladesh means to us from alternate focal point — things off the beaten track, aspects left out of final frames, unused notes scribbled in the margins — all forming the glue that binds the book together. <i style="">Postcards from Bangladesh</i> traces journeys that are both interior and exterior using prose, poetry, and photography to create a poetic documentary — a film in freeze-frames.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The heart of Bengali culture — its sensibility and charm — is underscored in chapters that highlight the essential Bengali diet and livelihood provided by rice and fish; the unique six seasons of the Indian subcontinent, especially the monsoon rains; crafts and artefacts like <i style="">rickshaw</i> paintings; indigenous clothing like <i style="">lungi</i> and <i style="">sari</i>; the great rivers — the Padma, Meghna, Jamuna, and Buriganga; the nuances of religion; the bricks and mortar that form the country’s backbone; and Bangladesh’s popular music and culture. All these seek to give the reader a sense of the country that is outside the purview of development manuals, disaster media stories, and government tourist guides.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Postcards from Bangladesh</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> is the first book published in that country to creatively fuse literature and art, photography and documentary, travelogue and dialogue, prose and poetry into an organic narrative whole.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">:<span style=""> </span>Among your newer work is a major book-length poem, <i style="">Distracted Geography: An Archipelago of Intent.</i> It is a highly unusual and inventive work, a <i style="">tour de force.</i> How did it begin? Tell us something about its form, and the journey itself.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: The book-length poem — <i style="">Distracted Geography: An Archipelago of Intent—</i>began on a wet August morning, as I sat in an half-sunken basement space of a partially restored fifteenth century mansion ‘Gartincaber’ in Doune (near Stirling, Scotland). Almost drunk under the spell of this space, both interior and exterior, dactyls were dictated to me by photons in the surrounding electric-charged air. It was here where my journey began.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">My journey continued leaving a winding trail of foot-steps, pug-marks I tried to hide, but could not. It is still an uncompleted journey, a journey that cannot be completed ... perhaps, it is part of one's own fallibility. This journey has infinitely long lines and many miles left to traverse, but I know my blood's inadequate crimson may prevent such an ambition. So I take all this as a gift, a dream. I feel constantly grateful that I have been allowed such a dream.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Along the way, I have been coloured by many sources, interests, passions, and obsessions—some obvious and others oblique. Among them, there are overheard phrases, paintings, photographs, fragmented images, films, music, memory, poems, women, fluids, and the intoxicated air. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">My alter-ego wanted to be an architect and a cartographer—I have a more than part-time interest in science—all these must have, in some way, influenced this poem.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I reread many of my favourite poetry books at the time—classics like Milton’s <i style="">Paradise Lost </i>and <i style="">Paradise Regained,</i> Rilke’s <i style="">Duino Elegies,</i> and Baudelaire’s <i style="">Fleur de Mal</i>; volumes by contemporary masters like Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Joseph Brodsky, Seamus Heaney, Derek Walcott and others.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Walcott’s <i style="">Omeros</i>, Brodsky’s <i style="">To Urania</i>, Galway Kinnell's <i style="">The Book of Nightmares</i>, Donald Hall's <i style="">The One Day</i>, Jaan Kaplinski’s <i style="">The Same Sea In Us All</i>, Arun Kolatkar’s <i style="">Jejuri</i>, Dom Moraes’s <i style="">Serendip</i>, Arvind Krishna Mehrotra’s <i style="">Middle Earth</i>, A K Ramanujan’s <i style="">Collected Poems</i>, especially kept me company. I have used fragments from many of these poets' work throughout to punctuate the narrative, so that readers can get some sense of their world as parallel asides, just as it did for me on my journey.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I was also immersed in Gray’s <i style="">Anatomy</i>, Encarta’s <i style="">BodyWorks</i>, Louis Kahn’s <i style="">Sounds and Silence,</i> Matthew Arnold and T S Eliot’s essays, John Frederick Nim’s <i style="">Western Wind</i>, .... At the time, I relied on my grandfather's trusted old compass that helped navigate my way, imaginatively plotting a course through my National Geographic map collection that lay in disarray .... My memory provided calm, as I struggled, translating Jibanananda Das’s ‘Banalata Sen’ to recreate its music and passion. All of them have been guiding companions—and so, the journey went on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The sparse elongated structure of the poem partly reflects the strength and surety of the human vertebra and spine; much like Neruda’s <i style="">Odes</i> that reflect the long-thin shape of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chile</st1:place></st1:country-region>. The sections and sub-sections join together like synapses between bone and bone. The titles are translucent markers or breath pauses, not separators. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The short two-line couplets echo the two-step foot-prints, a pathway mapped on the atlas. The 12 sections correspond to the 12 bones in a human rib-cage, the 12 months in a year, the two 12 hour cycles in a day .... There are 26 bones in the human vertebrae, and the 26 parts in the poem slowly assemble themselves from a montage of tenuously strung lyrics. The 206 pages in this book match the exact number of bones in a human body.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">This poem leaves a footprint from a perennial walk that meanders through public and private spaces—making sense of the vicissitudes of our loves, losses, wants, desires, inadequacies—as it maps the matrix of living and dying.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: <i style="">Prayer Flag</i> is an unusual CD sized-book with your photography, poetry, translations of your poems in Bengali, an audio CD with reading by you, and music.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">: <i style="">Prayer Flag</i> was a really enjoyable project to put together. I have been seriously taking photographs for many years, and many have been published individually and as sequences on book covers, magazines, etc. This is the first time that some of them have been put together officially in book form along with my poetry and audio reading by me and my translator. The photographs are meant to stand on their on and do not illustrate the text, rather they show different sides of my work — text and design, words and the visual, orality and musicality. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The celebrated actor and author, Tom Alter, reviewing the book in <i style="">Biblio </i>wrote: “<i style="">Prayer Flag</i> is Sudeep Sen’s stunning book of poetry, photography and live audio reading by the poet accompanied with music (that is included in a CD with a generous selection of 55 poems ranging over two decades from 1983-2003). This multi-media compilation is a first for a poet from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> to be published internationally. Gregor Robertson on <i style="">BBC</i> rightly places Sen “amongst the finest younger English-language poets in the international literary scene. A distinct voice: carefully modulated and skilled, well measured and crafted” — high and rare praise indeed, and rightly so for our own Indian master of words…. <i style="">Prayer Flag</i> is not a conventional poetry collection, but an unique object of art that reveals the two intrinsically linked artistic sides of Sen’s work and talent — words and images. It is an album of Sen’s poetry, his wonderful photography and design, his recorded ebb and flow in his own voice — with it’s play of colours — the drifting in and out of Bengali, Indian and international ethos, and then back again. … The book is a total experience, just as a cup of fine tea becomes so much finer when imbibed with a friend so close at hand, and delicate scones with a dab of honey, and an evening sighing and singing into the night … <i style="">Prayer Flag</i> is lifelong friend I will keep with love and admiration, with smile and wonder — a gift from a master artist”.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK: </span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">What about other artistic collaborations — with musicians and dancers, theatre and film actors?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS: </span></b><i><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Rain</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"> too has had many musical collaborators — a young fusion group ‘Advaita’ led by Abhishek Mathur and some members of ‘Artists Unlimited’ band led by Annette Phillips came together in a live concert at the British Council. While the actor Tom Alter and I read the original text from my book, they provided a wonderfully intricate and understated soundscape they had specially composed for <i>Rain</i>. Infact, half a dozen of my earlier poems were sung out loud by Abhishek and Annette in styles as varied and reminiscent as Pink Floyd, Eric Clapton, Dire Straits, Ella Fitzgerald, Diana Krall, in rhythm & blues, rock, pop, and minimalist modes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Further collaborations saw jazz flautist Rajeev Raja join Tom Alter and me at the India International Centre in New Delhi and <i>The Times of India</i> Kala Ghoda Arts Festival in Bombay; the same duo performed in Ahmedabad at Sarabhai’s Natarani Amphitheatre with the classical flautist Keyur Balkrushna; and also in Hyderabad, the ‘Charminar Jazz Collective’ collaborated with me in wonderfully improvised live concert.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">At the India Intenational Centre’s prestigious annual international Festival of the Arts, I presented ‘Wo|Man: Desire, Divinity, Denouement’ collaborating with the wonderful classical voice of Vidya Rao and classical bamboo flautist Srinibas Satapathy, accompanied by the young Odissi dancer Moumita Ghosh, a disciple of legendary Madhavi Mudgal.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">The <span style="letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Spanish edition of <i style="">Rain</i> (translated by M Dolores Herrero under the title, <i>Lluvia</i>) recently appeared from <st1:placetype st="on">University</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Zaragoza</st1:placename> in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Inspired by this book, a concert length score was composed by Javier Coble Quartet in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and the resultant CD is forthcoming soon. The world premiere concert in Jaca (<st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>) with Javier Coble and Kepa Oses as musicians, and M Dolores Herrero as Spanish reader and I in English went down very very well. Since then we have had invitations from various organizations and festival directors. Plans are afoot for a national multi-city tour in <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region> (sponsored by the Spanish Embassy), the Singapore Festival, venues in the <st1:country-region st="on">United Kingdom</st1:country-region>, and more in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I have always been interested in the other arts, so collaborating with outstanding world and Indian artists is a real treat, pleasure, and a satisfying experience for me. </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">ZK: </span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Finally, Sudeep Sen as a literary publisher and editor. You are the editorial director of the publishing house <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Aark Arts </span>with an impressive list of over 50 prize-winning authors. You edit <i>Atlas,</i> the critically acclaimed international ‘book[maga]zine’ of ‘new writing, art & image’. You serve variously as contributing editor, poetry editor, literary advisor for the <i style="">Literary Review</i> (USA), <i>Orient Express</i> (Oxford), <i>Sheffield Thursday</i> (Sheffield), <i>International Exchange for Poetic Invention</i> (USA/Holland), <i>New Quest</i> (Pune<i>), Urban Voice</i> (Bombay), <i>Six Seasons Review</i> (Dhaka), <i style="">facebookpoetry,</i> and others. In addition, you are a photographer, filmmaker, visualiser, and designer Do these innumerable roles not distract you and interfere with your poetry? I must admit that you are a true modern day polymath!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">SS: </span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">That is terribly kind. As you already know, I was always equally and simultaneously interested in certain sciences and the arts — architecture, fibre optics, print & 3D design, moving and still image, music and dance, oral and printed literature. So performing the other roles is simply an extension of me as an artist in its holistic sense. I enjoy the stimulus and challenge these other genres and roles offer, and the wide experience they bring to my writing. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">As an editor, critic and literary reviewer, I have to read so much new writing everyday — and stumbling upon and reading good writing is always inspiring and uplifting — so my role as a traveller, literary editor and publisher fits in with me comfortably, and complements and enriches my life enormously as a full-time writer. I am grateful for the opportunity where my passion has turned out to be my profession.</span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-24488461155206919662008-05-07T02:54:00.000-07:002008-05-07T02:59:33.926-07:00Meri Jaan<div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p style="font-weight: bold;">By </o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jane Bhandari</span><o:p></o:p></span> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></strong><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeNieyViNnwHJJpnf_VaGVlfG2gMh0351H_1J9KwlqWkj2QYGxnyHi3RewaJLpyucY17pDrK2oJ20-dleT3I5eJOVv3zuvZX40uLh39R51ll9b494vM49kxVMG2zDD8XKiIEFzXMbq7s/s1600-h/bhandari.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeNieyViNnwHJJpnf_VaGVlfG2gMh0351H_1J9KwlqWkj2QYGxnyHi3RewaJLpyucY17pDrK2oJ20-dleT3I5eJOVv3zuvZX40uLh39R51ll9b494vM49kxVMG2zDD8XKiIEFzXMbq7s/s400/bhandari.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197573218232467010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >Bombay</span></strong></st1:place></st1:city><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >, My Mumbai</span></strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I posted a parcel from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Where is Mumbai?<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Said the clerk at the post office.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >It’s my home, I said, it’s <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Mumbai is <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Sounds fatter to me, he said, <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Laughing, and I thought,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Well, second marriage,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >They usually are fatter,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Shapely young <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Become matronly Mumbai,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Sprawling on the beach<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >With her feet in the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style="font-size:130%;">Building Hung with Sky</span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The building grew spikes<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >As the scaffolding crept up:<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Then jute and spidery nets<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Veiled it, webs on thorns.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >First the skeleton, <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Then the cocoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Suddenly, the building <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Was a chrysalis.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The wind began to rip it apart,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Exposing the scaffolding;<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Plucked and ripped,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Twisted and tore,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And one day the whole skin<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Hung in tatters,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Flew prayer flags<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Across the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Reflected in the distorting mirrors<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Of the next building’s windows:<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >It wavered, rents magnified,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Now the building stood bare,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Contained by the bones of scaffolding,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Boarded windows staring blindly<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >At the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >A mysterious change<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Was taking place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The building reappeared,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Glass-hung, reflecting sky and flying clouds,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And the next building’s renovations.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The jute cocoon<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Became a fashion statement,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Repeated all over the city.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >Locking Up<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The collection of keys<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >To my official residence<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Began innocuously<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >With a latchkey,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And a key for the padlock<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And a key for each room<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And a key to the padlock<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >On the terrace door,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >All this in duplicate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I made a spare set<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >For my daughter,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And another for my son.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Put all together,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >They weighed quite a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Then I added a lock <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And a padlock<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And another, fancier lock<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >To my security gate;<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Keys made in quadruplicate:<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >One for me, one for my son,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >One for my daughter, one spare.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >To my personal bunch<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Add keys to cupboards.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Say about six for the kitchen<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And six for the study,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >One for the big bookcase,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The drinks cupboard,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The sideboard,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The guestroom wardrobe,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Two bedside tables…<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >This time, in duplicate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >…Add to this the keys<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Of various trunks and suitcases,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And a box of anonymous keys<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Weighing almost three kilos…<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Now that I am the proud owner<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Of two residences,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I have started the process<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >All over again,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Beginning with the latchkeys<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >In quadruplicate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" > <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The keys have begun to breed,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And my handbag<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Has become<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >A formidable weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-26721552995649522982008-05-02T02:08:00.000-07:002008-05-02T02:14:23.535-07:00Bombay for the Dummies<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxuyRiUh0zPnt4YDmZzWdKf14acY46nJNEjOPVjMNJUfFwSVIJ9eFP2k3Mu2QbZfJBPSlh00ZJ30tlwqGy2he1r5iCsbuHLLl4f6eCVRwlTRqAAaVDhFPsJL-DAKzxEmpVEvUF8WKE0s/s1600-h/old+bombay+map.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxuyRiUh0zPnt4YDmZzWdKf14acY46nJNEjOPVjMNJUfFwSVIJ9eFP2k3Mu2QbZfJBPSlh00ZJ30tlwqGy2he1r5iCsbuHLLl4f6eCVRwlTRqAAaVDhFPsJL-DAKzxEmpVEvUF8WKE0s/s400/old+bombay+map.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195706152666573602" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";" >The City of <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> originally comprised seven islands: Colaba, Mazagaon, Old Womans’ <st1:place st="on">Island</st1:place>, Wadala, Mahim, Parel and Matunga-Sion. This group of islands, formed part of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">kingdom</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">King Ashoka</st1:placename></st1:place>, have since been joined together by a series of reclamations.<o:p></o:p></span> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >After Ashoka’s death, these islands passed into the hands of various Hindu rulers until 1343. In that year, the Mohammedans of Gujarat took possession and the kings of that <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">province</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">India</st1:placename></st1:place> ruled these isles for the following two centuries. The only vestige of their dominion over these islands that remains today is the mosque at Mahim. Who tore everything down? The Portuguese-British perhaps. Post-partition anti-Muslim mobs perhaps.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >In 1534 the Portuguese, who already possessed many important trading centres on the western coast such as Panjim (Goa), Daman and Diu, took <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> by force of arms from the Mohammedans. This led to the establishment of numerous churches that were constructed in areas where the majority of people were Roman Catholics. There used to be two areas in <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> called <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Portuguese</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Nevertheless, only one church with Portuguese-style façade still remains: the <st1:place st="on">St. Andrews</st1:place>’ Church at Bandra.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The Portuguese also fortified their possession by building forts at Sion, Mahim, Bandra and Bassien, which, although in disrepair, can still be seen. They named their new possession as ‘Bom Baia, which in Portuguese means ‘<st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Good</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>’.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >This name was later changed to ‘Bombay’ by the British and much later, challenged by the Shiv Sainiks, a renegade political party in the state, saying that the name of the city was ‘Mumbai’ from the Mumbadevi temple. Nobody really put up a fight. The fact of the matter is that the Kolis, who were and are the fishermen of that area, called a small section (Babulnath, to be precise) of the islands ‘Mumba’. This, in the mid-1990s, became a huge political issue with the Shiv Sena which was losing a grip over the city.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >About 130 years later, the islands were given as dowry to the English King Charles II on his marriage to Portuguese Princess Catherine de Braganza in 1662. In 1668, the islands were acquired by the British East India Company on lease from the crown for 10 pounds in gold per year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Perceptibly, the British did not value these islands at that time. The Company, which was operating from <st1:city st="on">Surat</st1:city> in Gujarat, was in search for another deeper water port so that larger vessels could dock, and found the islands of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> suitable for development. The shifting of the East India Company’s headquarters to <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> in 1687 led to the eclipse of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Surat</st1:place></st1:city> as a principal trading centre. The British corrupted the Portuguese name ‘Bom Baia’ to ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>’.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The first Parsi to arrive in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> was Dorabji Nanabhoy Patel in 1640. The Parsis, originally from <st1:country-region st="on">Iran</st1:country-region>, migrated to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> about 900 years ago. This they did to save their religion, Zoroastrianism, from invading Arabs who proselytised Islam. But, in 1689-90, when a severe plague had struck down most of the Europeans, the Siddi chief of Janjira made several attempts to repossess the islands by force, but the son of the former, a trader named Rustomji Dorabji Patel (1667-1763), successfully warded off the attacks on behalf of the British with the help of the Kolis, the original fisher-folk inhabitants of these islands. The remnants of the Koli settlements can still be seen at Backbay Reclamation, Mahim, Bandra, Khar, Bassien and <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Madh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" >Bombay</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style=";font-family:";" >, then, had a succession of British governors who attracted Gujarati business people, traders, Parsi shipbuilders and Hindu and Muslim businessmen, and made the city more populous. A city court was started to uphold the law.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >A fort was also built, none of which remains except a small portion of the wall. Governers like Oxenden, Aungier and Grant helped <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> grow and set up hospitals, roads, etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Zoroastrian</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place> of Silence on Malabar Hill were built by Seth Modi Hirji Vachha in 1672. The first fire-temple was also built in the same year by Seth Vachha opposite his residence at Modikhana within the British fort. Both these structures can still be seen today, although they have been expanded and strengthened.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The inroads of the sea at Worli, Mahim and Mahalaxmi turned the ground between the islands into swamps making <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> an extremely unhealthy place at that time. Reclamation work to stop the breeches at Mahalaxmi and Worli were undertaken. In 1803, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> was connected with Salsette by a causeway at Sion. The <st1:placetype st="on">island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Colaba</st1:placename> was joined to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> in 1838 by a causeway now called Colaba Causeway and the causeway connecting Mahim and Bandra was completed in 1845, which was done by Lady Avabai Jamshedjee Jeejeebhoy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >In the mid-1800s, the cattle that people owned used to graze at the lush <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Maidan</st1:placename></st1:place> (Azad Maidan). The British, always ready to levy taxes, started a grazing tax, which most people could not afford. Sir Jamshedji Jeejeebhoy spent Rs 20,000 to buy some grasslands near the seafront at Thakurdwar and saw that the starving cattle grazed without a fee in that area. In time the area became to be known as ‘Charni’ meaning grazing. When a railway station on the BB&CI Railway was constructed there it was called <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Charni Road</st1:address></st1:street>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >On Saturday, 16 April 1853, a 21-mile long railway line, the first in <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region>, between <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>’s Victoria Terminus and Thane was opened. In 1860, the railroads connected <st1:city st="on">Baroda</st1:city> and <st1:place st="on">Central India</st1:place>. With the Suez Canal also opening in Africa, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> saw a great economic boom, cotton being the main export. Many families made their fortunes during that time. Even the Americans imported cotton during the Civil War that started in 1861. The population of the city went from about 13,000 in 1770 to about 644,000 in 1870.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >In 1858, after the first war for <st1:city st="on">Independence</st1:city>, in which people like the Rani of Jhansi played a big part, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> was taken back by the crown and the East India Company was in dire straits. Governor Frere had a fountain made in his honour at that time, which was later called Flora Fountain, but this is a fact that is quite unknown to the general public.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Then in 1863, the Governor got piped-water from the lakes (Tulsi, Vehar and Tansa). After which they banned all open water storage systems like water tanks and wells, which were breeding grounds for mosquitoes. This was met with a lot of opposition.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The later half of the 19th century was also to see a feverish construction of buildings in Bombay, many of which such as the Victoria Terminus, the General Post Office, the Municipal Corporation, the Prince of Wales Museum, Rajabai Tower and Bombay University, St. Xavier’s College, Elphinstone College and the Cawasji Jehangir Hall, the Crawford Market, the Old Secretariat (Old Customs House) and the Public Works Department (PWD) Building, still stand today as major landmarks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The Gateway of India was built to commemorate the visit of King George V and Queen Mary for the Durbar at <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city> in 1911. The Princess Dock was built in the year 1885 and the Victoria Dock and the Meriweather Dry Docks in 1891. Alexandra Dock was completed in 1914.<br />Soon, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> saw the rise of the Parsi liquor mafia in the ‘Play House’ area, which was later changed to Pillhouse by the locals and became a red light district. At this time a terrible episode of bubonic plague wiped out a huge population of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The Bombay Gymkhana was formed in 1875, exclusively for Europeans, who played the game of cricket there. Other communities followed this example, and various Parsi, Muslim and Hindu gymkhanas were started nearby with fierce sports competitions among them being organised on a communal basis. This was opposed by several secular-minded persons, such as the late AFSTalyarkhan and sports teams based on community, especially cricket teams, came to an end gradually after Independence from British rule in 1947.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Lord Sandhurst was the Governor after that from 1895-1900 and he was commemorated by naming a road and railway station after him. Around 1914, a train line was started from Ballard Pier to Wadala. Around the same time Tata Power Company set up overhead transmission lines. In 1927, electrical locomotives were imported from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region> (Vickers) and serviced the route between Pune and Igatpuri. These helped carry troops from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> to the rest of the country later during WW II.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >In April 1944, a fire started in the holds of the ship, ‘<st1:placetype st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Stikine</st1:placename>’ (7,420 tonnes), which was carrying dried fish, cotton bales, gunpowder, timber, ammunition and gold bars from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>. There was about 2 million pounds sterling in gold to stabilise the Indian rupee. The explosion was so big and loud that it could be felt till Dadar, more than eight miles away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The docks and the surrounding areas were completely destroyed. Over 120 brave men from the Bombay Fire Brigade in the second blast and hundreds of dock workers lost their lives (a monument was erected for them). The locals thought that the Japanese had attacked (like <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Pearl</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Harbour</st1:placetype></st1:place>), which was not true, since they were currently fighting a losing battle. All the gold bars (which had landed all over the place) were subsequently returned over the next 30 years to the British government. All citizens who reported any damage to property or self were promptly paid compensation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The historic session of the All India Congress Committee began on 7 August 1942. Its venue was the Gowalia Tank Maidan, where the Congress was born in 1885. It was at this session that the Quit India call was given by Mahatma Gandhi and other Indian National Congress leaders. The Indian leaders were arrested by the British soon afterwards but the momentum of the Quit India movement could not be stopped and led to the final withdrawal of the British on 15 August 1947.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The last British troops on Indian soil left for <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region> through the archway of the Gateway of India on that day. They bade farewell from where they had entered 282 years before. The people of <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city>, in a gesture of generosity, wished them <i style="">bon voyage</i>, forgetting the bitter memories of the fight for <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Independence</st1:place></st1:city>. Today, the maidan from where the call to Quit India was given is called the August Kranti Maidan.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >After <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Independence</st1:place></st1:city>, the Congress party led by Jawaharlal Nehru at the centre was swept to power in most Indian states, which were constituted on the basis of language spoken by the majority of its people.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Bombay</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">State</st1:placetype></st1:place> included the city as its seat of government. In 1960 the state of <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> was split into Maharashtra and Gujarat states, again on linguistic basis, the former retaining <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> city as its capital. The Congress continued to administer <st1:place st="on">Maharashtra</st1:place> until 1994 when it was replaced by the Shiv Sena-Bharatiya Janata Party coalition.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The Stock Exchange at <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> was established in 1875 as ‘The Native Share and Stockbrokers Association’ which has evolved over the decades in to its present status as the premier Stock Exchange in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. It is one of the oldest in <st1:place st="on">Asia</st1:place> having preceded even the Tokyo Stock Exchange which was founded in 1878. In the early days the business was conducted under the shade of a banyan tree in front of the Town Hall. The tree can still be seen in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Horniman</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Circle</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >With the success of the back-bay reclamation scheme in the late 1960s and the early 1970s, Nariman Point became the hub of the business activity. Several offices shifted from the Ballard Estate to Nariman Point which ultimately became one of the most expensive real estates in the world as high demand pushed prices to astronomical limits. Nariman Point is named after K F Nariman, president of the Bombay Provincial Congress Committee and former Mayor of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >‘Bollywood’ is a term used to describe the Indian film industry. It has been a long story of a century, starting in 1901, with the early shaky screen images turning into a multi-pronged and multi-winged empire of its own that has yielded about 30,000 feature films and thousands of documented short films. These are almost all musical family melodramas, which rule the roost. Cinema has raised <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s flag fly high in the world as the consistently largest film producer. But when it comes to quality the flag has to fly half-mast. The glamorous image of <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> and the rumour that everyone is as beautiful as the movie stars attracted people from all over <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> to this city.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >But eventually the city could not provide jobs to these teeming millions and these people had to beg for a living and slowly slums began to flourish all over the city, especially near the railway tracks. The city also has the dubious record of the second biggest slum in the world: Dharavi.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Crime is an inevitable part of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>: terrorists, contract killings, extortions, explosions, shootouts, <i style="">naaka-bandi</i>, encounter deaths... The slums and the poor strengthened <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>’s immense mafia presence. There is huge evil nexus of the underworld, politicians and <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>’s police force. Indian politics are filled with convicted felons and criminals, approximately around 700. Slumlords and smugglers like Dawood Ibrahim, Abu Salem and Iqbal Mirchi rose to fame. They became the feared names in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> — the untouchables.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Today, <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> is the financial and business capital of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. And the most vivacious city in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-56494238732276327002008-05-02T02:04:00.000-07:002008-05-02T02:08:25.368-07:00Night’s Secrets<p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">By Radhika Iyengar<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p></o:p><br />And cats walk the silver street<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Tails as question marks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Their paws compete<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Orange</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> with brown stripes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Black with white puddles<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Brown with black masks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">They walk into the night<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The night breathes winter:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Veils the windows,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And seduces the leaves<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">While the burning red <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Of pregnant lamps<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Haunt the dark corners<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Of the night...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And the winds mourn and wail<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">beckoning morning;<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Forgotten letters<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Fly as carpets from Aladdin’s land<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Out the window of a woman betrayed<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And shadows follow<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The lone walkers<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Whispering deceitfully where they have been —<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">While the mandir stands alone —<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A white concrete of hopes and promises<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Where rest the fat-bellied priests<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">(The beggars still sleep on the road)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The moonlight tip-toes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Into the night<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Anxious to leave the sky<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Just this once<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And she pours and pours,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And does not stop,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And is caught when the morning arrives…<o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-13368534749166979162008-04-30T23:13:00.000-07:002008-04-30T23:27:58.496-07:00The Bombay Madness<span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">By Ranjona Banerji<o:p></o:p></span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">It is well known — at least anyone who lives in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> or visits it — that this city is self-obsessed. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> has been given this now-almost mythical character, where, as if the minute you land in this city, some mysterious force enters your body and you turn into something else.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdp15HBBM_Od5Kw-uV31jj4PGQw6jwT4w-RC344eFyzIUBe5UQ0MFXqSw7FXoo5FrHP5ScsyT240hgkyKqT909yvbyeET6y71dv1_4f8EvyLqyGGV1u7GxELa3EdvXtbnH8NXczqitMI/s1600-h/ranjona.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdp15HBBM_Od5Kw-uV31jj4PGQw6jwT4w-RC344eFyzIUBe5UQ0MFXqSw7FXoo5FrHP5ScsyT240hgkyKqT909yvbyeET6y71dv1_4f8EvyLqyGGV1u7GxELa3EdvXtbnH8NXczqitMI/s320/ranjona.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195292147884010258" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">It could well be that <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> changes you, but it is not magic. It is more likely true that all places where you live for a period of time change you and the corollary of that is that each of us, with our various personalities, finds that one place suits us more than the other.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">But with <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>, it’s a constant examination of this Bombayness. In <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Calcutta</st1:city></st1:place>, for instance, there is plenty of angst and soul and discussion with lashings of tea and swirls of cigarette smoke — <i style="">adda</i>, if you will. But in the few years I spent there, the essential Calcuttaness of <i style="">jhal muri</i> was not the subject of newspaper articles the way <i style="">vada pau</i> is discussed in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">I would even put it that food is more important to a Bengali than to anyone else in India and several towns and villages in Bengal are identified only by some typical foodstuff — but that’s as far as it goes. It’s food, not the essence of self that is under discussion.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Delhi</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">, on the other hand, is chock-full of history and has more historical structures per square mm than most places have in their entire range of square km. Yet <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city> does not identify itself in quite the same way with its buildings and the ‘Bunty loves Pinky’ legend gets more currency than ‘restored by so-and-so corporate for so-and-so committee’. The government still controls <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>. In <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>, even government buildings are sought to be refurbished with private sector help — as newspapers have recently told us about a plan to add a few floors to Mantralaya and give a builder some free land in exchange for the work done.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">We delight in what we are and we delight in agonising over it. This process gives us character. Town versus burbs, North versus South, once obscure satellite towns versus once obscure suburbs. Till even 15 years ago, a person who worked in Borivili would say he had to go to ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>’ to work. Now a person who lives in Khopar Khairane, in New Bombay, thinks he lives and works in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>. But the part of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> which is not Khopar Khairane takes issue with this. For that lot, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> has to remain within a geographical limit; it has to have common reference points. Can you claim to know <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> if you did not grow up eating <i style="">seeng-chana</i> at the Gateway of India? Worse, if you confuse India Gate with the Gateway? If you have no idea that a school picnic means going to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Borivili</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>? If you don’t know where the Goldspot factory is, even if it no longer exists and that once iconic orange bottle is lost to liberalisation?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">These are very real problems for some and hence the mad scramble to keep the quaintness of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> alive. Some of these attempts are simply bogus, to use the modern terminology, artificial constructs to try and create a sense of nostalgia where possibly none exists. The people of Kalbadevi are apparently very happy that their ward has been taken up as a pilot redevelopment project and it is only people who never lived there and never visit except once a year who see beauty in the chaos. The bridge between heritage and contemporary has to be crossed intelligently and harking back to some vague golden age is to ignore the ground realities. The Crawford Market redevelopment is in danger of falling into this trap.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">For someone who has lived most of their life in this city— including the formative years, but who has also lived elsewhere — some of the newfound hand-wringing manufactured nostalgia can be amusing. There is some little brouhaha going on over the beautification of the zoo. It cannot be denied that <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>’s zoo is one of the worst in the country. Animals live pathetically in cages, there is no sense of openness or the wild and its only redeeming features may well be the government nursery and the newly-recreated <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Bhau</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Daji</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Ladd</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>. But yet, our saviours of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> find something in this ghastly travesty of a zoo to be preserved. I am surprised that animal activists are not supporting a move to improve the living conditions of the animals. No, apparently it is to be kept as it is — no arguments.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Many of these preservers have not grown up in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> so probably did not have to endure the plight of the creatures locked up in zoos in their childhoods. For anyone who has seen the <st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city>, <st1:city st="on">Calcutta</st1:city> or <st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:city> zoos, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> is a joke. The Central Zoo Authority thinks so too and regularly denies it certification. But the zoo is heritage, and the current flavour is heritage at all costs. Not the condition of the animals, not objections to zoos in general as an ideological stand, but just that whatever was must be preserved.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Perhaps not so strangely, since these ‘new’ saviours have not spent a lot of time on the top of Malabar Hill — Cafe Naaz closed down almost a decade ago — the quite cute uglification of Kamala Nehru Park with its ‘amphitheatre’ done up in what look like bathroom tiles has not bothered anyone much. Malabar Hill has become too remote and so has slipped out of our consciousness.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">So we will shop in the malls on the New Link Roads in Andheri and Malad, though 15 years ago that part of Andheri had vast tracts of marshland and Malad was a quiet sleepy suburb, leading on to quiet fishing villages. If you arrive in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> circa 2000 AD, you accept the development as an established part of the landscape and fight for the preservation of what is obviously old — the zoo, for instance.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">The older inhabitants also want to preserve those parts which they live in and you still meet that endearing tribe for whom <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> means the island city. Once you cross Mahim Causeway you have entered the badlands, wild territory, where the others live. It is true, if you are old enough. Tigers were spotted there last century. Why go there at all, except to go to the airport?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Then there are those politicians who run this city. Sharad Pawar wants to encourage people to drink more wine. His party member, R R Patil, who is also the state’s deputy chief minister, is a late arrival in this city, so he found dance bars deeply offensive. They were not common in his hometown. They have no magic for him, only an upsurge of morality. The chief minister finds no resonance in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> either, so he keeps commissioning flyovers perhaps hoping to escape it easily that way. It’s been years since anyone who runs <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> loved <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>. Chhagan Bhujbal was mayor once and wanted to clean it and green it; now he sulks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">But it ought not to be forgotten — even by those regulars at the city’s ‘pubs’ that the pubs themselves are new: 1992 onwards. Up to the 1970s, there was prohibition in <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> and it is the Bombay Prohibition Act that controls <st1:place st="on">Gujarat</st1:place> even today. <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city>’s answer to prohibition was typical — and so grew the great <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> underworld of smugglers and bootleggers. Dawood Ibrahim was a new entrant himself, and he has been made willy-nilly into Bombay’s only don, with scant respect for his ‘illustrious’ predecessors — by filmmakers who have recently come to the city and by television channels which are not headquartered here at all. Yet, didn’t <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> come to a standstill when Vardarajan Mudaliar died?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">When you round it all up, what it amounts to is very little and yet very large. You come to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> because it is the city of gold. You hope. Almost 20 years ago, a magazine I worked for did an article on how you could still pan for gold in Pydhonie. Streets paved with gold — get it? But it was a stretch even then and it’s completely lost now. Besides, everything old is not necessarily good. The picking and choosing of what we save has to be judicious and a little higgledy-piggledy is good mental exercise.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Yes, there will also be some of us who know more about <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> and some who have to prove that they also care by picking up campaigns and some who don’t care at all. But to truly belong, you mustn’t get caught up in stuff; you have to be cool about it. On the trains, on the buses, in your cars and taxies and aeroplanes. Tension <i style="">kaiko lene ka</i>, <i style="">magaj kaiko khaneka</i>, <i style="">aakhadin khalipili boom kaiko marne ka</i>? <i style="">Ekdum masth rehne ka</i>. The <i style="">vada pav</i>s and zoos and floods will come and go, but we’ll go on. That’s why we’re all here isn’t it, to be <i style="">bindaas</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">(<span style="font-style: italic;">Ranjona Banerji is a deputy editor with </span>DNA <span style="font-style: italic;">in </span></span><st1:city style="font-style: italic;" st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" >Bombay</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style=";font-family:";" >.)</span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-91428501654284076402008-04-29T12:03:00.000-07:002008-04-29T12:28:11.094-07:00Magical Memories<b><span style=";font-family:";" >By Vimla Patil<o:p></o:p></span></b> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >I was born, brought up, educated and married in <st1:place st="on">South Bombay</st1:place>. I have lived in the verdant bylanes of this area all my life. I think I have been very fortunate to see its many avatars —</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" > <i style="">as a hub of the colonial government’s activities, as the </i>karmabhoomi<i style=""> of passionate freedom fighters and as an elite residential area where the rich, </i>khandaani<i style=""> families have striven hard to conserve <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s culture and heritage.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLX-D6LfyGCAmmV0XExhyBGqumOCUdJM0LbLvYQyAQKojHCpHo5znOV-9gafvNAenxftx88CwahSeleCgowmI0vxi2jU6YURxx87JrCtsyNhA5mSeAeJcRFhq4Dys57cfhpGLfL_XLSlE/s1600-h/vimla.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLX-D6LfyGCAmmV0XExhyBGqumOCUdJM0LbLvYQyAQKojHCpHo5znOV-9gafvNAenxftx88CwahSeleCgowmI0vxi2jU6YURxx87JrCtsyNhA5mSeAeJcRFhq4Dys57cfhpGLfL_XLSlE/s320/vimla.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194751063609092866" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";" >Memories are like bricks —they often help to build the life-graph of a person. As far as I am concerned, I think my memories — indeed a whole life lived in south Mumbai — have shaped my character and more important, my search for that moment of truth that gives direction to my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was born in a nursing home in Opera House, which I am told, was a vast, spacious area around the heritage Opera House Theatre where dance and music shows would take place every weekend. The road further led to the busy Girgaum area where the rich community of Pathare Prabhus owned <i style="">wadi</i>s, where <i style="">khandaani</i> jewellers created diamond items for the rich of the city, and Goan communities lived in their picturesque village-style cottages.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Further down, along the railway line, was Queen’s Road </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >running parallel to the dignified <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Marine Drive</st1:address></st1:street> </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >which eventually led to the Fort area with its famous Revival Renaissance-style cluster of 26 utility buildings. There was the University with its landmark <st1:placename st="on">Rajabai</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Tower</st1:placetype>, the Convocation Hall, the High Court, the <st1:placename st="on">Elphinstone</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">College</st1:placetype>, Kala Ghoda and the art deco theatres called Regal and <st1:place st="on">Strand</st1:place>. The one-major-road then led to the Colaba Cantonment where British officers and army personnel lived in quiet houses with red roofs of Mangalore tiles.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The area where I spent my childhood was not much different. There were tile-roof houses spread all over the Chowpatty sea face and the beach in front was the official playground for all children going to local school and colleges like Queen Mary’s, St. Columba’s, Robert Money, Gokhale Education, Fellowship School and, of course, the Wilson College. In those years, Chowpatty was a real beach </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >not a muck-topped dirt area as it is today. The sand was pristine, and building castles near the lashing waters was great fun. Our mothers and aunts would sit around talking while we children </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >from the family and their friends </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >would run around into the waves and cover ourselves with the clean sand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Reaching our schools in the area around Chowpatty was easy with a tram or bus ride. The BEST trams jangled</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqAvY06RbRSIPLRsz5SWP_26ZGxI-71mHX4E-Y-FOFrAmwSzSmcKGtPBHZTEhMErr4sMLL8SF0fIBJQBUs3doMF6v5HQ0iVHZ0lwJ_7ByIMnHEA7kq23-3gsi8VRgq8fYofLmTF9U-4jg/s1600-h/ApolloBunder.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqAvY06RbRSIPLRsz5SWP_26ZGxI-71mHX4E-Y-FOFrAmwSzSmcKGtPBHZTEhMErr4sMLL8SF0fIBJQBUs3doMF6v5HQ0iVHZ0lwJ_7ByIMnHEA7kq23-3gsi8VRgq8fYofLmTF9U-4jg/s320/ApolloBunder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194750586867722994" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";" > from Grant Road Station to the Gowalia Tank Maidan and also had a service from the Tardeo Tram Terminus into the stomach of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> to Thakurdwar. But we still avoided the cheap ride to walk along the quiet roads to school so that we could enjoy the familiar sights on the roads. The old temples around the area were our favourite haunts </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >especially in the rains when they would become pools of water. The <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Nana</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Sunkerset</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Shiva</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Temple</st1:placetype></st1:place> on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Tardeo Road</st1:address></st1:street> fascinated us because of its stone courtyard and the nearby cottage where Lata Mangeshkar and her family lived in the early years of her career. The Gamdevi, Taddevi and Mumbadevi temples gave us a glimpse of the seven islands which formed the city of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mumbai</st1:place></st1:city> a few hundred years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Around this area, too, grew many music schools </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >the Maharashtra Sangeet Vidyalaya (where I learnt the nuances of Hindustani classical music from masters like D V Paluskar and Prof Datar), the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, the Deodhar School of Music, the Marwari Hall, the Lakshmi Hall and many others held regular music programmes with the young and painfully handsome Ravi Shankar, Mogubai Kurdikar, Bismillah Khan, Kishen Maharaj, Sitara Devi, Vilayat Khan and the stalwarts of the Agra Gharana like Vilayat Hussain sang or played all night concerts to present the glory of Indian music to huge number of devotees. As a schoolgirl, I tagged along with my father or his friends and thus have great memories of listening to these great masters well into the wee hours of the morning </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >in fact, until the milk train forced listeners to return home.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >As a young girl in <st1:place st="on">South Mumbai</st1:place>, I shared two worlds </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >my father’s and my mother’s. With my father, who was a book publisher, I worked on history, language and culture. I read many books, learnt music, art and met hordes of people who made news at that time. I travelled a lot with him to get to know Indian culture and history. Watching him, I learnt that the truly rich person is not the one who earns a lot of money but a person who spends it wisely to enrich his or her life. His way of life taught me to enjoy every shade of green that came to the local markets in the monsoon and winter season and every nuance of gold and bronze that came to the trees in the autumn and summer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The other world that I shared with my mother included my extended family with aunts and their children </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >and all of us had innocent fun with movies, <i style="">chaat</i> and <i style="">vada</i>s in Chowpatty and walks along Malabar Hill and Breach Candy or the deserted Worli Sea Face. My mother, afraid to leave a daughter alone at home, also took me to innumerable <i style="">kirtan</i>s in the nearby temples in the bylanes of Gamdevi and thanks to her efforts, I am well versed in the Bhakti literature of <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> today.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Looking at these areas today, you would never imagine what they looked like in the fifties. Breach Candy was a rocky beach where pools of water would offer great opportunities for gentle fishing after the tide had receded. Sparsely populated, the roads were clear and well lit. A quiet stroll or a game among the rocks was delightful. The climb to the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Hanging</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Gardens</st1:placetype></st1:place> from Kemp’s Corner, where there was a real Kemp’s shop, was verdant with all kinds of birds warbling in the late evenings. So these were familiar areas for me and my friends. The Gowalia Tank Maidan and Chowpatty were celebrated venues for the political rallies where I was fortunate to hear leaders like Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhbhai Patel and, later, Indira Gandhi. Gowalia Tank Maidan was also the playground where I had my first cycling lessons from my unwilling brother.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Nevertheless, the most wonderful part of my childhood in <st1:place st="on">South Mumbai</st1:place> was the expeditions which I shared with my mother to find medicinal herbs in the wild patches in out localities. My mother believed strongly in herbal medicines </span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">— </span><span style=";font-family:";" >having come to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> from her village in the Kanara districts after marriage. Understandably, Malabar Hill and Breach Candy interested her because of the forests of herbs and plants that grew there. My family was as quaint as the city of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> in those days. My mother was one of four sisters. The four women, whom marriage had brought to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>, were thick as thieves and took all decisions jointly. One of the decisions my mother and aunts took was to use their rich knowledge of simple, wild-growing medicinal plants for curing most ailments, which we children were prone to suffer from. Thus, for colds and coughs we had a <i style="">kashayam</i> made from lemon grass and ginger or a brew made from aniseed, onion slices and a seed called <i style="">alsi</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Soon after the four sisters settled down to life in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>, they made a wonderful discovery. They found that many parts of <st1:place st="on">South Bombay</st1:place> had patches of greenery where the same wild medicinal plants grew as did in their native village in coastal Karnataka. With their sense of wonder, they often took us children on a voyage of discovery to Breach Candy or Worli to sit among bushes and to look for the plants and leaves which gave them a sense of belonging to their village world and enabled them to cure not only their children’s maladies but also those of their grateful neighbours and friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Breach Candy, Worli, the Gowalia Tank Maidan or even the bylanes of Tardeo and Girgaum in those days were not heavily populated as they are today. By evening, silence would reign supreme along these roads and there was little fear of roadside Romeos or pickpockets. We wandered in the far-stretching green patches, learning about herbs and plants, which we would collect with an air of glee which only children could understand. Many of the leaves we collected were used in making gentle coconut curries for health. Other plants were plucked, dried and preserved for medicinal use as and when needed. I remember plucking the tender leaves of <i style="">tendli</i> creepers in Worli for a curry, which worked as an excellent digestive. I recall squatting down in the grassy undergrowth in Scandal Point to collect <i style="">bhui awale</i> plants for those who had jaundice. <i style="">Doodh panki</i> leaves, with their attractive shades of mauve and green, were taken home for making a cooling brew during heat strokes. <i style="">Ek paani</i> or <i style="">brahmi</i> leaves were used for making hair oil. The saw-edged leaves of <i style="">ningri</i> boiled in water made a soothing bath for swollen hands and feet. A <i style="">neem</i> leaf brew cured all infections. The tubes of the <i style="">eranda</i> (castor seed) leaves made an excellent brew to cure fevers and the cool leaves were used to cover the head to bring down high temperatures. The jelly-like pulp of cacti, called <i style="">lolsar</i>, was also used as a cooling agent during fevers. Poultices were wrapped in turmeric leaves to cure cuts and infected wounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Somewhere in those years, we also learnt to recognise trees, which offered us rare, unusual food. The tender leaves of the <i style="">shevga</i> tree (drumsticks) made a wonderful <i style="">bhaji</i>. So did the young flowers of the same tree make dainty <i style="">bhajia</i>s for teatime. In the monsoon, we went collecting leaves of the <i style="">taikila</i> plant for making <i style="">bhajia</i>s or a green <i style="">upkari</i> with shredded coconut.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Today, those halcyon days of my childhood seem to belong to another world. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> has become a city of stress, daily challenges and incredible opportunities for millions of dreamers. The plant patches have vanished and rubbish heaps or slums have taken their place.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >One of my greatest regrets is that I did not write down the recipes of the brews and delicacies made from wild plants while my mother and aunts lived. Still, even after living a hectic life in Mumbai, I cannot pass by Breach Candy without glancing at the weeds by the roadside to experience those moments of excitement, which were scattered so generously in my childhood years. Even now, I can recognise some of the plants and know how to use them to cure minor maladies. I am happy that I have passed on some of this knowledge to my children, who use it in dealing with their children’s health problems.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Had my mother and aunts been alive today, they might have sagely nodded their heads in approval because their prediction, that these plants would one day make researchers sit up and wonder at their magic, has come true. With new international research on the plants which my mother so lovingly collected, I think my life has come a full circle. I am still a <st1:place st="on">South Bombay</st1:place> addict and I still believe that many magical plants still wait to be discovered in my part of this wonderful, fairyland-like city.</span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-10951408083764268522008-04-29T11:43:00.001-07:002008-04-29T12:02:12.588-07:00Three Reminders<o:p></o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;">By Abhinav Maurya </span><o:p style="font-weight: bold;"></o:p><div class="Section1"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ><span style="font-size:180%;">The Oldest <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> Bitch</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size:100%;">‘The very oldest?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Yeah <i style="">miyan</i>, the very oldest…’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘How old?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Old enough to be your grandma’s grandma. How do I know how old? She is the oldest. Isn’t that enough for you?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Truly?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Period.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘An old crone,’ Reddy whispered in awe.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘An old crone, but her haunches are as sturdy as steel. I tell you Reddy, she does not as much as flinch when I pant atop her.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘But Mirza, it’s <i style="">pathetic</i>. She must smell like a garbage van in bed.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘She smells worse. But can’t help it. She’s the cheapest in town — unless you manage to corner one of the younger ones who’re new to the trade, and have reputations befitting neither the day nor night.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Must have one helluva pimp.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘No, no… No pimps she has… She is too popular without any pimps…’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘But doesn’t her old, wrinkled face put you off?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Who cares? As long as she makes you go <i style="">dhak-dhak</i> with the effort, gasping and sucking air out of her lungs and cursing her for it,’ Mirza chuckled.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘What the heck!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘She’s so hot and feverish and all that people are known to die of extreme concupiscence, hanging on for dear life till their very last breath.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘The goddamn bitch!’ Reddy cried out in frenzy, and his excitement made him wring his hands in despair.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘And she has absolutely no qualms about taking in as many men as she can at a time. Even women Reddy, can you believe that!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >‘Saali, besharam!’</span></i></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘All for a few coins… All for the sake of a few measly coins…’ Mirza waved his hands in the air at the inequity of fate.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘How can you even bear to visit her?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘What do you mean? Even the holier-than-thou Mayor Saab from <st1:city st="on">London</st1:city> felt obliged to call upon her when he paid a visit to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Reddy’s eyes, which had until now been growing wide with puzzlement, narrowed in suspicion.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Who <i style="">is</i> this Grand Dame of whores?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘You know her well… She is the oldest <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city></st1:place> bitch ever — the promiscuous Bombay Rail!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style="font-size:180%;">A Lost World</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnIlwyP8LZ2MfyhIoSlhYnj3BSNammRV3-HTnj7GirhPBYkk9lrYwY7sWZDtUlvR9iZreEMRzAXvZIS4sIx9p1myld7uRsbOM_ezRbRt8pUOedWycYJQStL58teyKU0BDMfPieXW6wbw/s1600-h/riots.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnIlwyP8LZ2MfyhIoSlhYnj3BSNammRV3-HTnj7GirhPBYkk9lrYwY7sWZDtUlvR9iZreEMRzAXvZIS4sIx9p1myld7uRsbOM_ezRbRt8pUOedWycYJQStL58teyKU0BDMfPieXW6wbw/s320/riots.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194743676265343714" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >It is dusk in this city Imtiyaz calls his own. He looks at the rouge horizon for a long time as if searching for something, a lost jewel perhaps. The sun that had lent the sea its gentle, liquid refulgence is no more; the Necklace is lit up along its length by a string of pale, sickly streetlights beyond which is the growing blanket of a dark, inky night. His gaze ventures below, onto the thoroughfare that races along the seaface. People are walking ways that lead nowhere, occasionally shooing away shouters-o'-wares who accost them. Abba once told him — the secret of a successful city is that it can stoke desires in the minds of men which it can never satisfy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Abba… shores apart… in another city… <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city>… It holds Imtiyaz’s childhood in the twittering of its birds and the rocking of its gondolas. Nafasat<span style=""> </span>has come with news that abba is ill, but in his mind’s eye, Imtiyaz can still see abbu happy, singing a Khamaj in the dead of the night besides the lapping waters of the lagoons… ni ni sa pa ni sa ga ma ga ma pa ni dha…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Brother, brother…say something.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Nafasat, <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city> is as much my city as <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> is abbu’s. Why does abbu not come here once in a while? Or maybe for the rest of his days? This is after all the city of his childhood.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘You know very well that he won’t leave <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city>. He has been worrying sick for you the last one year, neither able to keep away from, nor able to reconcile himself to the horror of the riots. He has been crying like a baby, seeing <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> sundered apart thus. This city is not safe for Muslims the way it used to be. Besides do you not have any affection for the place that <i>you</i> grew up in?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘<st1:city st="on">Venice</st1:city> was my childhood, but <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> is the place I have grown up in, the place that peoples my living memory. If <st1:city st="on">Venice</st1:city> is my hazy subconsciousness, then <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> is the consciousness that shaped it. You know I will not be able to establish myself in <st1:city st="on">Venice</st1:city> the way I am rooted in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>. The logjam of rains, the cool breeze of winters, and the sweltering summer sun. Quiet walks on noisy beaches. Boisterous Gujarati theatre. Somnolent Irani cafes. Shaam-e-Gazals. The roaring sea and the verdant arbors. And most important of all, the students’ daily <i>riyaz</i>. Many have kept their children under my tutelage only on my assurances. What will these tiny tots do without me? What will I do without them? You are asking me to give up too much, little sister of mine!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘But you are only twenty-five! Look at you… At this age, you banter as if you are the only one who can tutor them. Surely there are other <i style="">ustad</i>s who can do that.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘What will abbu think if I leave my <span style="">disciples</span> like this?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘You are bothered about what abbu will think, but do not care for abbu himself or for his health. How are you to know that you will gladden his heart by returning to him!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Who sent me away in the first place? It was abbu who sent me away from him to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>. Perhaps he sensed a loss by sending me away, so he didn’t send you here. You were lucky but I was the one who suffered.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘It’s not true, brother. We both know that. It was Nadira Aunt — may peace be upon her soul — who dragged you away from abbu to live with her in this wretched city.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘But she couldn’t have done that if abbu had willed it otherwise.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘How could have abbu willed otherwise? Poor Aunt Nadira (for Nafasat still thought of her stepmother as her aunt), living alone in this city all by herself. Abbu told me he feared for her sanity or he would have never sent you away. Today he needs you more than ever.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘But if I leave, I’ll be called a coward who ran for his life.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Staying in the shackles of expectations is bigger cowardice, my brother. Are you not a coward running away from your father when he needs you the most?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Cowardice is of the color of fate, different for each person. We all are running away from something or the other.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Running away doesn’t help things, brother.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Let’s run away from this talk of comings and goings. Tell me more about <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city>. Is it the same as when I left it?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Very much. The baker on our canal died and now we have to row farther to get bread. I usually send abbu to fetch bread; along with bread, he brings back some of the good humour of his old times.’ Nafasat was relieved when the memory of abbu’s wittiness brought a smile to Imtiyaz’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘And you remember the concert hall a few lanes off; it has been converted into a local museum. The details might have changed, but the fabric of the city is the same.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Can’t say the same about <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city></st1:place> though. It is a scarred city. Before the riots, parents of many of my Muslim students would be attired traditionally when they would come to pick up their children after the classes. Now, nobody wears even a skullcap. All shave their long beards of which they were so proud until yesterday. They are even frightened of being called abbu or ammi in public. When I asked one of my students why he had remained absent for a long time after the riots, he told me that that his father had promised to cane him ten times if he dared utter abbu or ammi in public. The punishment went up — from twenty to fifty, then a hundred canings, can you believe that – until the poor boy finally acquired the faculty to forget the word when he ventured outside home. After the riots, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> never seemed to go back to her same old self again. It seemed as if she were in a perpetual mourning for the loss of her hauteur.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >A wry smile crept across Nafasat’s lips.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘What are you smiling at? I’m talking about <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> burning in the riots. What’s so funny about that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘No, nothing… It was just that you said <i style="">she</i>… as if the city were a living person.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >At this, Imtiyaz said nothing but waved his hand about in the air as if it were an inconsequential flourish of the tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Why don’t you come with me to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city>, Imtiyaz?’ He notices the use of his name by his little half-sister, for she rarely does so.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Abbu wrote in his letter that you are engaged to be married.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Yes.’ She shows him her ring, an answer cast in pale Welsh gold. Small answers for big questions, as if the answers were not important at all, at least nowhere as important as the questions.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Rich groom for my darling sister. Who is he?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘You remember the young cellist who came to dine the last time you visited us.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Musician! You had said you will never marry a musician.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘His name is Frederi Modigliani. He would often come by in a gondola to listen to abbu solmizing in the night. Abbu tried teaching him some pieces, but he sings real bad. Now he just carries an Indian violin which abbu gifted and taught him, and accompanies abbu in his <i>riyaz.</i>’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Is he abbu’s choice or yours? Nafa, don’t lose out on yourself.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Abbu considers him like a son. After losing you, he does not want to lose another.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘What are you saying? He has not lost me!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Yes, we have lost you. We are losing you to this wretched city which has a way of justifying itself and its rights and wrongs. We are losing you to the murky depths which made abbu leave this city thirty years ago. And we don’t know what to do.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘It was not <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> that drove abbu crazy. It was having two wives in the same city that did him in.’ Imtiyaz smiles a wry smile, a smile without reason or joy, indeed without any feeling — the way a Bombayite may smile when confronted with the grim reality of truth.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Nafasat looks at Imtiyaz with incredulity — it pains her to hear her brother make such a sardonic comment, her brother who has always been so gentle and kind and soft-spoken. Imtiyaz realizes that he has trespassed the unspoken limits to their conversation, and he makes a swift detour.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘You don’t have to do anything. I’ll not shift to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city>.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >It is late in the evening and the breeze blows wildly, like the harmless anger of an old crone. The raucous call of the brainfever bird cuts through the cold air like knives through ice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >It occurs to Imtiyaz that time has been a cruel fiend. Bound by their singular love of music amidst a sea of differences; hadn’t he and Nafa lived through the arduous journey of impressions, losses and realization together, no questions asked? How many times had they looked for meaning and found it in the turbulence of each other’s hearts? How many times had one’s mind been troubled only to find succor in the silence of the other? How many times had they searched for solace only to find it in the loss that their eyes held? Now it seems to Imtiyaz that they no more understand each other the way they used to when they were small.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >He looks unperturbed, fatalistic, dangerously teetering on the brink of indifference. Nafasat gets up, and takes his face in her hands, holding his gaze in an ultimate act of defiance. He thinks her eyes will bore into him like an auger, but they are filled with stern compassion, the way ammi’s eyes used to be when she silently mourned the loss of her husband by talking of him for hours on end and vainly singing the thumries that spoke with greater leisure of her parting and longing than speech would have permitted. Sometimes when Imtiyaz saw his ammi singing in a poorly attended concert at one of the seedy crumbling concert halls of old Bombay, it occurred to him that her face was contorted with a grief much beyond the ecstasy of the music that she was singing. He of course never found out what it was, never had a way of finding out… But he knew it had something to do with abbu, and he never forgave abbu for that.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘Listen Nafa, I have stayed too long here to think of moving anyplace else.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘I understand. But think about abbu. He is dying, Imtiyaz.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Startled, Imtiyaz turns around to face his sister. ‘What do you mean? You told me he was just ill.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘He is ailing, Imtiyaz. He did not want me to tell you this, but I have no other way. Come away Imtiyaz. Don’t hold such a long grudge against your own father. He has not been able to live in peace. Let him die in peace by forgiving him.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘If this is what you want, I will come.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >‘I’ll call abbu and tell him. He will be very happy… very very happy.’ Before he can begin protesting, Nafasat goes away to make the call.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Imtiyaz is surprised at his quick assent, at the weakness of his resolve to never leave the city that gave him his first guru after abbu and his first small recognitions as a Sitar exponent before he was even known outside <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. He understands his despondency and the cause of it, but fails to comprehend the agility with which it takes hold of everything inside him, even his memories of living by the sea in a city called <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city></st1:place>. He just watches the bleak horizon for a long time. That is all he can do right now.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Perched on the high bough of a nearby acacia, the brainfever bird looks down upon Imtiyaz with haughty smugness and a beady eye and flies to another bough, another abode, and another story.<o:p></o:p></span></p> </div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style="font-size:180%;">An Elegy For <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city></st1:place></span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p>There is no other place quite like <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city></st1:place>, the city of poised extremes — of comic hatreds and tragic love, of sad lives and joyous deaths, of shallow delights and imagined sorrows — and everything en route.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >A city of unending chaos that fills your ears like a thousand bees droning at once; of wide, impassable roads which grow ever so convoluted that playing chess a hundred moves ahead is easier than finding your way out of the labyrinth; and of the unending quagmire that ensues when one thinks of making home of a city where even the rooftops of the trains get squatted upon. A city that holds alcohol scarcer than bread and bread scarcer than goodwill and goodwill the scarcest of all. And in the end, simply <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>’s only truly cosmopolitan city.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >That’s <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> for the uninitiated. Because it’s victims need no introductions of the city to which their fates are as inextricably and irredeemably tied as flame to the wick of a lamp.</span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-2161906363935806812008-04-27T05:13:00.000-07:002008-04-27T05:17:56.723-07:00This City<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">By Reshma Ghosh<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOwKISFp8LcUBdCjUoJvrvU0sB4f_rC9A9XXseDvgo4CerI8z5uJT67_jY0oIzK1qbX4sbQQqDp_HaXy0r8740_V6RqUpGiba1H4ruoOnwAnNUq4-KSntqFEUsSOAHaHaXTWBjN5s1z4/s1600-h/reshma+ghosh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOwKISFp8LcUBdCjUoJvrvU0sB4f_rC9A9XXseDvgo4CerI8z5uJT67_jY0oIzK1qbX4sbQQqDp_HaXy0r8740_V6RqUpGiba1H4ruoOnwAnNUq4-KSntqFEUsSOAHaHaXTWBjN5s1z4/s320/reshma+ghosh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193897765276527298" border="0" /></a>This city, with its shifting shapes and sliding dreams, which harbours the hearty, the weary, the optimist and the pessimist with equal generosity.<br /></div></div>Whose commercial carapace hides its softer underbelly of tenderness and soulful humanity.<br />Whose lanes and bylanes I have explored with curiosity when younger and with confidence when older and never failed to marvel at the tenacity of its people.<br />This city.<br />I have walked under its neon lights, on broken pavements, on dented streets, under a curdled sky.<br />I have breathed in its toxic fumes, in crowded rooms, in stuffy cabs and loved its spirit of ‘never say die’.<br />I have watched bandicoots scooting, heard rickshaw-drivers hooting and seen eunuchs hitching up their skirts.<br />In this city.<br />I have smiled at bone-setters, shoe-menders, flower-sellers and rag-pickers.<br />I have looked down on rash-drivers, social climbers, wrongdoers and gold-diggers.<br />I have exulted at the sight of the first grey monsoon clouds over the sea.<br />I have hungered, I have loved, I have pined.<br />In this city.<br />I have seen the small man rise, the big man fall and the middleman grin and the city continue in its ceaseless way.<br />I have seen men and women hang up their despair and lose themselves in a family drama on the telly.<br />I have seen people after bomb blasts, riots, stock market crashes, pick up the pieces of their broken lives and pretend that nothing happened anyway.<br />In this city.<br />This city, that has let me slip in and out of identities like a chameleon.<br />That has let me laugh at Prithvi, romance at Marine Drive and cry at Bandstand.<br />That has not questioned me when I have eaten a vada pao at a roadside stall or batted an eyelid when I’ve shucked down oysters with vodka at a fancy restaurant and run up a bill I don’t wish to recall.<br />This city whose smells I cannot forget.<br />The smell of pungent Bombay Duck that hangs in lines on Carter Road under the sun.<br />The acid smell of steel of the local train that lingers, long after the journey is done.<br />The smell of smoky pubs and sizzlers that crawls shamelessly into my hair and the lining of my underwear.<br />The smell of corn roasting on a summer day.<br />This city, which I sometimes hesitate to call my own because it doesn’t afford me a square inch of land or sky to bear testimony that it is indeed my home.<br />This city that I love, anyway.Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-2884396951749408922008-04-25T11:57:00.000-07:002008-04-25T12:07:24.732-07:00City Musings<div style="text-align: center;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">By Pratik Chowdhury<o:p></o:p></span></b><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLlxKq-ZTkoc_YIds0OdvoKvclI0EWS-n2UwuXxmHruyTBl03yhVSDCmFaoU_TJjbUMimyU2ywVwe-jzy1s_fW-Zuthhd5TsnoGjuK_mwZQfhTVM2buzxiuSggrpRM24_RCGz-ySLufA/s1600-h/lady.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLlxKq-ZTkoc_YIds0OdvoKvclI0EWS-n2UwuXxmHruyTBl03yhVSDCmFaoU_TJjbUMimyU2ywVwe-jzy1s_fW-Zuthhd5TsnoGjuK_mwZQfhTVM2buzxiuSggrpRM24_RCGz-ySLufA/s320/lady.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193261414332017330" border="0" /></a><br /><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:180%;">Impressions</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Your echoing fragrance<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">windborne<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">quietly wafts in<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">with every pore<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">pulsating<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I resonate<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">into an ensemble of<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">consciousness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Dreams<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Dreams have a way of sprouting<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">tender green leaves like<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">in spring shine time<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">they rustle down<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">autumn soft shadows slithering<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">down branches<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">in the warm<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">afterglow of evening sun<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">in the backyards of my<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">dreamscape<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">some lie low<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">like butterflies<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">broken bruised and crumpled<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">making little pools<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">of shadows…<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Ecstasy</span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">In the cool shades<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">of your <i style="">aanchal</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">bedewed petals<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">shower<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">desire blossoms<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">caress my being<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">as mist kissed<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">rhododendrons<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">in eventide<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">like fireflies at night<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">I erupt into<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">a thousand<span style=""> </span>ecstasies.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">Evening<o:p></o:p></span></b><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">An ember glow sun<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">on the forehead<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">with bedewed eyes<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">robed in silky sheets<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">of mists hesitant<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">bridal eve<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">yearns<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-US">the embrace of night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-67167255496970528792008-04-25T11:35:00.000-07:002008-04-25T11:42:27.455-07:00A Prickly Solution<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><o:p>By </o:p></span><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Dilip Raote </span></b><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtIgsGSq3_NSKLDMLjreGK7eeuSfTFn_dDD3H7Daik9orcS-HwzBrGjiq88iZLwo2dv39cHZsIkmpLODrQ1Sb49hCy9keGzs9QwqTXCcz5P20gmZlg7i9R8D0jmDWUb7Ak8GuVvrOO8mQ/s1600-h/teen+girl+cartoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtIgsGSq3_NSKLDMLjreGK7eeuSfTFn_dDD3H7Daik9orcS-HwzBrGjiq88iZLwo2dv39cHZsIkmpLODrQ1Sb49hCy9keGzs9QwqTXCcz5P20gmZlg7i9R8D0jmDWUb7Ak8GuVvrOO8mQ/s320/teen+girl+cartoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193254838737087138" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>Geetika was tired of her parents. They were a bore. They were a nuisance. They were the pits. What’s the fun of having your own room if you can’t lock the door?<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Knock, knock. “What are doing in there, darling? Why have you locked the door? Come and see what I’ve made for you. Open up, will you?” And mother would bring in some snacks that she’d just made. Hot hot or cold cold.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Why didn’t mother take up a job? She’d done microbiology. She should be looking at microbes through microscopes. Perhaps the microbes would be as annoyed as she was. It’s a hard life when you are under constant watch.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Mother didn’t take up a job because father made too much money. Mother liked to show off how much money father made. She made him change the car every year. She was already tired of the new <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Toyota</st1:place></st1:city>. She wanted a BMW. Geetika never got a chance to travel in taxis and buses, not even the school bus. She was taken from their <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Napeansea Road</st1:address></st1:street> residence to JB Petit School near Hutatma Chowk by driver Chandu in their old Honda. And she was never allowed to go on class picnics.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Chandu was entertaining. He told Geetika exciting stories about his childhood in a village near Ratnagiri. He walked to school barefoot. He climbed trees. He swam in wells and in the sea. And he stole fruits from orchards. He told her ghost stories. The Konkan has lots of ghosts. Geetika wondered often if she could persuade her parents to go to a haunted house in the Konkan. A ghost might cure mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">But then it might not. Mother would get a conversation topic for the parties she threw. And she’d ask Geetika to tell the story after she’d already told it. “Geetika, tell them what you saw. It was so frightening, no? But Geetika wasn’t scared at all, you know. My darling is a very brave girl.” Yakyakyakyakyakyakyak.</span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Father was no help. He was proud of his wife. He liked to see her dolled up. She stank of an unbearable perfume. Father also used perfume, but it wasn’t so bad. He also agreed with everything mother said. “Do as your mama tells you,” he’d say. “She knows what is best for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">He wouldn’t buy Geetika a cycle. It wasn’t safe outside, he said. Even in the building’s compound? Not even there. All kinds of low-class children come there. Not good for our baby.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">He got Geetika a pair of roller-skates, though. Along with them he got protective pads for the knees and elbows and a helmet. Geetika was to skate only in the house. Or on the building’s terrace. But not alone. Mother had to be present.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Father took the skates along once when they went to the club. He insisted Geetika wear them and show off to the guest at their table. And she had to wear the protective gear. Was he nuts? What would other kids think? Worse than a sissy, whatever that is.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika refused. “Don't be difficult, baby,” father said. “These skates are the best in the market. Are you afraid? Daddy will hold your hand.” Geetika wanted to hurl the skates into the swimming pool near by. Hold her hand, indeed! Fine sight that would make.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Father tied on the elbow pads and hit the edge of the marble table hard with the elbows. “See! Real tough! All children’s games should have safety measures. Play should not end in injury. Yakyakyakyak…” Geetika looked up at the evening sky. The moon looked like a ball of cement. She imagined it dropping down on father’s head.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">“Your problem is that you are an only child,” her class monitor Sangeeta had told her once. “You are lucky but you don’t know it. You can get anything you want. I have a sister and two brothers. Our parents have no time to even look at us. Think about it, kid. Don’t curse your good fortune.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">So, Geetika buried herself in her studies or played on her computer. She’d once made the mistake of asking mother’s help with some homework. It was an awful experience. Mother took over. She did all the homework for that day. Geetika sat around and twiddled her thumbs. Then she played Free Cell on the computer until mother finished.</span><span style=";font-family:";" ><script> <!-- D(["mb","\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e heard about that homework for several weeks afterwards. Every visitor was told about it. So \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e worked hard at her studies. She did all her homework. She never again asked for mother\u0026#39;s help. And she made sure she usually topped class. If she\u0026#39;d got a lower rank, mother would have wanted to help with the homework.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e\u0026#39;s classmates thought she was nuts. What are parents for if you can\u0026#39;t get them to do your homework, they said. Parents must be involved with their children\u0026#39;s education, Sangeeta said. Homework is a continuation of school work and parents are the teachers there. Blah-blah. Sangeeta mimicked the headmistress well.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e thought and thought. She caught herself staring at her parents often. When father caught her looking at him, he did a thumbs-up. He saw love and admiration in that look. When mother caught her looking, she\u0026#39;d say, \u0026quot;Need anything, darling?\u0026quot; \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e would shake her head and go back to her book or computer. But no plan was taking shape in her head.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One evening father and mother left together for a business party. Kanchan the maid had to do overtime. She was left in charge with full instructions about dinner and sleeping times for \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e. \u0026quot;And don\u0026#39;t be difficult, baby,\u0026quot; mother said. \u0026quot;Don\u0026#39;t wait for us. We may be late. Bye, darling.\u0026quot;\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e went to her bedroom and shut the door. She pulled out all the Roald Dahl books from the shelf. Nasty things happened to adults in Dahl\u0026#39;s children\u0026#39;s books. \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e flipped through the books. Nah, there was nothing in them that she could try out. The stories were fantasies. They were not real.",1] ); //--> </script><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika heard about that homework for several weeks afterwards. Every visitor was told about it. So Geetika worked hard at her studies. She did all her homework. She never again asked for mother’s help. And she made sure she usually topped class. If she’d got a lower rank, mother would have wanted to help with the homework.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika’s classmates thought she was nuts. What are parents for if you can’t get them to do your homework, they said. Parents must be involved with their children’s education, Sangeeta said. Homework is a continuation of school work and parents are the teachers there. Blah-blah. Sangeeta mimicked the headmistress well.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">So, Geetika thought and thought. She caught herself staring at her parents often. When father caught her looking at him, he did a thumbs-up. He saw love and admiration in that look. When mother caught her looking, she’d say, “Need anything, darling?” Geetika would shake her head and go back to her book or computer. But no plan was taking shape in her head.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">One evening father and mother left together for a business party. Kanchan, the maid, had to do overtime. She was left in charge with full instructions about dinner and sleeping times for Geetika. “And don’t be difficult, baby,” mother said. “Don’t wait for us. We may be late. Bye, darling.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika went to her bedroom and shut the door. She pulled out all the Roald Dahl books from the shelf. Nasty things happened to adults in Dahl’s children’s books. Geetika flipped through the books. Nah, there was nothing in them that she could try out. The stories were fantasies. They were not real.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Kanchan pushed open the door and came in. She sat on the floor near Geetika. She wanted company. Geetika switched on the computer. She shoved in a CD of the Hindi film <i style="">Lagaan</i>. She told Kanchan to sit in the chair. Kanchan protested that she couldn’t. Geetika grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Sit there!” she said firmly and pointed to the chair. Kanchan settled into the chair. She was pleased. Then she lost interest in Geetika. The movie had begun.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika walked out of the room. She was in deep thought. She wandered into the guest bedroom. She took in all the items one by one. She peeped into the wall cupboards. Nothing exciting.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">She wanted into the kitchen. She considered all the electrical appliances. She opened cupboards. Chilli powder in the pillows? No, that was a short-term thing. So were ice-cubes under the bed sheet. She opened the cutlery drawers and stared long at the knives and forks. No, that was an extreme solution.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">She went to her parents’ bedroom. She peeped in the wardrobes. She hadn’t realised that her parents had so many clothes. She shut the cupboards and stared at the huge bed. The bedcover was a large M F Husain canvas of a Madhuri Dixit portrait. Father had got it specially printed. All the bedcovers in the linen cupboard were art works. There was Picasso, Dali, Raza and many more. Whenever father acquired a new bedcover, he’d hang it on a wall and show Geetika a photograph of the original for comparison. And he’d laugh at his own ingenuity. He said he was an art lover and winked at mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><script> <!-- D(["mb","\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e walked over to the bedside table on mother\u0026#39;s side of the bed. The drawers were filled with bangles, hair bands, a can of some spray, and other such things. \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e\u0026#39;s eyes settled on a packet. She picked it up and flicked it open. She smiled. Here was the solution to all her problems.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She carried the packet to her room. Kanchan was staring at the screen and laughing. She didn\u0026#39;t even notice \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e. \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e went to her study table and dug out her pencil-compass box. After a while, she went back to her parents\u0026#39; room and put back the packet in the bedside drawer. She smiled, like a wicked witch.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e warmed the food in the microwave and had dinner. She brushed, changed into nightclothes and lay down in the guest room. She dozed off.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She woke up in her own room in the morning. Another boring day lay ahead. She decided she\u0026#39;d pretend to be sick and bunk school. Then the memories of the previous night stirred. She jumped up. She ran out. She pushed open the door of her parents\u0026#39; room and rushed in.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026quot;Hi, Dad! Hi, Mom!\u0026quot; she said. They were still sleeping. Father turned over and groaned. Mother opened her eyes and was annoyed. But \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e bent over and gave her a hug. Mother smiled.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026quot;Why are you up so early, baby?\u0026quot; she said. Then she looked at the wall clock. \u0026quot;My god! It\u0026#39;s eight!\u0026quot; She threw off her cover and got up. \u0026quot;Go and get ready, baby. You\u0026#39;ll be late for school.\u0026quot; She rushed off to the bathroom.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e",1] ); //--> </script></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika walked over to the bedside table on mother’s side of the bed. The drawers were filled with bangles, hair bands, a can of some spray, and other such things. Geetika’s eyes settled on a packet. She picked it up and flicked it open. She smiled. Here was the solution to all her problems.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">She carried the packet to her room. Kanchan was staring at the screen and laughing. She didn’t even notice Geetika. Geetika went to her study table and dug out her pencil-compass box. After a while, she went back to her parents’ room and put back the packet in the bedside drawer. She smiled, like a wicked witch.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika warmed the food in the microwave and had dinner. She brushed, changed into nightclothes and lay down in the guest room. She dozed off.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">She woke up in her own room in the morning. Another boring day lay ahead. She decided she’d pretend to be sick and bunk school. Then the memories of the previous night stirred. She jumped up. She ran out. She pushed open the door of her parents’ room and rushed in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">“Hi, Dad! Hi, Mom!” she said. They were still sleeping. Father turned over and groaned. Mother opened her eyes and was annoyed. But Geetika bent over and gave her a hug. Mother smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">“Why are you up so early, baby?” she said. Then she looked at the wall clock. “My god! It's eight!” She threw off her cover and got up. “Go and get ready, baby. You’ll be late for school.” She rushed off to the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><script> <!-- D(["mb"," \u003c/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e smiled and laughed on the way to school. Driver Chandu was infected by her mood and told her jokes and atrocious stories of his childhood days when the kids played nasty tricks on adults. He laughed a lot. His eyes were more on \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e in the back seat than on the road ahead. He was surprised by the chirpiness of the girl this morning. She never laughed like this even on her birthday or on results day when she got a first rank. He wondered.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And so days and weeks passed. \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e kept a surreptitious watch on her parents. When was it going to happen? When? When? \u003cbr\u003e\n One morning she noticed that her mother was silent. She was brooding. Anxiety showed on her face. She didn\u0026#39;t make a fuss with \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e\u0026#39;s preparations for school and breakfast. \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e asked her if anything was wrong. \u0026quot;Feeling a little sick, baby,\u0026quot; she said. \u0026quot;But don\u0026#39;t worry. I\u0026#39;ll see the doctor in the evening.\u0026quot;\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e was pulled up by four teachers for not paying attention. She smiled when she was scolded. During recess she laughed and ran around and wanted to take part in all the games on the playground. Her classmates were puzzled. \u0026quot;She looks like she\u0026#39;s in love,\u0026quot; said Sangeeta the class monitor. \u0026quot;But it can\u0026#39;t be. The only man she\u0026#39;s allowed to meet without her parents\u0026#39; supervision is driver Chandu.\u0026quot;\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Sangeeta inquired, \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e said, \u0026quot;I\u0026#39;ll tell you tomorrow. Then we\u0026#39;ll have a party.\u0026quot; She refused to say more. \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The house was quiet in the evening when she returned from school and ballet class. Only Kanchan was at home. Father and mother returned after ",1] ); //--> </script></span><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika smiled and laughed on the way to school. Driver Chandu was infected by her mood and told her jokes and atrocious stories of his childhood days when the kids played nasty tricks on adults. He laughed a lot. His eyes were more on Geetika in the back seat than on the road ahead. He was surprised by the chirpiness of the girl this morning. She never laughed like this even on her birthday or on results day when she got a first rank. He wondered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">And so days and weeks passed. Geetika kept a surreptitious watch on her parents. When was it going to happen? When? When?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">One morning she noticed that her mother was silent. She was brooding. Anxiety showed on her face. She didn’t make a fuss with Geetika’s preparations for school and breakfast. Geetika asked her if anything was wrong. “Feeling a little sick, baby,” she said. “But don’t worry. I’ll see the doctor in the evening.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika was pulled up by four teachers for not paying attention. She smiled when she was scolded. During recess she laughed and ran around and wanted to take part in all the games on the playground. Her classmates were puzzled. “She looks like she’s in love,” said Sangeeta, the class monitor. “But it can’t be. The only man she’s allowed to meet without her parents’ supervision is driver Chandu.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">When Sangeeta inquired, Geetika said, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Then we’ll have a party.” She refused to say more.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">The house was quiet in the evening when she returned from school and ballet class. Only Kanchan was at home. Father and mother returned after <script> <!-- D(["mb","\u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e had had dinner. Father looked grim. Mother\u0026#39;s eyes were red. She had cried. They nodded at \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e and went to their room. The door was shut with a bang. Soon voices rose inside. \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e tiptoed to the door and put an ear to it. Father and mother were both speaking too fast. Mother was wailing during the pauses. There was the sound of a drawer being opened. Then after a long silence, father\u0026#39;s words came through sharp and clear. \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026quot;I\u0026#39;ll sue those condom manufacturers. I\u0026#39;ll take them up to the Supreme Court. I\u0026#39;ll teach those bastards a lesson.\u0026quot;\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e tiptoed back. She went to her room and locked the door. She did a wild dance on the bed. She changed into her nightclothes and climbed into bed and stared happily at the ceiling. She pulled the pillow from under her head and stuffed it under her nightie. She stood in front of the mirror and looked approvingly at her big belly. \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was knocking on the door. She ignored it. The knocking grew louder. \u0026quot;Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad! I am sleeping.\u0026quot; [\u003c/span\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003ePARA\u003c/span\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e]\u003cbr\u003e\n \u0026quot;Good night, dear,\u0026quot; said mother from the other side of the door. It sounded like a sob.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e got into bed and put the pillow back under her head. She tried to imagine the look on Sangeeta\u0026#39;s face tomorrow when she told her that her mother was pregnant. Some day \u003cspan name\u003d\"st\"\u003eGeetika\u003c/span\u003e would tell her the true story. But not now. Not now. After the baby came, perhaps.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e",1] ); //--> </script>Geetika had had dinner. Father looked grim. Mother’s eyes were red. She had cried. They nodded at Geetika and went to their room. The door was shut with a bang. Soon voices rose inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika tiptoed to the door and put an ear to it. Father and mother were both speaking too fast. Mother was wailing during the pauses. There was the sound of a drawer being opened. Then after a long silence, father’s words came through sharp and clear.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">“I’ll sue those condom manufacturers. I’ll take them up to the Supreme Court. I’ll teach those bastards a lesson.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika tiptoed back. She went to her room and locked the door. She did a wild dance on the bed. She changed into her nightclothes and climbed into bed and stared happily at the ceiling. She pulled the pillow from under her head and stuffed it under her nightie. She stood in front of the mirror and looked approvingly at her big belly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">There was knocking on the door. She ignored it. The knocking grew louder. “Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad! I am sleeping.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">“Good night, dear,” said mother from the other side of the door. It sounded like a sob.</span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Geetika got into bed and put the pillow back under her head. She tried to imagine the look on Sangeeta’s face tomorrow when she told her that her mother was pregnant.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-GB">Some day Geetika would tell her the true story. But not now. Not now. After the baby came, perhaps.</span><span style=";font-family:";" ><script> <!-- D(["mb"," \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e-----------------------\u003cspan\u003e \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003eDilip Raote \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e",1] ); D(["mb","\u003cspan class\u003dsg\u003e\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan lang\u003d\"EN-GB\"\u003e \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp style\u003d\"margin:0in 0in 0pt\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003c/span\u003e",0] ); D(["ce"]); //--> </script><o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-76845716235723039692008-04-25T04:02:00.000-07:002008-04-25T04:57:57.237-07:00Two Pearls<div style="text-align: center;"><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >By Dan Husain<o:p></o:p></span></b><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlw1e3MFYZDnzjkKqf17D4p9aAX81yByNEP14BP5xQ7n97ypxZ9s_qoNSbXg-P1P4Mn-fZeDJxlcQW0tsoRi8oz7ywAqUMsCCImuWEY6iS6twnwXkbHqpQR_V-Io9JAZq9ohCEr89MIs/s1600-h/Caf+Meeting+at+Hauz+Khas+Ruins.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlw1e3MFYZDnzjkKqf17D4p9aAX81yByNEP14BP5xQ7n97ypxZ9s_qoNSbXg-P1P4Mn-fZeDJxlcQW0tsoRi8oz7ywAqUMsCCImuWEY6iS6twnwXkbHqpQR_V-Io9JAZq9ohCEr89MIs/s320/Caf+Meeting+at+Hauz+Khas+Ruins.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193150690075126418" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >These Days...</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >I<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >These days<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I find everything staged:<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >the words of comfort you plant,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >the concern that I fake,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >the platitudes that we toss,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >twirl, throw into each other’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >How brittle is our truth<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >that we wrap it with pretexts<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >believing love holds good<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >only in certain contexts.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >II</span></strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The other day<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >at <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Carter Road</st1:address></st1:street>,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >when the Sun was<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >a speck of orange in your eye<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >and the world<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >a soot-covered portrait,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I felt I had a poem for you<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >but then, these days, I don’t write poems.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I look for words instead,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >words that would miff the silence<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >you puncture our conversations with.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >III</span></strong><b><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><b><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >In the quietness of the night<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >when you twirl next to me<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I hear shrill screams<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >of our unsaid thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I then strain, strain<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >to hear your silence...<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Salim Joshua at a Soirée…</span></span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >I</span></strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >So we must end the conversation now.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >It has hung long<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >From the Rembrandts and the Rousseaus<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >(cheap imitations</span></em><i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >mounted on dreams</span></em><i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >sundry & parvenu)</span></em><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >That your silent walls adorn.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >But you wish to speak<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >About the trivialities that tweak<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Your propriety, your idea<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Of what the world is, of what it should be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I feign interest<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >(how may I tell you</span></em><i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >I am part of the world that you hate).</span></em><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >II</span></strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >We sit at the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Everyone has assumed a role,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Everyone is a character.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" >London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style=";font-family:";" > is no more a fad,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" >New York</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style=";font-family:";" > may still pass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“So I was at this glistening<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Office of glass walls<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >On the 67th floor of Chrysler<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" >At Lexington Avenue</span></st1:address></st1:street><span style=";font-family:";" >”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And then throw in the punch<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Of how you spent the weekend<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Scuba-diving in <st1:place st="on">Aruba</st1:place>,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Lounging, smoking pot<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >At Luna Lodge in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Costa Rica</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The boys are agog.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >They’re too eager to fill you in<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >About their training stints in Düsseldorf.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >(I sigh! The farthest is</span></em><i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >Karachi</span></em></st1:place></st1:city><em><span style=";font-family:";" > in the west)</span></em><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >III</span></strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >We sneak into a quiet corner.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The evening trails as a wispy fragrance<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >On your wine laden lips.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >I wish to drink the moistness,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Feel your heat against my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >My hands rustling against your breasts<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >But suddenly you break free —<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Coquettishly —<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >“Wait! Let me see<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Where my darling husband is?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >(Bitch!)</span></em><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style=";font-family:";" >IV</span></strong><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >We sit with our bellies full,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Courgette and prawn dolloped with soufflé,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And break into idle chatter, pitter-patter<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Sprinkling names —<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >(The conversation strains </span></em><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >— <em><span style=";font-family:";" >someone coughs!)</span></em></span></i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The stiff upper-lipped editors at Knopf,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The haute couture,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The avant-garde,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The ‘here’ and ‘now’,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The ‘whys’ and ‘how’,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >The ‘must do’ and ‘have musts’<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Discerning eyebrows,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Dancing flamenco<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >With waspish tongues:<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Shreds of half-understood conversations<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Heard at someplace else —<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >That may ease this evening of discontent.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >(But in our hearts, as the evening stretches,</span></em><i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >Dreams fizzle like smoke</span></em><i><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style=";font-family:";" >From a gun's nozzle.)</span></em><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >And then…whimper!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >(</span></i><b style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >Note:</span></b><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" > Salim Joshua... was inspired from a passage from Suketu Mehta’s </span></i><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on"><span style=";font-family:";" >Maximum</span></st1:placename><span style=";font-family:";" > <st1:placetype st="on">City</st1:placetype></span></st1:place><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-14022374065045917872008-04-24T05:47:00.001-07:002008-04-25T03:35:49.131-07:00City<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOjEYVDOusBkBK6PYpGJX7X1ClR7lowZzM7MLs2i8rOEF2AbxxkSk84hLR-GJYawHrrlf96GVPkdu-MgS7b1fPRxNvBdR_JXBa4kJl8TPZ_ZAUsxxX4S7oWFcB-BvgWz35hNxkJWFyKw/s1600-h/streetwalkers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOjEYVDOusBkBK6PYpGJX7X1ClR7lowZzM7MLs2i8rOEF2AbxxkSk84hLR-GJYawHrrlf96GVPkdu-MgS7b1fPRxNvBdR_JXBa4kJl8TPZ_ZAUsxxX4S7oWFcB-BvgWz35hNxkJWFyKw/s320/streetwalkers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192794297983871618" border="0" /></a><b style="">By Abha Iyengar<o:p></o:p></b><br /><p class="MsoNormal">She was the winding streets of the urban settlements.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The higgledy-piggledy structures overshadowed with their ugliness the beauty of her curves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">They attempted to protect her, in their leaning over into her, from those who walked her everyday to find their release at the end.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It often strained the city-dwellers, her snake-like beauty, asking them to carry on with no tree in sight, no respite, she who exposed her wanton curves for them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She was dirty.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yet slick when the night showers washed her clean, slithery and glistening in the afternoon sun that sought to dry her quick lest work be lost, a day be gone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">For it was important to traverse this beautiful enchantress of seduction to make ends meet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And give it all up to her in her lap at the end of the day, when she provided at her curving sides the <i style="">adda</i>s and <i style="">theka</i>s for anyone to become drunk, enjoying her abundance even more in the dark by the light of a thousand incandescent bulbs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">These threw strange shadows across her face, and the buildings loomed sinister, as though threatening them to be with her beyond a point, no street walkers or loiterers allowed after a time, they needed to go home after hours of submersion in her headiness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And those who considered her their home, she cradled in her uneven arms and helped them die.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow the same curves would greet them by the light of the sun and they would notice the dirt and the crumbly leaves, the dust, the litter and the broken glass.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She was still not ready to face the day but they wanted her available once again, this time to ride to the end for their own purposes, always their own purposes, she was just a giver of herself, morning or noon or night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She accepted them, this invasion of herself was allowed, because it made her come alive, to throb with the footfalls, the lopsided hutments, the slick skyscrapers, the mixing of humanity that slapped itself on her in its attempts to survive.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She took it, she had to accept.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And they had to accept her, they had no choice, there was no other way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No way out also, for once she allowed you access they wanted to be there with her and her alone, regardless of how she was, enchantress, seductress, nibbler of souls, monstrous maw, et al.</p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3390004498819956261.post-7300455185473606912008-04-23T06:30:00.000-07:002008-04-27T05:23:14.964-07:00Memories of Bombay<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8SEBoySRHgCNJTj7RFdonilCxIkqW6p7bM3uqAJgmwqQqbixczZ5Ek3W4ZdWfxg6LTVCnvgQilcimkEB5HbI4IVfBhkdVG4PUzTv-6kLkcLiBhxbuwTmHNqW4H-8p-yjBOmyBzhDpoVA/s1600-h/gateway+of+india.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8SEBoySRHgCNJTj7RFdonilCxIkqW6p7bM3uqAJgmwqQqbixczZ5Ek3W4ZdWfxg6LTVCnvgQilcimkEB5HbI4IVfBhkdVG4PUzTv-6kLkcLiBhxbuwTmHNqW4H-8p-yjBOmyBzhDpoVA/s320/gateway+of+india.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192433456306498130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">By Lajwanti S Khemlani<o:p></o:p></span><span style=""><o:p><br /><br /></o:p>When I think of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:city></st1:place>, I remember the occasional summer holidays I had with my mother at my <i style="">massi</i>’s house on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Marine Drive</st1:address></st1:street>, <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">A Road</st1:address></st1:street>. Typically arriving around noon from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Poona</st1:place></st1:city>, we were used to getting picked up by <i style="">massi</i>’s daughter-in-law, Aunty Monica. If she couldn’t make it, she would send someone or the other to bring us home.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I remember once we took a taxi and got to their flat on our own. In a quiet voice my mother had given the address to the driver and before we knew it we were by the <st1:place st="on">Arabian Sea</st1:place>, even I recognised that. It is then we knew that we were not far off. Since it was lunch time, we were served food. We napped and then Aunty Monica took her daughter and me for a stroll on the <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Marine Drive</st1:address></st1:street> and treated us to cool coconut water; something I had only when we visited them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The days that followed were filled with various outings. She took us to the famous Kailash Parbat Restaurant in Colaba, among other eating places. Of course, since we were kids and she knew we’d enjoy Chowpatty, she took us there. For shopping we went to <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Linking Road</st1:address></st1:street>, Bandra. At that young age, I did not quite understand why we had to go all the way there as opposed to somewhere else?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I still remember Aunty Monica saying, today we will go to so and so place in Colaba for lunch, for the best <i style="">pao bhaji</i>. “Why all the way there and what was the big deal about that particular dish?” I wondered. After all it meant nothing but bread and vegetables. It was only when I saw the huge crowd waiting to be served that I understood that this was indeed a famous joint.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Is it any wonder then that even now when I see the mouth-watering soft small breads and sizzling vegetable <i style="">puree</i> with onion slivers, hot green chillies, and fresh <i style="">kothmir</i> (coriander leaves) that my mind flashes right back to Bombay? The same goes for <i style="">lychee</i>s. The very first time the firm moist fruit touched my lips was in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>, since then I am somewhat partial to them, in spite of their prickly exterior.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Nu6p229wRxA5Ht5OIKg7ULmcU-2XVWnPn9CAUZM3wRz1FQKJ2T0k7uNXDBAnGZSCDrNbvaO-idCyFNlQIWb144xVL5UiNFpfyPyaL04b1LOqtKJ7VQMj7O0kE-bkZy3f19DdvHbQ9tg/s1600-h/lajwanti.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Nu6p229wRxA5Ht5OIKg7ULmcU-2XVWnPn9CAUZM3wRz1FQKJ2T0k7uNXDBAnGZSCDrNbvaO-idCyFNlQIWb144xVL5UiNFpfyPyaL04b1LOqtKJ7VQMj7O0kE-bkZy3f19DdvHbQ9tg/s320/lajwanti.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193899414543968978" border="0" /></a><span style="">It used to be a thrill to be able to poke my head out of the balcony windows and look to the right to see the magnificent <st1:place st="on">Indian Ocean</st1:place> right there, smell the salt in the air, and see the birds fly over. To the left, to see students entering the college close by, girls dressed up in as was fashionable in those days, tight short skirts; with boys hanging around on scooters and motorcycles, looking dashing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Is it any wonder then that <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> still holds a special place in my heart? That I love the sea? That unless I go to a beach or for a holiday by the sea I feel something is missing. To my ten- to twelve-year-old mind, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> was a city of excesses and glamour. I saw people spend a lot of money. How was I to know anything else, when my <i style="">massi</i> lived in what seemed like a mansion of a flat and had a cook and a maid who waited hand and foot on the family?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">From a young age, I had the impression that in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> one dressed up fashionably. That it was easy to distinguish between outsiders from the natives. But if you were sharp enough, no one would find out that you really did not belong, that if you used words like <i style="">ekdum</i> and <i style="">bindaas</i> no one would know the difference.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Each fun-filled holiday ended with taking many gifts back home. Both <i style="">maasi</i> and aunty were very kind that way. They always made sure that we took several sweet, succulent, mangoes back home with us.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Years later on my visit to Poona, I landed at the Bombay International Airport, something I always did, even though I could have flown to Delhi and then from there to Poona. This time, the plan was to spend more than the usual few hours at the airport. This time, I was planning on spending two whole days in the fast-growing cosmopolitan city.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">As a tourist, I had to ensure that I got from Point A to Point B: safe and sound. After years of watching numerous Bollywood films, I was convinced that if I were not careful, I could be duped or seriously hurt. Even though I was not alone, it was my country of birth but not my friend’s who was travelling with me. I felt I had to look out for both of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Our recent adventures in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> began with one particular taxi that we got into at the airport. My friend politely waited in the long, serpentine queue for the taxi. “Get in the front,” I urgently commanded under my breath. “No,” he whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“Look, it’s already 9 o’clock; we don’t want to get in the taxi too late. I’ve never done this before: get in a cab all alone in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> and that too at night,” I spoke fast and firmly hoping he would quickly come around. “Fortunately I’m wearing my <span style="font-style: italic;">kurti,</span>” I thought. It was something I had changed into before leaving the airport, to give me more courage and to fit in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">By some miracle, in spite of the several families and other foreigners, I got ahead and even managed to get into a taxi even as the airport police were taking down the details. My friend had no choice but to join me just in case the taxi driver took off without him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“This is <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>,” I reminded him. “We have to be fast,” I whispered, “and please let me do the talking, at least with the driver.” I said feeling smug since I knew the language. My friend complied without any hesitation. Knowing him well, I knew he would find comfort in the fact that at least someone had information on us as to where we were headed. I was happy that the police had written down the taxi number and my name.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I believed the driver knew where he was going. Why wouldn’t I? It turned out after what seemed like 30 minutes or so, he said he needed to ask for exact directions.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">So we stopped at an ST stand. “Okay,” I said in a bold voice in Hindi. After consulting with a man in white <i style="">kurta-pajama</i>, the driver turned around to say, “he is going where the hotel is, needs a lift, will be a good idea to take him along, we will not get lost.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">“My worst dream was coming true,” I thought. “What have I done to us?” Quickly translating to my friend I okayed the driver, but was distressed, tried to conceal it lest I gave my fear away. Throughout the drive I kept thinking, “worst comes to worst, I will jump out from the car; hopefully my friend will follow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Within few minutes, the driver dropped off the man and he pulled into the hotel drive.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Needless to say, once inside the hotel, we both thanked our lucky stars for nothing horrible happening to us.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">There was another incident where I had unknowingly overpaid the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Chhatrapati</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Shivaji</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> (formerly known as the Prince of Wales Museum) ticket collector. As we were walking away, he said, “Madam, your change.” Thanking him I walked away only to be called back again to say that I could get a handicapped ticket, since I had a limp. “But,” I said. “Why waste money,” he said kind-heartedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Again I had been wearing a <i style="">kurti</i>. “Surely I sounded like I had not lived there for a while,” I thought. Instead of ripping me off, here was a low-wage earning administrator who was honest, when he could have so very easily pocketed the money.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I felt a renewed sense of pride for having been born in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> and felt the sense of belonging in one of the world famous cities. It is not as if I felt like an outsider in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>; it’s just that this felt good. And here I thought, just because I was with a foreign man, I would be looked at differently, perhaps even treated differently, meaning badly. On the contrary, I was treated very much as if I was no different.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">As it happens when you are enjoying, time flies. Of course, we visited a couple of childhood haunts that I could remember. We had the famous <i style="">paratha</i>s among other dishes at Kailash Parbat. But we also went to places that I had not been to before. Like the Taj Sea Lounge for a light lunch the next day. The view from the restaurant of the sea, The Gateway of India, boats going off to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Elephanta</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> and seeing children play outside was delightful.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Seeing <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> through my British friend’s eyes was interesting. Walking by the sea, on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Marine Drive</st1:address></st1:street>, he said, “If this was some other country, the seaside houses would be fancier.” Away from the sea, he marvelled at the façade of the old, well-preserved, buildings. “Amazing,” he said. “We have many of them in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, but these look so much better.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Most fascinating to him was the gothic Victoria Terminus Train Station architecture. Seeing the inside of the station impressed him even more. “How clean the floors are,” he whispered. “What do you mean”? I asked. “Considering the crowds and everything, the station is remarkably clean.” I felt as if I was personally responsible for the upkeep of one of the famous landmarks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">We were also impressed with the mid-afternoon quietness. “Perhaps it is because people are at work. This happens to be the richest city and the financial hub of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, you know,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Coffee breaks in cafés like Leopold exposed us to yet a different side of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>. It felt as if were in some other country, since never before had I seen so many western customers in one restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Then this last time when we were in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city>, we visited the Juhu area and <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Linking Road</st1:address></st1:street>. The contrast in the two localities really stands out much more if you go to both areas on the same day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Whereas Juhu was all about boutique stores, smart-looking sales people, and brand name billboards, Linking Road was more about clothes, bags of all sorts, footwear of every imaginable size and colours all out on display on carts, walls, doors, basically anywhere and everywhere you could hang.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Be careful, I warned, “could get your pocket picked.” Again we got back to our hotel rooms unharmed. Seeing the crowds, I was certain that we would be jostled this way and that way. But to my pleasant surprise, people moved aside or we moved aside, no pushing and no shoving.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Of course, we felt it would be a shame not to go to Juhu beach just before sunset and watch the fiery orange ball go down every second. It was fascinating to see the different crowds on the beach at different times of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Before sunset, it was all about families and young couples eating, playing, holding hands, trying not to cuddle and generally having a gala time with all the <i style="">pao bhaji</i>, corn on the cob roasted right before your eyes, <i style="">bhel puri</i>, <i style="">pani puri</i>, coconut water… In the mornings before nine it was more the joggers and the others who walked to get their exercise in before they get busy. Of course, since it was Saturday there were young boys playing cricket on the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">How very different from the States we thought. Many other places in the world are interesting and even charming, but that does mean you visit again. Or the charm is lasting. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> certainly is one of those places that you either love or hate. And I love it, for everything that it is, it has, and it stands for. I wanted to visit again, because it brought back pleasant childhood memories and because it made sense to go back again, instead of the usual stopovers at the airport, which incidentally are now better organised in terms of general facilities and taxis. You don’t have the <i style="">janta</i> right in your face when you step outside to hail a taxi, especially for those who do are visiting and have no one to pick them up, this is a relief.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">If charming can be defined as compelling attractiveness, then <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> has it. We were compelled to visit twice in four years and for me to come back again and again before me teenage years. Granted, when I was young, it was up to my family, but it was I who had most recently chosen to come back to the charming <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Frog Bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16766139675947704294noreply@blogger.com13