Yours Whimsically - Part 28: On the love of cinemas...

 Nearly a month ago, my exam process got postponed - indefinitely, thanks to the surging second wave of COVID19. Overnight, from being hard pressed for time, I now had time to kill. While certainly I couldn’t take the foot off the pedal entirely, I had to modify my strategy to prevent being burnt out. One can always say there is nothing called being “over-prepared”. However, to use a cricketing analogy, we are in the ‘middle overs’ of an ODI match: you have to conserve enough wickets and firepower, to go berserk in the final few overs.

I started looking for activities that would make my schedule, beyond preparation. The books were ever present. IPL and Bigg Boss (Kannada) seemed good enough to occupy time and mindspace. But then, we all know how it panned out. When IPL and the reality show were suspended within a few days of each other, I was lost for options. What was I to do? All of a sudden, the world seemed to go blank!

This was when I turned to movies. To be fair, watching a movie every weekend or two has been a practice for quite some time now, more so since we subscribed to Tata Sky’s “Binge”. But then, neither my brother nor I had come to watch movies with as much religious regularity as I do now, because there were other engagements. Movies were meant to be weekend de-stressors. Fortunately or unfortunately, for me, everyday has become a weekend (or a weekday). Sunday rolls over into Monday, in turn into Tuesday. Before long, it is Saturday already -with hardly any difference, except for the dates on the newspapers that I read. Even the news stories seem similar across days! Browsing through the listings on Amazon Prime, Zee5, Disney-Hotstar, and most recently, Netflix, I realized that there is a treasure trove waiting to be unlocked, across languages. All I had to do was to say “Open Sesame!”

Around the same time, my brother, having read about “Chotushkone” (Bengali), wanted to watch it. It was then I realized that my Bengali, though rusty, was largely intact, which led me to watch a couple of other movies by Srijit Mukherjee. Then came articles about the Satyajit Ray, whose birth centenary was on May 2^nd this year. I was curious about what makes him such a celebrated filmmaker globally and decided to explore his movies.

Irony: I began listening to Carnatic music in earnest only after going to Kolkata for my graduation; and here, nearly three years post-college, I am taking baby steps into the world of Bengali cinema – something which I should have done during the five years I spent in Kolkata. It is, perhaps, true that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

I have watched a handful of Ray’s movies now. What can I possibly write that has not already been written about him or his movies? Do I write about the use of dream sequences, heavy with symbolism, in “Nayak” that explore the insecurities of the matinee idol, or how it re-affirms the statement that “winners stand alone”? Do I write about how “Shatranj ke Khiladi” is a commentary relevant to all times, where the rulers – and nobility – are obsessed with everything but governance? Or how tightly the sequences are constructed in “Sonar Kella”, which is a thriller in its own right?

 After these movies, I turned to the novel-based “The Apu Trilogy” – “Pather Panchali”, “Aparajito”, “Apur Sansar”. While watching these, I was reminded of Kannada’s famous tele-serialized novel “Gruhabhanga” (by S L Bhyrappa). A struggling Brahmin family; a father who is unable to provide for the family – though in the trilogy, he is well-meaning and tries hard; a strong-willed mother, who aspires for her family to transcend poverty, into a life of dignity; children, whose dreams and spirit remain unbroken by the struggles; and of course, death – these are some elements that are common among the two.

Personally, I enjoyed watching “Aparajito” more. The train, which is a symbol of fascination in “Pather Panchali”, becomes a metaphor for the distance that emerges between Apu and his mother, Sarbajaya, after he becomes a college-goer in Kolkata. This conflict between the attractions of city life and rural life is a theme that is found across multiple languages (Shivaram Karanth’s novels in Kannada, for example). Sequences where Sarbajaya looks expectantly at the trains capture her state of mind, without being melodramatic or overly emotional. The difference in body language of Apu when he first enters Kolkata timidly as compared to the scene towards the end, where he boldly strides forward, munching on peanuts, speaks volumes of his evolution into a man of the world.

Across the three movies, we see storytelling and screenplay that capture the spirit of life, across rural Bengal, Benares and Calcutta. Be it Apu’s wide-eyed wonder at a play in a ‘jatra’; or Durga and Apu running across the fields to watch a train; or the irritability which Apu’s mother displays towards her sister-in-law; or Apu’s desire to explore life beyond his village; or of Apu eloquently narrating the gist of his novel to his friend; or of Apu and his wife Aparna finding love amidst struggle and poverty; or ultimately, the glint in Apu’s eyes as he makes way towards life once again, with his son, Kajol, across his shoulders.

It is interesting that every critical juncture in Apu’s life is marked by death: that of his sister, his father, mother and finally, his wife. With each of them, a part of Apu dies. However, a newer version of him emerges. Life triumphs over death. In these trying times, with disease, devastation and death all around, this can be a valuable take-away: despite individual, personal losses, as a community, there is always hope for a better tomorrow and coming out stronger at the end of it all.

Having watched more than fifteen movies this month already, I have come to appreciate, that there is much more to movies than mere entertainment. Of course, I am not talking of “Radhe”, which, sadly, fails to entertain even. Thanks to subtitles, I have watched movies in multiple Indian languages now. The logical next step is to explore the treasures of world cinema. All in good time.

Yours Whimsically - Part 27: Taking Control

 Let me begin with a confession. (Deep breath). I finally learnt to cycle only a few days before I turn 26. (There we go. I have said it.)

That does not mean I have not made attempts at cycling earlier. When I was a kid of eight or nine, there was a small cycle at home. For two consecutive summers, my father tried to train me. I became fairly good at it over one summer, only to become rusty by the next, because I did not cycle at all in the intervening months. By the next year, I had outgrown that cycle.

My brother did a fair amount of cycling during his school years. However, by the time I entered high school – old enough to ride his cycle – two of them were stolen from our apartment. With them, went the enthusiasm and the inclination to buy another one.  Quite a few of my friends regularly cycled to school. However, for me, back then, my entire world was within the radius of 2 kilometres, which meant I did not feel the need to cycle.

I completed my pre-university college (Class 12) without requiring to cycle or knowing how to ride a two-wheeler. By the hand that was dealt to me, I ended up in a residential campus for my graduation. Almost overnight, my world expanded from a radius of 2 kilometres to include a place that was almost 2000 kilometres away!

Being a huge campus, there was plenty of scope for me to learn cycling in college. I am pretty sure that my friends would have helped me with it, after some banter and humour. However, by the end of my first year, I had acquired an image which I had to maintain. It did not matter that I did not know cycling. I surely could not struggle to learn cycling, falter and be laughed at, could I? There is a line by a Kannada poet which means even hatred cannot kill the way laughter does. (Ask Duryodhana at the “Palace of Maya”, if you wish). It is not to say that I did not try. I clearly remember one evening where I tried with one of my friends’ cycle. As expected, I lost balance within the first couple of meters. Luckily, it was in front of those whose laughter did not wound. Looking back now, after having cycled a few times, I realize that the problem that night was the height of the saddle.

Returning home after graduation, I had my tasks cut out. Along with preparation for exams that I wished to attempt, I was to acquire “life-skills”, which included learning to ride a two-wheeler and drive a car. It almost became a weekend sport at home to point out how I do not know these basic skills, while those younger than me in the neighbourhood comfortably excelled at it. Never mind the fact that they were riding without licence. Every dinner with friends was followed by dessert at home – of my parents prodding me to at least learn riding the two-wheeler, like the rest of them. When the first iteration of exams failed, it was hinted that at least I could be productive by picking up these skills.

I gave in to this pressure. I diligently went through a course in one of the Driving Schools and through them, I even got my Driver’s Licence for the car – but I can’t say I know driving.  I have not ventured to ride a two-wheeler yet. Perhaps it is an unknown fear that is hindering me. Maybe it is the feeling that it would put me in a position where I am not in complete control. One can always argue that even in life, one isn’t in total control all the time. But then, that is the only “rational” explanation I can come up with.

When COVID19 struck last year, I began contemplating cycling. Not only would I be acquiring a new skill, I would also be burning the flab that had accumulated. I had spent two years at home, during which there was lot of mental exercise, but little for the body. The initial efforts to buy a cycle were smothered when COVID19, which was passing through the neighbourhood, decided to enter our home.

A few days ago, the stars aligned. My brother and I bought home a cycle. All that remained now was riding it. If I succeeded in learning it, it would atleast neutralize one point of attack at home.

On that fateful morning, I decided to take the cycle to a nearby playground and practise. My father insisted that he would accompany me, in case I fell and injured myself. However, I wanted to go it alone. How would it look if we met someone we knew? A 25-year-old was learning to cycle, that too being accompanied by his father? I managed to convince my father to take his time while I went ahead. With a lot of trepidation, I pushed the cycle along the wrong-side on the one-way. I wanted to appear like a law-abiding citizen rather than as someone who did not know cycling.

Thanks to rising Covid cases, the ground was largely empty. I took a deep breath as I positioned myself on the saddle. Images of my previous attempts floated past. I told myself that there was nothing to lose. In that vast ground, I was anonymous. Clean-shaved, I could pass off as someone just out of high-school; nobody would realize it was a 25-year-old taking his baby steps on the cycle. I knew no one in front of who I had to maintain an image. Even if someone did, it should not matter. Ego could only take me so far. If I have to learn anything, if I have to grow, I have to learn to take injuries – physical and mental – in my stride. Moreover, this being a cycle, things were largely in my control.

Magic happened. I do not know if it was because of the mental framework just before beginning or the fact that it was a comfortable height. Everything fell in place. I felt like Harry Potter taking his first fly on the broomstick, without formal training. When my father came along after some time, he was pleasantly surprised to see me comfortably manoeuvring the cycle.

After close to an hour of making acquaintance with the cycle, I returned home. It was not just about having learnt something new. It was about having surmounted some mental blocks as well. I realized that, sometimes, one has to lose to gain. One has to let go to gain control.  I felt victorious.

Post-Script: I have cycled on roads too, now that traffic is subdued. My task now is to gain enough experience and confidence to be able to cycle in Bengaluru’s famed traffic, even in life beyond the lockdown.

Yours Whimsically – Part 26: The #AtmaNirbhar Haircut

May 12th, 2020. The Honorable Prime Minister came on national television and delivered an address that would determine the trajectory of the Indian economy and society for years to come: a glorious vision for an “Atma-Nirbhar Bharat” – an India that is self-reliant and strong enough to compete with the best in the world.

So moving was this vision and the address that even my father caught onto the spirit. Once the primetime address of the Honorable PM was over, Father proclaimed “We shall be Atma-Nirbhar too. From today onwards, we shall no longer visit the saloon – even once the pandemic is over. We shall cut our own hair”. Unlike the government, Father did not delay in putting his vision into action. The very next day, to spite the Chinese for letting the virus loose on the world, not to mention their grave folly of creating trouble on the LAC, he bought a trimmer of Taiwanese make. It was a moment for celebrating the nationalist spirit.

Two days later, Father sat down to execute his grand vision. I almost clapped when, for the first time, Father switched the trimmer on and cut a few strands of hair. For the next half-an-hour, the only sound in the house was that of the trimmer. My brother and I watched curiously. Even Mother stopped everything else to join us. It was an emotional moment when the first haircut ended. To be honest, it was executed poorly – no where close to the professional finish of a saloon. However, this was sufficiently compensated by a feeling of pride. Even Mother did not complain about hair flying and lying all around the house. Father worked out calculations to show how much we would save by having made this one-time investment on the trimmer. We were no longer dependent on the saloon and the barber’s whims.

Couple of weeks later, when my brother ministered himself a haircut, he did a thorough job. An almost professional touch. Word of my brother’s skills with the trimmer spread through the family and he was called on to do the honors for our nephew! This laid my apprehensions to rest and gave me some confidence to give it a shot myself. Moreover, it had been nearly three months since my visit to the saloon. The hair was reaching irritating proportions.

When I decided to be my own “stylist”, I told myself – this would not be merely an exercise in “Atma-Nirbharta” but also a spiritual exercise. My mind, eyes and hands would work together in unison to give me the best haircut. For those thirty-odd minutes, the rest of the world would simply melt away. The drone of the trimmer would shut out all the noise and I would experience pure bliss at the end of it all. 

None of it happened. Without my spectacles, the task was tough. It was an earthly struggle, rather than a spiritual journey. However, at the end of it all, I was left with a sense of achievement. No matter how poor the haircut, it was my handiwork and I would display it as a badge of honor. (Not that I had any other option, though!)

Couple of months later, it was time for the second iteration of haircuts. This time, I had no spiritual expectations. All I wanted was to complete the process, leaving behind something that had a semblance of symmetry on either side of the head. In order to get the same pattern on both sides, we were spending so much time that one charge of the trimmer was no longer enough. We had to keep batteries handy to be put into use, and they drained fairly quickly. When one took into account the effort that went into the haircut, not to mention the imperfect outcomes, were we making significant savings after all? Clearing up became a chore. Mother, while not being very vocal, was clearly not impressed with our cleaning skills. The costs seemed to outweigh the benefits. Shadows of doubt crept in over the grand vision of being Atma-Nirbhar.

By the time of the third round, the experience was no longer enjoyable. I just wanted to be done with it. I decided that that would be the last time. No matter what the state of the pandemic was, I would get a professional haircut the next time. Clearly, I wasn’t skilled enough to wield the trimmer and there was no sign of improvement over the two iterations.

Then came a wedding in the family. All the feeling of pride in displaying our own handiwork is fine when it is within the family. When we have to project ourselves to the world, one has to look presentable, doesn’t he? That was when I heard of saloon services on one of the aggregator apps. We could get a professional haircut at the comfort and safety of our home.

Father & I decided to give it a try first. I had only heard stories of how, in our ancestral village, the barber would provide his services to our widowed great-grandmother in the backyard of the house. Life had come a full circle. Only, there was no backyard here.  

The barber arrived ahead of schedule. There was beauty in the way he arranged his tools – scissors, comb, brush, razor – and sanitized them. There was grace in how he laid out a disposable paper cover under the chair to ensure no hair littered the house. There was elegance in the way his hands moved. When it was my turn, I sat with my eyes closed, savoring the sound of the scissors. It felt like music, almost divine! Even Mother was impressed with how clean the entire process was.

As I looked in the mirror, I almost wept tears of joy. Perhaps “barber” was too crude a word for him. Google says “tonsorial artist”. Maybe it suits him. There certainly was a sense of artistry on display. And then, realization dawned. “Atma-Nirbharta” is good rhetoric. However, for us, it had come at the cost of quality. Attempts at being entirely independent or self-reliant don’t make sense economically or practically. I wanted to thank the barber…the artist, for helping me appreciate this. By then, he had noiselessly cleaned up and left to attend to the next customer.