Sunday, October 17, 2010
THE STORY OF THE STRANGE MR. BRIGGS
(Only for those who have a taste for the bizarre)
I am not exactly at daggers drawn with Mr. Briggs, my neighbour, but I don’t like him either. There is something very distasteful about him. Unfortunately, we stay in the same building. He stays in the flat opposite - both ground floor dwellers. That is why, most probably, in spite of my not wanting to have anything to do with him, our paths cross now and then, which always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I don’t know about Mr. Briggs though. In fact, I wonder if anybody actually knows anything about him. He keeps to himself, hardly interacts with anybody in the block and even if one wants to do so with him (under duress or in exceptional circumstance), his response is so minimal or monosyllabic, that one ends up wondering why at all the conversation is initiated in the first place.
It is said that a dumb person does not have enemies. (In fact, he cannot because the seed of enmity lies in exchange of words!). Mr. Briggs has not crossed swords with anybody either. But he has a few very odd habits which irk me to no end. He is a loner. His wife died quite a few years back. His children are married and settled abroad. Rumour has it that Mr. Briggs once had a very cushy, handsomely paid job but he retired prematurely due to some mysterious health problem but nobody exactly knows what it was.
Picking flaws is very easy. So, I enlist Mr. Briggs virtues first.
Mr. Briggs is a peace loving man (as I have said he keeps to himself). He keeps his house spotlessly clean. He keeps himself spotlessly clean. He does all the household chores himself. No maid is allowed in. In fact, nobody in the Block has ever seen the interiors of Mr. Briggs’ flat! He never invites anybody in! Every evening he religiously visits the temple, adjoining our Block. He is a devout worshipper of Lord Ganesha. I have found him prostrated in front of the deity, quite a number of times, his hands outstretched in a pranaam posture, the fingers almost tickling the tail of the rat sitting idly at the Lord’s feet.
Mr. Briggs is of medium height. Often, I have seen him going for an early morning walk with a stealthy gait which some may find graceful. He is not exactly a dandy but colours his hair (I do not know whether this is a vice or a virtue!). One can make that out from the brown streaks amidst a mane of black. But as usual he must be saving each and every penny and doing the job himself. Result, a slap shod work which makes his hair look grubby.
I detest everything about him. So does my pet Mr. Snow Boot.
It is impossible to list out Mr. Briggs’ vices. There are so many.
Mr. Briggs has to have fish every day (giving Bengalis a stiff competition any time!). How do I know that? By the plastic trash bin bag that he leaves out every evening and which every morning lies tattered and torn in the middle of the lane with the fish bones scattered all over. Some skulking cat or dog doing the honour!
I have pointed this out to Mr. Briggs innumerable times. In response, he just smiles.
Oh yes! Mr. Briggs does not allow the sweeper in too! But then he should dispose off the grub in the MCD dump yard located further down the main road! But he doesn’t. He just smiles.
(iii)
I was woken up from my afternoon nap, by a huge commotion outside. It was the guard and the RWA (Resident Welfare Association) assistant. The latter was out on collection of the outstanding Society Fees, a nominal amount which is paid by each resident family towards the maintenance of the Block. Mr. Briggs must have skipped his. The assistant had therefore called upon him, rung the bell and then knocked on the door several times. Not getting an answer from inside, he got worried and called the guard to help. Between both of them, they almost hammered down the door yelling out Mr. Briggs’ name countless number of times. But Mr. Briggs did not open the door.
This is another one of his vices, if it can be called so. Mr. Briggs never answers the door bell during day time! He is just not seen in the mornings! Though he is equally incommunicable during the other half of the day, the difference is of degree and not of kind.
Mr. Briggs has a soft, sing song voice which reminds me of something, I can’t place what it is now!
Mr. Briggs is contemptuous of his neighbours…………….
Mr. Briggs is unsocial…………..
Mr. Briggs is vain…………
Mr. Briggs hardly has any sense of humour………..
When he smiles his eyes do not lit up…………….
Oh! I can go on and on and on…………….
But most of all he is strange, very, very strange…………….
Lately, a cat has come to prowl in the vicinity. A dirty yellow cat with black stripes!
The other day I was working in the kitchen. As I looked up, I got a start. My eyes met a pair of dark grey ones staring at me unblinkingly.
My kitchen window opens on the front lane, just a few feet wide. Across the lane is a small MCD park.
The cat was crouching on the railing of the park and gazing intently at me. Expressionless! Or was there a peculiar taunt lurking in those gray depths? It was mid morning but a sudden chill ran down my spine.
In the afternoon, I saw him again. Sprawled on Mr. Briggs’ balcony, the door to which was surprisingly unlocked! In the evening, he was curled up on the parapet lining his front window, his bushy tail hanging down, lazily swinging in the mellow autumn breeze and a know-all smile hovering on his soft pink lips, eyes closed. I would not have been surprised if a hum of a tune had floated to my ears. He seemed to be enjoying the dying sun of the day!
***
Snow is bringing down the roof with his incessant barks. The yellow cat makes it a point to sashay down the front lane in an irritatingly unruffled gait and sometimes stops by to look at Snow in the most infuriatingly innocent way.
I hear Snow howling and impatiently pacing the front balcony like a caged beast dying to be let out so that he can confront his arch enemy, in all his fuming ferocity, once and for all.
I bumped into Mr. Briggs in the market place by chance. Where else but right in front of the fish shop! He looked faintly annoyed as I told him not to encourage the cat. I was sure he was the culprit who tore the bin bag and gorged on the fish bones. Mr. Briggs listened to me quietly with an intent look which was disturbing and at the same time frustrating. A few seconds and then he was gone without even a nod or a bye. Right inside the fish shop, his favourite joint!
Of course! I do not expect him to say a yes to whatever I propose………..that is, not in “so many words”, at least. But still. There is something called courtesy!!!
(vi)
Snow has a running stomach. He nudges me up at odd hours in the middle of the night to take him out.
It was 2 o’clock when Snow woke me up. Poor chap looked supremely uneasy. I grabbed a light shawl. There was a bit of a chill in the air and I did not want to catch a cold. As we walked down the lane by the side of the big
Snow was up on his hind legs ready to pounce on him. The cat did not show any haste. I pulled Snow back with all my might. As I did so, I backed a bit, stumbled on a piece of stone, big and square, lying idle by the side and flopped down on its cold bed loosing a step. The grip over Snow’s chain slackened.
Snow was waiting for this. He lunged forward targeting the fat little monster which calmly stood up yawned and jumped onto the branch of the tree. Snow was furious, more so, because he missed a pretty chance of pawing his feline foe by a few slim seconds. The cat seemed undaunted and stood straight on the branch looking at Snow with undisguised merriment. And then he did something very odd. He lifted his right paw to his lips, a perfect set of milky white teeth flashed out gleaming against the backdrop of the dimly lit nightscape, his head bobbed up and down while his well fed body shook with unrestrained mirth. A spate of sarcastic, savage laughter followed! I was mesmerized and could not take my eyes off him for a few seconds.
A cat guffawing in the middle of the night!
Was I hallucinating?
I caught hold of Snow’s lead and we ran – I, chased by fear and Snow because of diarrheoa.
***
Late into the night, I lie restless on the bed. Sleep eludes me. A perfect set of milky white teeth, manifesting vilest of humour in all its satanic splendour, haunts me. Does it remind me of something or someone? The cacophonous laugh resonates in eerie jest around the pitch black room. Round and round it goes………round and round! I think I am going crazy. Obsessed is the word. Did I really see a cat laughing? Did I actually hear him? I can’t make up my mind. It was so real. Naah, it must be the anti-allergens I have been taking for the itchy skin rashes, I conclude ………..
As the first streak of dawn slips in through the thin slits of the tightly shut windows, the nightmare of the previous hours seems to slowly back off to a faraway zone of the mind till it becomes a nebulous dot in the distant periphery, something beyond doubt and recognition. Something which did happen but at the same time did not……………Something on which I want to put my finger tip and feel its presence but which slips away, far, far away, as I try to do so.
I vacillate between sleep and wakefulness.
I am there but I was not……………..
I was there but I am very much present in this room…………..
Queries question and answers scrape past my rationale.
The laughing cat…………………the running feet……………..the soft pillows and the warm, downy mattress with a sheet pulled up to evade the first weak light of the day….all jumble up in a garbled mass of haze and indecision, an abstraction of existence and non-existence, a maze of suspicion and belief, a tug between reality and delusion………..endlessly bewildering, bewitching and beckoning me till I surrender to my subconscious.
(vii)
On Tuesdays I make it a point to visit the temple in the evening. The temple is situated just outside the Block connected by a stretch of cemented alley running by the side of the biggest
Of course a street lamp burns religiously every evening near the gate which separates the Block from the alley. But because of the distance, the light does not cover the entire stretch, especially, those few yards at the far end merging into the street fronting the temple. There is a tube well where the alley takes a turn towards the temple. Next to the tube well lies always a wet heap of rubbish - stale garlands, flowers, leaves, broken mud pots and blackened earthen diyas – the residuals of worship.
As I walked down the alley one Tuesday (late evening - it was nine-ish by my wrist watch), I could hear the faint devotional music wafting from the temple. Punditji was singing a few shlokas and then explaining their meaning into the microphone for the benefit of all and sundry. Today I expected a crowd in the temple – devotees lining up for Divine Darshan and beggars queuing up for prashad (being Hanumanji’s day – even Gods have their days!). Strangely, the hum drum of a Tuesday temple scene does not infect the alley and one can not presage the commotion and the excitement of it all till one takes the bend by the tube well. The alley was as usual half lit and quiet.
As I neared the end, I could see a shadow approaching from the other side. Nobody had to tell me who it was. I would recognize him even if blindfolded. Mr. Briggs! He walked a few steps, suddenly changed course and stepped into the rubbish heap. He kept staring at it as though looking for something.
Apparently, he was about to squat on the heap, most probably, to rummage inside, when I came up right behind and called out softly,”Mr. Briggs! Have you dropped something?” For once I had the satisfaction of seeing him startled out of his wits. He leapt back, turned around, saw me and spun out of sight.
I had the distinct impression that he had been caught off guard.
***
This is another of Mr. Briggs’ vices. Why does he have to behave like an errant school boy caught red handed by the headmistress in the midst of making mischief?
Simply A-B-O-M-I-N-A-B-L-E!
Foul Mr. Briggs!
Obnoxious Mr. Briggs!
For me he is as much part and parcel of the garbage that he was about to scavenge!
(viii)
I love to watch Mr. Briggs whenever I get those rare glimpses of his.
Mr. Briggs mopping his front balcony on all fours!
How he crawls on the ground and moves with a waltz-like grace while doing so! His face close to the ground! His baggy muscles undulating underneath his thin snow-white vest as his limbs move to and fro in a rhythmic pattern. Mr. Briggs is quite agile for his age! He must be in his seventies? Sixties? Fifties? It is difficult to guess his age from his wrinkle free countenance. Mr. Briggs does maintain himself well.
Mr. Briggs dusting the grills….
Mr. Briggs brushing away the cob webs on the exterior walls of his unassuming abode……….….
Whenever I pass by his flat, my eyes are invariably drawn towards his kitchen window, which like mine, opens on the outer lane…………..flawlessly tidy inside…………..but I don’t remember ever seeing Mr. Briggs in the kitchen cooking…..Never!!!!
I wish I could view a little more of Mr. Briggs’ inviolable sanctuary but the drawing room window is heavily draped and most of the times remains closed (Doesn’t Mr. Briggs need sun and air?) I presume it will be as spic and span as his kitchen and balcony.
Mr. Briggs checking his mails…………..
Checking? Sniffing through his mails rather! The way his snubbed nose crinkles when he reads! It seems as though he smells each and every letter, word, phrase, sentence written on the page; his reading glasses, the one with the golden metallic frame, sticking to his eyes.
Maa says I cross the line of sanity when it comes to Mr. Briggs………….
Perhaps she is right.
The more I hate him, the more repulsive I find him, the more I stalk him.
Attraction of the opposites?
(ix)
The yellow cat is having a merry fest around the Block. He is omnipresent. Wherever I go, he is there. On the park railing, near the Mother Dairy Booth, outside the vegetable stall, in the alley leading to the temple...! He is every where.
But there is a subtle change in his behaviour. Nowadays, he chooses to ignore us, me and Mr. Snow Boot, and we, in turn, shy away from him. So far so good.
But Mr. Briggs has taken to him (Or is it the other way round?). He is always in and around his flat. In spite of my warnings!!!!!!!!!!!
On an unusually pensive note, I rationalize - Mr. Briggs must be feeling lonely, isolated, being so friendless. He also needs company. Old and alone that he is. And feline friendship is thousand times superior to human acquaintances. At least the animals are faithful and know what loyalty is unlike their human counterparts.
Is there a change in me too? I am surprised. A little at myself.
***
“Rainy days and Mondays always make me down…”
I wake up late, I am disoriented, I need time to get over my holiday hang over and come down to this earth; as a result I am horribly late. Inevitably.
Monday.
As I was hurrying down the main lane, towards the temple gate, to catch the metro to office, I saw the yellow cat sitting on the big MCD park wall, sun bathing.
The mellow autumn sun is a pleasure now, warm and soothing to the skin.
He was licking his left paw, engrossed. As I rushed past, he turned away his face slightly to the other side.
Did I hear a soft chuckle?
My ears play tricks sometimes…
(x)
A few bouts of rain and the city comes to a standstill. Bumper to bumper traffic and an indefinite stranded existence inside claustrophobic buses and cars!
I had dozed off inside the chartered bus – my chariot back home! It had halted somewhere far away from destination and kept rooted to the spot for hours sandwiched between rows and rows of vehicles with blazing brake lights.
It was still pouring. Evening had swum across to night and night would probably wade through to dawn. I had already informed Maa not to wait for me. I was safe with the co passengers who traveled with me every day and stayed in the same locality and around; a set of spare keys with which to let myself in home, there was nothing to worry about, I told maa.
My vertebrae were stressed by the interminable sitting posture. I desparately wanted to shift to the horizontal mode. A daily one and a half hour journey was stretched to infinity.
It was three minutes past eleven when my bus dropped me outside the Block. I suffered a shooting pain down my right leg as I got down. A five minutes walk down the damp, deserted alley doubled in time as the discomfort increased with every step. No rickshaw around. So, no option left but to limp home. It was drizzling softly. Most of the flats had put off their lights and called it a day. One or two left looked about to retire to bed too. The street lights seemed to have taken a day’s off too. (That’s what rains do to the Capital!). I could not see the night guards but could only hear their shrill whistles afar.
As I passed the big
From this side I would be circumventing Mr. Briggs’ flat first in order to reach mine. As usual, the flat was dark. No, nobody was around except a black mound on the parapet, which, as I tried to quicken my pace, gingerly pulled up and stretched languidly.
I winced as the effort of walking faster made the pain worse. The drizzle had stopped. The clouds parted a little just then to let a streak of pale moonshine drunkenly fall over Mr. Briggs’ front walls. The mound had now taken the shape of an arched bow; its shadow danced wickedly on the lusterless wall.
I had crossed over and was about to open the front door when a muffled noise made me turn back. The lane looked desolate but I had heard footfalls. My eyes went up to the flat opposite, the shadow on the grim wall had changed shape appearing almost like a human form on haunches slightly stooped in front. My heart skipped a beat. I opened my mouth to shout but no sound erupted.
A whistle blew close by. The night guard was approaching. I almost ran a few steps, dragging my right leg along, to wave him towards this side. The guard saw my frantic gesticulations and reached me in no time.
Without looking, I pointed towards my neighbour’s wall,”Wahaan kucch hai , dekho!”
“Kahaan memsaab?” asked he.
I turned around to pin point - a blank facade stared at my face.
As I dismissed the guard with a mumbled excuse, the crescent moon winked impishly.
***
Were the shadows just convolutions of my tired but over imaginative mind?
Was it the yellow cat again?
It did look like a four legged beast straightening indolently on its forelimbs. But then it changed to something else which almost looked like...
I don’t know. I am not sure…
I am too exhausted to think.
(xi)
The yellow cat is up to mischief again! The freshly bought packet of fish left on the kitchen slab is missing!
Of course the window was open. I had just gone out to answer the door bell! It took less than a minute for him to whisk the packet off the shelf and vanish!
Though, to be very honest, I have not seen the cat lurking around my flat for quite sometime now! But who else can the mischief monger be?
Mr. Briggs is as usual hibernating! So, nothing more to do but fret silently!
Deep breathing to ward off stress as advised by my Yoga teacher!
***
A blood stained polythene packet lay mangled along with Mr. Briggs’ torn trash bag the next morning.
But all plastic packets look alike…
Benefit of doubt…. Mr. Briggs!
***
Cats are free spirited
Cats are Bohemian
Cats are distrustful
Cats are disloyal
(Not to their owners but their neighbours!)
Cats are THIEVES!!!!!!!!
***
Fourteen days more to go! We Bengalis have a habit of counting days as Durga Puja nears. This time I have applied a brake on my shopping spree. Painstakingly though! But what to do? I have already exceeded my budget and ever dwindling savings.
I had planned to buy a pair of gold earrings this Puja. No saree or any other artifacts. Just a “plain” pair of gold earrings ornamenting my ear lobes!
Man proposes but God disposes!
Mid summer, first the AC conked off. Then the TV started snowing. Both were beyond repairs, I was told by the experts. Both are indispensable – the AC for me (Maa complaints of increased joint pain under any artificial cooling system) and the TV for my mother (I am allergic to the Idiot Box).
I was still reeling under the impact of these sudden replacements when the plaster started peeling off the kitchen and bedroom walls due to seepage, source unknown!
The gold earrings as a result have been postponed till next Puja!
Autumn always makes me wistful. This year autumn looks bleak. Miserably so, with pangs of woe stirred, shaken and swirled in the mix!
(xii)
Mr. Briggs is half a pound more than plump, fair complexioned, dark eyed and sports a pair of moustaches. Needless to say, I hate everything about him. But I hate his smile the most.
We seem to collide into each other more often in the market place. The other day it was in front of the Mother Dairy Booth.
That reminds me of the Milk Episode!
My milkman, Mukesh, leaves the milk packets (Mother Dairy -Double toned) outside in between the grills every morning. Four packets placed one on top of the other. Two days back one packet was missing. A day previous a packet was found hideously pricked in the corner, as though by some sharp object, with the milk spilling over drip by drip on my rubber plant. By the time I picked up the packet, it was half empty.
Mr. Briggs was walking back home from his morning stroll. I stopped him, “Mr. Briggs! See what your cat has done. I told you he is the culprit. Why do you have to pamper him so much? He is always lazing around your flat. Why don’t you take care and feed him may be, a little more? Or better still, why don’t you shoo him away?” I was unstoppable. Bottled up exasperation was fizzing out.
But strange as Mr. Briggs is, he just stood there transfixed, keenly eyeing the packets as time ticked by. My tirade trailed into silence as I gaped at him open mouthed. Mr. Briggs stood peering at the milk packets, through the light morning mist. A thin, pink tongue intermittently jutted out lustily caressing the mouth in circular motion – Mr. Briggs kept on licking his lips greedily, salivating lovingly over the milk packets!
I think it was the call of the azaan from the nearby mosque which brought him to his senses. He hurriedly regained his composure, glanced at me sheepishly and grinned.
A bolt of lightening struck me. I knew exactly why I hated his smile the most!
My flat faces the easterly direction. As the morning sun streamed in, it illuminated every single line of Mr. Briggs’ smooth contour and settled on his upper row of neat little teeth, impeccably white, smooth and shiny which were rendered shinier by the dazzle of a gold tooth, just next to the right molar, peeping from the corner of his mouth. So intense was the impact that I shaded my eyes from its glitter.
The remorse of the missed earrings that had been dulled into a stupour suddenly churned up like an infant howling shrill for his timely doze of lactate and settled down and kept on throbbing in every nook and cranny of my heart, body, mind and soul.
It is odd how realization dawns on you at the most inopportune moments coupled with a kind of deja-vu as though you should have known a long time back what has just struck you now.
As the early morning rays played a peek-a-boo with Mr. Briggs’ facial features, I happened to notice things which had somehow escaped me earlier.
(Though I take pride in knowing Mr. Briggs through and through).
I always thought Mr. Briggs had dark eyes but they were actually greyish blue and had the most displeasing tendency of altering colour with the changing stance of daylight. There were deep hollows around his eyes and somber shadows patch worked his face –forehead, cheeks, down the sides of his nose. His salt and pepper moustache sprouted out like uncut harvest over his thin lips and was in desperate need of a trimming. His hair looked almost dirty, the brown streaks yellowing at the roots.
Mr. Briggs seems to have become careless about his appearance. Perhaps age does that to you!
(xiii)
It’s a month now that I have seen Mr. Briggs. In fact, nobody has, either. So says Mrs. Sharma, the snoopy Reuter of the Block. The yellow cat has vanished too. I am relieved.
But a nagging doubt still pokes its head at times. Where has Mr. Briggs suddenly disappeared to?
I am curious. Very, very curious……
(xiv)
My days of unproductive inquisitiveness ended on one fine Sunday afternoon. (Did it really?)
It was early winter. The days were still warm giving way to chilly evening and chillier nights. I was washing the utensils in the kitchen. The window to the front lane was wide open. Sun strode in along with a light breeze. The trees in the park shivered softly.
I hummed a tune as I worked. Suddenly a shadow fell on the sink. I was surprised. Was it going to rain? As I looked up to check, a gasp escaped my mouth. Perched daintily on the window sill was the dirty yellow vagabond cat back again intently watching me with a lop sided smile on his lips. His grey whiskers twitched, twirled and twisted as he tried hard to repress the smile from rippling into froths of guileful giggle.
Where was Snow? I instantly remembered that this shrewd imp was not a grain frightened of any beast, let alone Snow. As I stood there almost stupefied under his bold, hypnotic spell, the mood changed. The grey eyes lit up with something uncannily familiar and before I could pinch myself the lips parted in a wide ear to ear grin. Was I imagining? A set of pure white, uniformly moulded teeth bared in simpering vanity intercepted by a wee chink of gold next to the right molar half hidden by a furry mouth and strands of unkempt whiskers!!
There was a crashing sound as the unwashed bowl slipped out of my hand into the steel sink with a resonating clank. I dashed towards the back door and ran pell mell to the flat opposite mine. I could here Snow following me in equal speed barking loudly. Maa was calling out to me………But my body brakes had failed. The feet kept on pressing the accelerator.
The front door as usual was unlocked. I bolted in and would have almost hurled myself on the front door when a steel lock hanging by the latch jolted me to a stop. The door was locked. Mr. Briggs was not there. There was an unusual air of finality about the locked door.
***
I retrace my steps back home. A quieter, introspective me! There is something terribly wrong with me. I am loosing control over myself. My imagination is running wild and overtaking reality.
A must visit to Banerjee Kaku, the famous shrink, Baba’s child hood friend. I make a mental note to jot it down later in my “What To Do” note pad.
The kitchen was empty when I came back. The yellow cat had vanished into thin air.
Nothing seemed amiss except the bowl of fish curry which I had prepared for lunch this morning.
(xv)
I met Mrs. Nosy Sharma that afternoon.
(Why does she always remind me of a gushing hose pipe?)
Before I could ask she supplied the desired inputs.
“Do you know Didi Mr. Briggs has left for the States for good? Going to stay with his son now!” Mrs. Sharma continued in one breath. Given Mr. Briggs’ odd habits she really had doubts as to how long his son would be able to put up with him. I had my doubts too.
And after the catastrophe this morning, I wondered………I seriously wondered………
(xvi)
I am back in the kitchen in the receding light of dusk to brew a cup of tea. I place the kettle on the gas stove at the same time stretching out to open the window. My gas oven is placed right in front of the kitchen window. I feel washed out, drained, perhaps emotionally spent will be the right expression. My eyes fall on something.
A pair of gold rimmed glasses glistening on the kitchen slab. It was not there this morning.
Neither is it mine nor my mother’s.
But I know who it belongs to.
I have often seen it settled on the bridge of his chubby nose when he screens his posts.
Carefully folded on the clean, white marble slab lies Mr. Briggs’ reading glasses!!!!
Saturday, October 16, 2010
PROUD OF YOUR KHICHDI.......?
The language that we now use to communicate with our fellow beings and express our thoughts and feelings can at best be called a khichdi mix of English, Hindi with a dash of vernacular carelessly thrown in. But if we are asked the simple question whether we actually know our language, the answer, I suppose, will be an unabashed no. We glibly blame it on our cosmopolitan upbringing; we take pride in saying that we speak the common man’s language which is easily understandable; we give examples of such other words which have come to be used and adopted in the course of time but do not strictly belong to that particular language, e.g., bazaar in English, bus in Hindi, ijjat colloquially used in Bengali taken from Urdu word izzat so and so forth.
Blatantly hyped and extensively used by our media (TV News, Serials, Chat Shows Reality Shows etc.) this mixture of languages has become our notional language. With the exception of a few like Mr. Bacchan who prefers to use unadulterated version of whichever language, Hindi or English, he chooses to speak in, most of the times, our ears are assaulted by this “mixed babble” which has become our colloquial dialect. We pick up what we hear. This dialect has also invaded journalism, literary works, broadcasts (FM) etc. AIR is an exception. But who tunes in to AIR nowadays?
In this context, I remember an anecdote - my father’s childhood friend whom we fondly called Jethu (Tauji), was perturbed when his son who was settled abroad wrote to him that his Bengali friend and his British wife would be calling upon him for dinner. Jethu was known to be a close fisted person and would count every penny before spending (he left a fortune for his grandchildren!). But this time he was not worried about money. His only concern was how to communicate with the lady and whether he would be able to understand her diction. Jethu was an extremely well read person with a penchant for the theatre and the most embarrassing habit of vocalizing his political views (generally anti-establishment), loudly, to the shock and chagrin of the audience at large. He spoke English fluently but with a strong Bengali accent.
Finally the guests arrived. The much dreaded dinner happened to be a peaceful event. The next day when we asked Jethu whether he could understand the lady’s accent. He gave an impish wink and said it was the other way round. It was the lady who found it difficult to understand Jethu’s much refined English expressions!
Another example: our family physician Dr Sengupta was an affable soul with a florid smile. He belonged to East Bengal and spoke the dialect of the region fluently. So did his wife, a simple, middle aged woman who basked in the glory of her grand children. One evening in one of the community gatherings, we almost fell off our chairs when the lady on request, went into raptures and recited lines from Shakespeare ex tempore in perfect English. Later we came to know that she was an English graduate from an esteemed institution of pre-independence time.
Simple people leading simple lives with a love of language!!
Some of my learned friends have pointed out that borrowing words from other languages is a common phenomenon world over and is a part of cultural intermingling which enriches and enhances vocabulary. Agreed! When we cook we too put in a number of ingredients to garnish the dishes but at the same time we know the taste and flavour of each of the masalas that we are putting in. Stretching the same example to this issue my humble submission will be that before preparing the assorted linguistic gourmet we should have enough knowledge of each of the lingual ingredients that we lavishly throw in so that if one day if we are told to prepare a simple, unadulterated version of daal chawal in one language, we should not cut a sorry figure.
My grandfather used to say that proficiency in one language automatically facilitates proficiency in other language(s) because the underlying nuances are the same. Instead of hiding our deficiencies in several languages (Hindi, English and Vernacular) under the garb of a cosmopolitan tongue, shouldn’t we brush up our knowledge (read language) a bit?
We are fashion savvy, net savvy, tech savvy, mobile savvy, computer savvy and so on and so forth; can’t we also be language savvy? Or is it too out dated a concept?
A WHIFF OF SMOKE
Last summer would have just left behind pages of scorched memories but for a few frugal bouts of drizzle, which could almost be counted on finger tips. Monsoon bade a hasty “sayonara” leaving the Capital huffing and puffing in the scalding, seething heat, which soon gave way to muggy days and nights, unbearable and exhausting. Then suddenly one fine evening, dark, demonic clouds appeared on the horizon and whimsically decided to unburden on the parched cityscape. The Met Department was taken unawares but hastily regained composure soon and proclaimed it to be an unexpected reversal of the monsoons. Sighs of immense relief escaped from millions of Delhites and condensed into more clouds which kept on pouring incessantly for days and nights.
On one such drenched late evening, I was just about to retire to bed when there were repeated, urgent knocks on the backdoor. I hurriedly opened the door to find two rain-soaked figures happily grinning and beckoning me to come out quickly – my brother-in-law and nephew. I did as bidden and was propelled outside. My front balcony opened to a strip of space which was a sort of no man’s and at the same time every man’s land. I had placed a number of flower pots and planted a few trees there. To prevent water logging, which it was prone to, I had cemented the portion too so that it formed a kind of unfenced, rectangular table, a few inches high. I called it my “garden”, a misnomer that is. My kitchen and drawing room windows opened to it and the awnings thereon partially shaded the so called “garden” from rain and sun.
Here under the kitchen awning were nine miniscule, wet pups entwined and shivering. These were born of two mothers in the colony park adjacent to our flat. The mothers had gone in search of food when the rain started. The mothers generally dig the ground into oval shaped bowls which form a cradle for their new born and wherein they remain till they are able to crawl out and wander around. The bowls and the park itself had filled with water due to heavy rainfall almost drowning the pups. My brother-in-law and nephew had heard their weak squeaks of help from the floor above and had rushed to save them. Where best to keep them but the place where they were laid now! We were thinking how to feed the pups and keep them strong when the mother arrived, at first scared not to find her children where she had left them, but was soon relieved and united with the estranged ones. The pack ensconced themselves for a week or so in my “garden”.
We are a family of animal lovers and often in our urge to help the stray ones we put ourselves in such predicaments wherein our self imposed responsibility gets converted into a dilemma. The pups grew healthy and strong day by day; the mess and stench of their “growth” permeating the whole flat creating the most unhygienic condition which an entire Sanitation Department would have fallen short if summoned to sterilize. But we were handicapped and knew not what to do till the rains stopped. Then one day the sun shone bright and the mother herself carried the pups back to the park. But the story did not end there.
The brood was still our neighbours! We witnessed them grow up into sturdy, grateful mongrels. Soon they came back with a vengeance to repay their life savers. As a token of gratitude, they destroyed my plants, chewed away the barks of the trees, tore the moss grass and in general wreaked havoc in my “garden” so much so that I had to put up iron grills to fence the table. But the worst was yet to come.
As they grew up, only two were left out of the pack of nine – some wandered away, some were picked up and some just did not survive. Both the survivors were bitches - one with a shiny black coat and a white chest. We fondly named her Kaalu. The second one was of a light brown shade, very adventurous and fidgety by nature. The latter would often disappear for weeks and suddenly appear one day like Jack in a box, play around awhile and then again vanish into thin air. Both were exceedingly fond of my pet, Mr. Snow Boot, an Indian mix breed. Their fondness for Snow became the source of all my problems.
Kaalu was a permanent fixture around our flat and would playfully follow, nudge and tickle Snow as soon as he was out on his early morning walks, especially when, he was at his most disadvantageous position, i.e. while emptying his “leaky cauldron” or answering Nature’s call. Snow would, understandably, get enraged and growl, shoo and chase her. I’d pull Snow by the chain to prevent him from hurting Kaalu. In this tug of war, I was the most aggrieved one. Snow is a big dog and controlling him when irritated is very difficult. One day, while keeping a control on a vexed Snow, I got a terrible cramp in my leg which tormented me for days. On another day I fell headlong on the road while Snow happily ran after Kaalu. The situation worsened when Kaalu was joined by her sibling, the light brown one. I decided on quick action.
One morning I placed a bowl of milk in the “garden”, lured Kaalu in and latched the grill gate from inside, closed the front balcony door so that Kaalu was locked in the “garden”. Now the miscreant was trapped and would not be able to follow us! I left with Snow by the back door. We followed the same routine every morning. First few days, we could hear Kaalu whining and yelping in protest. Later, she resigned to the “new system” and often after coming back I would find her stretched in the “garden” lazily admiring the morning stars.
Morning walks were becoming a peaceful event when one day the brown one popped in to say “hullo”. That day I placed two bowls of milk, lured both of them in and followed the same ritual before going out with Snow. My new prisoner seemed restless but I ignored. We took an unusually long route and came back more than an hour later to find Kaalu sitting patiently and waiting for us while her sister was gone.
I was surprised. How could she escape when the grill gate was locked? The height of the grill and the gate was such that once locked from inside it could not be opened from outside. It was, therefore, out of question that the dog had jumped over the fence and scooted off. 5 o’clock in the morning was like midnight for the block residents. So, no Good Samaritan was around to offer a helping hand. The night guards would not dare do such things and I had noticed that they generally kept a safe distance from stray dogs. The car cleaners were by then up and about but were too busy finishing their job before the hustle and bustle of the day started. Therefore, they would not bother to waste much time to help a street mongrel in her escapade. Nevertheless, I was pretty sure that there was somebody around as my nasal antennae had picked up a whiff of cigarette smoke in the air!
An uneventful week passed by before the brown one appeared once again. I followed the same routine. As usual, when I returned, Kaalu was alone and a strong smell of cigarette puff wafted through the “garden”! This bothered me. Who could it be? Did he have any other ulterior motive or was just driven by sympathy towards a caged soul? If altruism was the driving force, then what made the invisible philanthropist partial towards the brown one? Why not Kaalu too? I thought of lodging a complaint with the Block Security, but in the absence of substantive evidence, apart from the cigarette smoke, I felt a little stupid doing so. My foremost concern was burglary. Perhaps, somebody was keeping a tab on my movement and had vicious plans in mind waiting to be put into action in an opportune moment.
However, the morning walks were indispensable and could not be put a stop to. The next time, I locked in both the siblings I made it a point to come back quickly. Snow also appeared to be in no mood for a long walk and did not object to an early return. As I approached my front yard I found the brown one in the quirkiest of pursuits. Her hind legs were placed on the rim of a stone pot close to the fence and forelimbs were on the edge of the grill. She was, supported by the plant pot, trying her level best to heave herself over the grill and was half successful as she swung precariously, almost half of her body dangling over the top of the fence. I was relieved and at the same time worried. I now knew how she managed to escape but in the process could either break my expensive pot or hurt herself as the fence was too high for such canine acrobatics. I opened the grill door and coaxed her for a more dignified departure. As she left, I deeply inhaled the clean, clear morning air and felt a bit heady thereafter.
As the day broke in, I rearranged the pots in the “garden” and removed them from the fence so that there was no next time for Ms. Brown to indulge in her gimmicks. She happened to appear the very next day, frisky and frolicsome as ever. I followed the same game plan and was out in a jiffy with Snow. The early morning breeze was soothing though there was a bit of a chill in the air. Both I and Mr. Snow were in light spirits and completed the stroll in a gay trot. We might have taken a little longer than usual in our relief and happiness. When we returned Kaalu was sprawled on the cemented floor happily snoozing. But Ms. Brown was nowhere around! How come? Had I not removed the pots on which she balanced herself to jump over? Yes, I had. The pots were still there where I had placed them away from the grill. They were heavy and could not be displaced easily. Then how did she manage to go scot free? The answer was right there! In front of my nose! My eyes watered as I stared hard at the shadowy “garden” and around helplessly while a thick wisp of cigarette smoke hung in the early morning breeze burning my lungs and nostrils.
Monday, October 04, 2010
"DABANG" RETOLD
I am a late latif. Things have happened late in my life for which I am supremely responsible as I have done things late in life. So, it is no surprise that I watched Dabang late yesterday evening when everyone else has already seen, reacted to, dissected, de-glorified and discarded it without an infinitesimal pause or pinch of qualm. But I cannot reject it as just a “C” grade movie and the incorrigible that I am, have the audacity to sit down to write a review on a delectable cinematic feast which has by now turned stale and sour.
Running the risk of being criticized as an iconoclast, I’d say Dabang presents a chunk of reality from which we turn our faces away everyday in search of a Utopian contentment which is too idealistic to exist. A horde of negative characters – a stepfather (Vinod Khanna as Prajapati Pandey) who does not naturally like his stepson (Salman Khan as Chulbul Pandey), a stepson who understandably hates his step brother(Arbaaz Khan as Makkhi urf Makkhan Prasad Pandey) whom his father has a congenital weakness for, a harassed, asthmatic mother (Dimple Kapadia) who having remarried by choice, acts as a referee between the brawling stepson and stepfather, a not so innocent village damsel (Sonakshi) saddled with a drunkard, “natural” father (Mahesh Manjrekar) for whom she is ready to embrace spinsterhood as there is nobody to look after him, a hoodlum (Sonu Sood as Chhedi Singh) who brazenly misuses his connection with the State Home Minister (Anupam Kher) and runs illegitimate thekas and openly resorts to gundagardi. A Minister unhappy with his henchman gone out of control and wants to bring him to books but does not know how.
Dark, shady characters emanating unhealthy vibes which permeate two and a half hours of cinematic treatment! So what best can these characters do but indulge in unhealthier deeds contaminating the viewers minds. The unhappy Chulbul grows up to become a police man of questionable repute and resorts to, needless to say, all sorts of corrupt deals and rebellious moves which incur his father’s wrath in increasing measures till he kicks him out of his house after his mother’s death. The deglamorized Dimple, the mother, spends her entire life doing the balancing act within the family till she is asphyxiated to death by Chhedi Singh. The weakling, Makkhi, loots his brother’s money to give to his would be father-in-law, a school teacher, who conforming to the misrepresented image of the clan, leads a hand to mouth existence. All this rigmarole because Prajapati Pandey is keen to gain a hefty dowry off Makkhi’s marriage to clear his debt burdens and be comfortable in his old age! Chulbul naturally (what best can a corrupt cop do?) enters into an under-hand-arrangement with the politician, (the Home Minister), to “downsize” Chhedi Singh. In turn, Chhedi Singh instigates his would be father-in-law, another corrupt cop (Om Puri), to remove Chulbul from the face of this earth and the pawn in this vicious game plan is Makkhi, Chulbul’s younger brother! A succinct summation of today’s reality which our eyes and ears are too accustomed to see and hear in Newspapers and News Channels, perhaps off reel and print too. And anybody who refutes that is reliving a myth with all its inveigling contraptions - either the media is dishing out “soaps” or Ram Rajya has been successfully instituted in our country to the fuming frenzy of the Jehadis.
Now, what do I like best in this very-close-to-reality plot and predictable twists and turns of the usual story line – there is no Ram like hero and Sita like Devi in the whole movie. There is no love lost between the two siblings. The step son is more overpowering than the natural son, in spite of the father’s presence. The sons are not dying to sacrifice their lives for the sake of parental love, familial bond, each other etc. The father is not getting all dewy eyed on the “mera beta” theme, be it natural or step. The villain is not always having the upper hand over the bechara hero and vice versa. The hero does not have a miniscule bit of the curve of the m of morals and is a goonda of matching calliber. No respect is shown for social rituals or obligations as Chulbul unceremoniously shoos away the mourners and gets married to his “sweat”-heart soon after his father-in-law’s demise that too in the same mandap put up for his stepbrother’s marriage (Is the director forewarning what mera Bharat mahaan is heading to?). There is no moral of the story and nobody is looking out for any. Everything is an arrangement of convenience – the relationships, the compromises, the gory deeds, the gorier repercussions et al and such is life, my friends, isn’t it? If we care to take off our rose tinted spectacles of illusions and cogitate!
Now, what I do not like about the movie, which is very little of course (?). Although Director, Abhinav Sinha or Anubhav, or whosoever it is, does a crisp job, or should we give the credit to the script writer and the editor, my discerning eyes could still detect a few chinks in the armour. (1) Why is Prajapati Pandey’s house in a perpetual ramshackle state – the wash basin is synonymous to a dirt bin and the plaster peeling off the stain smeared walls? In twenty one years, couldn’t he find time or scrape a saving to get his house white washed? (2)If, yes, then how come his wife so conveniently flaunts expensive cotton and hand woven heavy silk sarees? (In some of the shots, she looks positively conscious of her attire which lets a jarring note intrude into a positively serious overture!!!). (4) Why is that a ‘seasoned’ cop like Chulbul Pandey not able to figure out that his mother has not died a natural death and that it’s a murder? (5)Why is that the “jhandu balm” scene invariably reminds one of the “namak ishq ka” sequence from Omkara? Though, with a vital difference – while in the latter the hero does not lapse into jhatkas and thumkas and Bip Basu cannot, even as she may try hard, shrug off her urban sophistry, Malaika Arora Khan, does not leave anything to imagination!!
Coming to emoting, Salman Khan rules the roost. From the lift of an eyebrow to his shiny shoes, he lives the character. My heart went out to Dimple Kapadia, a mother with a difference!! Vinod Khanna, I think, gave one of his stupendous performances as the hateful stepfather, understating his histrionics - disapproval and dislike for his stepson - to an award winning height, which reminded me so much of his “Achanak” days when Gulzaar re-invented him from the rut of villainy that he was wasting his time in. Sonakshi is underutilized but I stole glimpses of a promise there!! Last but not the least, Sonu Sood, as the quintessential village goon (inspired by Pappu Yadav?), is a complete surprise package from the Badjatiya brand of the all-patience and benevolent boyfriend image that he was wallowing in, in his last flop. Again a restrained show of vile debauchery and venomous foul play here! Arbaaz Khan is forgettably passable. Sajid Wajid duo does a good job in the music department and the songs are in absolute sync with the bawdy milieu. I also liked the rugged brown palette that follows frame after frame insinuating broadly the wretchedness of semi-urban lives, the rustic tints of the characters, the unforgiving balefulness in relationships and the unmitigated dolefulness of familial dilemma and tugs of war that emerge out of unfulfilled wants and expectations and raunchy bawdiness which may be mistaken as intervallic comic relief or gaiety. Not to forget the interceptions of black and white to underscore retrogression or mulling over the past, is a fruitful attempt at infusing aesthetics and subtlety into a coarse, commercial venture.
In the final analysis, Dabang is not all that richshawwallah bhayya stuff that we are making it out to be. This is the only movie in which the violence, and there is quite a good measure of it, does not stand out like an ugly mole on a stretch of flawless skin. In short, the actions jell well with the story, backdrop, characters etc. What best can you expect from a pack of disgruntled, misguided and dying to quickly-earn-a-few-extra-bucks youth who did not grow up mugging up the Jatak Katha or such other moral scriptures by heart? The message of the story – corruption and other anti social acts have major psychological undercurrents and stem from unhappy childhood and family feuds and factions and are not outcomes of human greed and susceptibility to temptations, as was till now propagated by the opinion gurus in the market. In fact, Dabang, to me, is a milestone movie of Indian, especially, Hindi Cinema! It is the only and only movie which has opened the gateway for such other movies to flock in (considering the box office success), in recent future. Soon there will be a long queue of formula – one films shorn off all sentimental hypocrisy, hog wash, eye wash and all other kinds of bathing pleasures which submerge the spectators in over melodramatized cascades of lust-free love, altruistic care, religious fraternity, unity in diversity, familial piety etc. etc. for almost three hours and which the viewers are stupid enough to put their faith in and search around outside the plush ambiance of the PVR, where the exact opposites enjoy a gala freak.
Pros – Banes of life and society uninhibitedly brandished by a bevy of brawny men
Cons – Cynical snowball of harsh inhumanities which seems more commonplace
than hard hitting.
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