Tragicomic Kingdom

Editing Memory

2012-01-15T10:43:00.000-08:00

Prologue

Confession: I have never really read a Booker-winning novel while it has been in the news for winning the coveted prize. So when a friend, philosopher and guide presented me with a copy of Julian Barnes’ , I decided to finish this one while it was still the talk of the town. (Part of the excitement was to see the novel have 150 pages.)

***

We dote on it, but ‘timelessness’ can be a vague adjective. Especially when we have a story to read, more so when we have a story to tell. Time is the prism through which we reflect on our narratives and make sense of them through our memories. We seldom question our memory, in life as well as literature. What is it that we choose to remember and what is it that we erase?

Julian Barnes would have you believe the answers are never ‘logical’. The Sense of an Ending begins in a central London classroom in the 60s. This is a classroom where the teachers compare Shakespearean heroes to Kirk Douglas in Spartacus. The students are aspiring idealists. It is in this classroom that we find our narrator, Anthony ‘Tony’ Webster and his friends Alex and Colin. Soon after comes Adrian Finn, a new student who comes from a ‘broken home’, a fact that shames our narrator as he finds his life lacking in real tragedy, that crucial indicator of greatness. They struggle to get Adrian’s attention (no homoeroticism, please!) as he catches their fancy by questioning the very truths (about the world wars and the shifting power equations in English society) that were force-fed to that generation.

The four eventually go to different universities with only Adrian bagging a seat in the prestigious Cambridge. Our narrator finds a woman, dates her, wanks at the touch of her hand, wants to make love to her but doesn’t get around to doing it until he has broken up. And after sufficient time has passed, gets a letter from the brightest spark in the quarted informing him of a love affair with the ex. Our narrator writes back and eventually gets on with life. Until one day when he receives a letter that suggests Adrian has committed suicide. The scene then shifts to 2011. The narrator is now a retired man. We are told he had a wife once with whom he has separated amicably. He also wants the reader to believe that he shares a 'normal relationship with his daughter Susie though admits that she might be holding him responsible for the divorce. It is clear that he has led a life that has offered him a certainty, but no greatness, that he's always been 'peaceable'. The mirage soon crumbles.

The Sense of an Ending is an ultimate ode to memory and how it changes our perceptions about ourselves at different stages in life. Forty years later, the narrator finds a new meaning in a moment he shared with a woman he could never really love. The realisation seems to change the course of his life, but Barnes is careful not to tell us if it is a defining moment. Though it is open to interpretation, in the novel, memory is also open to introspection. The novel thrives on this ambivalence. Julian Barnes neither romanticises the 60s nor cosmeticise the modern life. The Sense of an Ending is a celebration of human experience.

Heartless! Godless!! And now Godotless!!!

2010-06-12T08:50:00.000-07:00

I have almost always abused this space by addressing my anxieties, the many 'rights' and the 'wrongs' that have been done. Make no mistake, I am a damsel in stress, not distress. This explains why I have inflicted numerous poorly articulated posts on this space without caring if at all these words will ever be read by any mortal. Enraged by the selfish nature of the writing, the space too has given me a befitting reply---a silence in which I introspect my life and its many 'miseries'. For the last four years (ever since I started the blog), it seems that I have been waiting for Godot without knowing who or what Godot is. Is it success? Money? Love? Debauchery? Godot is definitely not success or money...these can be acquired way too easily. He is definitely not love, because he claims to come my way often. He is perhaps a debauched traveller. As perverse as you are in your emotions, but a lot more silent. Your patience is a journey too, at the end of which lies a heartbreak. In the guise of lover, he is a stranger. He is a lover as long as you are a stranger. A patron as long as you are the Petrarchan mistress. In few days, several hours, many minutes and numerous seconds, he will travel through life to find his sense of self. He will cremate you in his heart and bury you in his mind. Like a trapped soul, you will continue to wander and wonder if he will ever put his hand around your waist again and murmur on your lips, "Dearest". Your heart pounding every second and chanting "Come as you are... not as a friend but as who you were".

Next morning, when a furious sun absorbs the water on your face, Godot shall be making new memories with new strangers. His lens would see them all, it would be the mute witness of his tryst with life. You will shed a tear every day in solitude till you become perverse and say "Goodbye blue sky!"

And that is the day another part of you will quietly die.

Heartless! Godless!! And now Godotless!!!

The Late Dorian Gray

2010-02-10T05:42:00.000-08:00

Beautiful?
Forever.
Handsome?
Rarely.
Young?
Always.
Vain?
Destined to be.
Loved?
Rarely.
Killed?
Himself.
Soul?
Sold.
Name?
Dorian Gray.

Amiss

2010-02-10T03:57:00.000-08:00

We are no V. Woolf whose mind is a locked closet nor are we J. Austen whose truths are often 'universally acknowledged'. Unlike these women, words have stopped befriending us. Obscurity is our opium. We find our unhappiness in our bliss and find our failures in our successes. We find our refuge in our passivity and fall back on pills that keep us numb. Having conditioned ourselves in a way that makes sure we remain 'unaffected' no matter what happens, we make sure that no emotion---love or hatred---can move us. As for me, I am an obscurist. Quite often, in a moment of self-introspection, I have wondered if I am half alive or half dead...if I am living or merely existing. The answers have never come easily to me, neither to those with whom I have wanted to share the aforementioned anxieties. I survive in the zone between happyness and existential angst. Uncertainty is my only companion.

Words Apart

2009-11-05T03:03:00.000-08:00

The worst kind of crisis for a mind looking for redemption is loss of words. When she had words, she did not have a story to tell. Now she has a yarn to spin, but words are not her companion anymore.

Jeffrey Archer: On the Write Track (May 2008 interview, A Prisoner of Birth)

2009-10-24T12:45:00.000-07:00

His life is stuff bestsellers are made of. There are scams, trials and of course, his favorite theme, prison. All this and more makes Lord Jeffrey Archer a man worthy of a tête-à-tête. Currently the author is travelling across the country for the first time for Landmark's Jeffrey Archer tour. He is actively promoting his latest book, A Prisoner of Birth, a rags to riches tale of a man wrongly convicted for a crime.

In a rather candid chat with HT City, Lord Archer not only talks about his latest book, but also clears the air about the rumours related to his writing, and, of course, why he wouldn't really want Hilary Clinton to be another Florentyna Kane (The Prodigal Daughter).

The rendezvous starts on a rather unexpected note. Before we pose a question, it is Archer who throws one for us. The question is --- "Have you read the book?" It's only after a loud "YES" that the chat progresses. "India is a great place. People actually read books here." This coming from a man who has sold more than 130 million copies worldwide. "One hundred thirty only? I don't know how many more I have sold in India because of the piracy," he says.

Many reviews have stated that the book is explicitly based on The Count of Monte Cristo, and Archer, on his part admits to being influenced. "Well, I's say it is a modern version of The Count of Monte Cristo. That book is 1,700 pages. It was written at a time when there was no radio, no television, and very little theatre. People read big books then. Things have changed now." Well said Lord Archer. But when quizzed about his own stint in the jail and if it had influenced the plot, the author couldn't help but get into a diplomatic mode. While trying to settle in his chair, he says, "We all use the knowledge that we have. You write about your experiences. For instance when I go back to England after spending 7-8 days in India, I would have an Indian story. Here I have come across situations and people I would want to write about." So, is this the formula for a bestseller? Apparently not. "Then you would have been writing a book," says the author unassumingly. "You write when you have a story to tell. It's a god gifted. And of course you write about what you know. Jane Austen wrote about a small village and how a couple of sisters get married. And these went on to become the five of the greatest novels ever written. Write what you know about. Otherwise there will be four pages of sex and four pages of violence, and then four pages of a story. "

He spoke about the first woman president of America in Florentyna Kane, the lead protagonist of The Prodigal Daughter. An obvious question is if he's routing for Hilary Clinton for the US presidential elections. He laughs his heart out and then responds, " Twenty years later, the Americans have woken up. I would actually like Barack Obama to win. I have followed the elections very closely. I think he is very exciting. I believe he's beaten Mrs. Clinton already and he can beat Senator Mc Cain." But what about the buzz that Florentyna Kane's character was closely modeled on Golda Meir, Margaret Thatcher and Indira Gandhi? " By the time I wrote the book, there had been 5 women PMs in the world. What Mrs. Gandhi, Mrs. Thatcher and Mrs. Meir had in common was their toughness. As for Mrs Thatcher, I worked for 11 years with her. So it would be difficult to write a book and not be influenced by her. By then there had been 5 women PMs in the world. In fact Mrs. Thatcher once said that to beat a man you have to be twice as good, and she was, in fact, twice as good." One of the most cherished moment: When he invited Beatles to Brasenose College to perform for a charity event. " I kept in touch with Paul Mc Cartney after that!"

While the readers just can't get enough of him, his detractors, however, have had a mixed opinion about his writings. One of the more popular rumours revolves around his wife Mary, and many have gone to the extent of claiming that she often writes for him. When quizzed about the same, Archer loses his composure and points out, "Yeah, my wife was in prison and writing the books for me. My wife could not write a book to save her life. It's been the most ridiculous statement ever made. I will tell you a little secret, when I went to prison, stupid people stopped saying that someone else wrote the books. I wrote three books from there and they went on to become number one. She's a scientist. I can't write her books either."

Moving on to a more cheerful topic (read: his blog), the author professes his love for blogging and feels it's an easier way of connecting to a number of readers. "I get 542,000 hit on my site last month and about 25 per cent of my emails are from Indians." Since he's also a cricket buff we asked if he'll be catching up on the ongoing IPL series. He was planning to watch one on Saturday evening, but confessed that Twenty-20 wasn't his cup of tea. "I prefer to follow test matches." So was there anything else that he was looking forward from his Indian tour. "England beating India, five matches in a row. But then, that's not possible."

For someone so prolific yet controversial, one couldn't help but ask if being controversial comes naturally to Archer. "Well, I have not been controversial for the past three years. I have written six books, and have been doing a lot of charity work." Any regrets in life? "No way, you've just got one life, live it as best as you can. Work hard and live your life." Now that's what we call living live king-size!

Archer's favourite authors of Indian origin

Salman Rushdie
VS Naipaul
Arundhati Roy

The Bed of Agony

2009-10-13T04:23:00.001-07:00

Witness to the love

Long lived or long forgotten,

It stands blind and mute,

Not tall, yet firm.

Soft is the surface,

The scent is sweet.

Don’t forget the hardness

That lies low and beneath.

The warmth of the bed

Is like love itself.
It is tender and fragile,

Almost like a lover’s sigh.

The bed often growls

In a joyful pain.

Over it’s subtle top

The lovers reign.

Its sheets are often wet

With desire and glutton.

As the moonlight falls,

The bed shines with passion

No rose adorns it,

Yet it feels the bliss.

The stains fade in a day,

The memory lasts a lifetime.

Basterds, Nonetheless!

2009-10-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

There are two ways in which you can tell someone that s/he is dumb. Either you say “You are plain dumb” or “You have been deprived of common sense”. The latter is only a subtle yet a stylistic manner of telling the friend in question that he is a fool.

In his latest Nazi slugfest, Inglourious Basterds, Tarantino has used the latter version to mock the entire exercise infamously known as Nazism. Told in four chapters, the film deals primarily with three aspects of the Nazi occupation in France---the oppressive Nazis, the defiant Basterds and the victims of Nazism. Each aspect has been embodied through characters, who in their own way, are as blood-thirsty as the leader of the Nazi pack, Adolf Hitler. Colonel Hans Landa of the SS is cruel yet dynamic, an oppressor who has a way with words. In the opening scene of the film, he kills a Jew family taking refuge in a French dairy farmer’s house. The daughter, Shosanna Dreyfus, manages to escape. Four years later, Shosanna herself assumes a new identity as Emmanuelle, heading a small but a well-known theatre in Paris. The petite and beautiful Shosanna becomes an object of fancy for Fredrick Zoller, a young war hero who is all set to star in a film that glorifies his role in killing hundreds of Jews. In the meantime, the Basterds, under the leadership of Aldo Raine continue to cause mayhem, killing SS soldiers and scalping their heads with the Swastik (as against the inverted Swastik, a symbol of Nazism). In his endeavours, Raine is helped by a famed German actress Bridget von Hammersmark.

As Zoller and his filmmaker/ Nazi propanganda minister Joseph Goebbels agree to hold the premiere at Shosanna’s theatre, the Basterds and Shosanna herself come up with their respective plans to blow the auditorium where the ‘Fuhrer’ is also expected to come. The second half of the film puts the four chapters into a perspective with a sole mission---to kill the Nazi leaders who are to attend the premiere.

The plot aside, what holds the film together is the sheer flamboyance exhibited by different characters. Alda’s portraiture, be it in terms of the appearance or the gestures, are not different from Hitler himself. His brand of anti-Nazism is as lethal as Nazism itself, except that he happens to be a reactionary. Add to this the thirst for revenge in Shosanna. So who exactly are these inglourious basterds? The Nazis, the Basterds, who, though operate in small numbers, have waged an equally bloody war against the Nazis, or the revenge-seeking Jews like Shosanna? The answer lies in the title itself and the fact that no character is spared a redemption, not even Hitler himself who instead of committing suicide (which he is believed to have done in reality), is shown dying in the locked auditorium screening Zoller’s film. This very aspect of the film is an evidence of the mockery that Tarantino very consciously plays on each of his protagonists. There are more, but I don’t intend to spoil the film for you by revealing the end.

Any discussion on a Tarantino film is incomplete without an insight into the violence that is an integral part of his films. The violence in Inglourious Basterds works at several levels. Beginning with the title itself. Obviously one couldn’t have named it ‘French Connection 3’. At another level, the nature of the social and the political context the protagonists live in are equally violent. Take this remark from Landa as an example. “What a tremendously hostile world that a rat must endure. Yet not only does he survive, he thrives. Because our little foe has an instinct for survival and preservation second to none. And that is what a Jew shares with a rat.” It is another matter that towards the end the survival instincts in Landa take precedence over the ‘Hail Hitler’ syndrome. Finally, the physical violence. Portrayed in its rawest form, the violence is aesthetic. For Tarantino, brutality is brutality. There’s no escape from it. And the finest aspect of his work is that he doesn’t even seem to keep his viewers under such an illusion.

The lead actors Brad Pitt (Aldo Raine) and Diane Kruger (Bridget von Hammersmark) put up a decent act, but an ‘act’ nonetheless. The Greek God of Hollywood (read Brad Pitt) has a meaty role in the film, but it is only in few scenes that Aldo Raine takes precedence over the star. Ditto for Kruger. In contrast Christopher Waltz (who plays Hans Landa) and Melanie Laurent (who plays Shosanna) come close to living their respective roles. The other actors do not disappoint either.

Don't wait, just bask in the glory of the Inglourious Basterds.

A Life Less Ordinary

2009-09-30T10:20:00.001-07:00

The June sun was furious. Its ruthlessness was evident on the light and dark skin tones of boys and girls waiting for the University-special. At the bus stop outside Patel Nagar market, Sushant Banerjee preferred to roll his eyeballs around some neatly waxed legs, his eyes admiring their sheen, his heart craving to feel their softness. Personally, Sushant disapproved of clothes that revealed one’s body parts, but the voyeur in him couldn't resist to take a look. He himself was happy in his regular refuge of a full-sleeved shirt and trousers, a gift from last year’s Durga Puja. This was but a part of the act he put up as a Mathematics lecturer at the prestigious Lord Stevens College.

Fair enough for his secret indulgences, his life, he believed, was everything except extraordinary. And even as he turned 30 today, little had changed in his world, despite his mind embarking on an Odyssean journey to the past. A cherub-like face had always betrayed his potential to assert his manhood, so he thought. But being thirty was a landmark. In his mind, Sushant kept convincing himself, "Today is just another day." He had spent many birthdays trying to solve tough problems --- both in mathematics and his life. He owed loyalty to the subject as it saved him from realising several truths. And he found peace in this imposed ignorance. Be it the screams coming from the adjoining room, his mother’s tears that fell on the pages of his books when she taught him or the urgency to pay the school fee, no factor was factor enough to intervene in his love affair with Mathematics. On his fifteenth birthday, the mother insisted on a small celebration at school. Sushant, however, was reluctant. He loathed the idea of selling old newspapers to buy toffees for classmates who did not even care to speak to him. But his resistance wasn’t strong enough.

Later that evening, as Sushant rejoiced the last Kismi in his toffee packet, he felt jubilant. He looked at his unshaven chest in the mirror and felt the freshness of adolescence. The joys of boyhood, he grinned. The narcissistic indulgence would have continued for a while had the mother not called. "Baba modey daariye aache. Niye aashte paarbe, shona? Aamaar shorir khaaraap laagje." (Father is standing across the street. Would you get him here, dear? I am feeling sick). Sushant evidently had no choice. He hated helping an intoxicated father find way to their house. On several sleepless nights, he had seen his mother waiting till midnight for his father. Sushant wanted to contribute to that little gesture of care, but couldn’t. He didn’t seek any reason for the detachment, just felt it. Fifteen years later, things were different. The ageing father had surrendered to what he believed was cruel fate, and Sushant took over as the breadwinner of the family.

Lost in the memories of a joyless childhood, Sushant noticed the U-special making its way to the bus stop. As he stepped in to see bright young faces and all-sized figures draped in branded apparels, the excitement of turning 30 took a backseat and the anxiety of a lecture with Maths Hons second year took over. Sushant perspired once again. For a reason unknown to him, he had forgotten to prepare the third chapter of Mechanics. The over-enthusiastic second year students were known to be the inquisitive lot---the kind that often left the teachers breathless in their quest for knowledge.

To deal with the unpleasant challenge that these students posed, a lecturer needed a sound strategy. A STRATEGY rather than a teaching skill. As the U-Special reached Maurice Nagar bus stop, he climbed down. Making his way to 39 A, he nodded many times as a young group of girls and boys wished him. "Being wished good morning is much better than being wished Happy Birthday," he thought, his mind refusing to accept that he liked being wished on his birthday. As the mathematician entered the classroom, his probing eyes scrutinised each and every student. "I'm planning to take a surprise test today on Mechanics Chapter 2. I hope all of you are ready," he announced, with a grin so wide that it exposed the last tooth of his lower jaw. "What the f*** !" Sushant's hatred was matched by an irreverent student. Though the Mechanics teacher pretended to ignore the comment, he knew it was Charles Eapen, the rebel who was also the class representative. As the CR, Charles had asked the class to contribute Rs 100 each to buy a Reebok t-shirt for their ‘favourite’ teacher. But surprise tests have a way of bringing out the worst in students, and Charles was no different. With the ‘burden’ of conducting a surprise test, Sushant Banerjee can very well do without a Reebok tee, he thought.

Fifty-five minutes passed when the bell rang and Sushant snatched the papers from his students' desks. Will these papers be checked? This was a question in each student’s mind. Sushant’s sloth had the answer. As he entered the staff room with a pile of papers, the entire department greeted him. And such was the excitement that he feared an impending demand for a party. "What if they ask me to order a cake? 500 taka joley jaabe! (Rs 500 will go down the drain)," he mumbled. Sushant’s miserly ways, however, were no secret to his colleagues. A gentle handshake and chapter was closed for a year.

The clock struck 2.55 pm as Sushant’s last lecture got over. He wouldn't have to feed to anyone's culinary fancy. As he boarded the U-special once again, the 30-year-old 'man' felt the tiredness his work brought to him. His sister, a journalist at Bharat Times, worked almost 14 hours every day. Sometimes he couldn't thank his stars enough that he chose lecturership. He may not have become a permanent faculty yet, but the eighth year, according to the family astrologer, was lucky one. A smile lightened an otherwise pale face at the thought as the bus stopped.

Hoping to take a quick bath, Sushant rang the doorbell, only to be informed by the mother that there was no water in the tap. In the absence of a shower, a sleep would do some amount of good, he thought. A dreamless sleep was not unusual to Sushant. He had spent many nights seeing nothing but darkness. "Please get aata and cheeni baba," mother woke him up from what was a deep slumber. The frown on his face was true to the anger he felt at being woken up at 7 in the evening. But the mother’s knowledge of his slothful ways only helped her remain calm on such occasions.

Seven to nine pm was a time that Sushant dedicated to Mathematics. As he saw the clock striking seven, hunger took precedence over Mechanics. Mother was quick enough to lay the table with a glint in her eyes that gave her an assurance of being complimented for her culinary skills. As Sushant made himself comfortable in an old wooden chair, his disapproval of the elaborate dinner was evident."Pomfret? Do you know how much it costs? Rs 400 a kilo," screamed Sushant, aghast to see a seemingly sumptuous but expensive meal laid out at the table. On occasions like these, Sushant couldn't help but brand his mother a spendthrift. “Kintu onek din pore baanalaam,” (But I cooked it after long) was her explanation for cooking her son's favourite dish on his thirtieth birthday. When he threatened not to eat, the helpless mother offered an assurance that the money was spent from her own savings. Sitting next to Sushant was the speechless father, who often blamed himself for Sushant's irreverence towards his wife and himself. He had conditioned himself into believing that the son loved them despite the irreverence that his agitation and miserly ways exhibited. Silence, on such occasions, was the father's defence against an arrogant yet lovable son. Finally, Sushant decided to sleep hungry on the special day to prove that he was by no means to be taken lightly.

The lazy alarm was the first sound Sushant heard every morning. As he woke up, he found an unusually silent mother preparing lunch and tea for him. Fresh from last night’s hurt, the mother laid down the breakfast. Sushant’s apologetic gaze towards his mother defeated its purpose as she chose to look at everything except her beloved child’s eyes, the child for whom she had decided to stay in the marriage. They sat quietly, finishing the last crumbs of bread on their plates. “Durga! Durga!” the mother mumbled as she picked Sushant’s bag and offered it to him. Leaving for the bus stop, Sushant felt compelled to look at the verandah of his two-bedroom flat. This was an indulgence that had transformed into a habit with time. Like always, the mother stood there, her vision blurred by the tears that gathered in her eyes. The tears complained and mourned a rejection that she felt first from her husband and now her son. Several minutes of guilt passed. At the bus stop, new pairs of glistening legs had replaced the guilt the mathematician felt till about few minutes back. As the U-special stood in front of the dusty lanes, Sushant was, as usual, the last one to climb up. "Today is just another day," he assured himself.

Ends

A Lot Like Love

2009-09-24T05:24:00.001-07:00

Love or the idea of love brought them together. He, a young boy, who dreamt of everything except her; She, a young girl, who dreamt of nothing except him. He spoke of many nights he spent thinking about how he would rise and shine, the nights that were only his, the nights she wasn't allowed to be part of. She was no less. Living the change He had brought into her life, she wove her own fantasy. A young girl She was still, yet felt like a woman. That he had become a part of her was a myth He endorsed and she readily surrendered.

They met often. Often enough to keep the pretence of 'love' alive in each other. And when they did, her eyes would beam with an unmatched joy. His had guilt. She wanted him to look at Her, feel Her breath against His chest, feel the fear she had nurtured ever since the tight of their hands loosened. He couldn't. She knew that she had come close to losing Him. "Why?" was a question that haunted her. Hoping to have a part of him back, She decided to sell her soul. His had already been sold...

... She spent nights, crying. Her eyes, filled with tears, mourned the loss of self that she felt. He loved this lowness in her. Curled in her mother's arms, she lied about Him, lied about the happiness that the mother had seen in her eyes long back. He learned to live with the lies and the denial.

Pain was an obscenity they began to enjoy. He, in the satisfaction, that She was deprived of his love. She, in her aspiration to become what she had been to him once. Out of love, they preyed on each other. Hurt was not an emotion they felt any longer. The monstrosity in their minds had benumbed them. They were lifeless but performed the act of togetherness to perfection . In this lifelessness, they lived or pretended to live unhappily ever after.

The Faustian Conflict

2009-08-31T04:01:00.002-07:00

GOOD ANGEL.
Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee.

EVIL ANGEL.
Thou art a spirit; God can not pity thee.

FAUSTUS.
My heart's so hardened, I cannot repent.
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven,(20)
But fearful echoes thunder in mine ears
“Faustus, thou art damned!” Then swords, and
knives,
Poison, gun, halters, and envenomed steel
Are laid before me to despatch myself,(25)
And long ere this I should have slain myself,
Had not sweet pleasure conquered deep despair.

The Faustian Fall

2009-08-31T04:01:00.001-07:00

FAUSTUS.
Ah, Faustus,(65)
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again and make(70)
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente, currite noctis equi!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,(75)
The Devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.
O, I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down?
See, see where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop would save my soul—half a drop: ah, my
Christ!(80)
Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'tis gone; and see where God
Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows!
Mountains and hills come, come and fall on me,(85)
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God!
No, no!
Then will I headlong run into the earth;
Earth gape! O no, it will not harbour me!
You stars that reigned at my nativity,(90)
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist
Into the entrails of yon labouring clouds,
That when they vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from their smoky mouths,(95)
So that my soul may but ascend to Heaven.

[The clock strikes the half hour.]

Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon!
O God!
If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul,
Yet for Christ's sake whose blood hath ransomed me,(100)
Impose some end to my incessant pain;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years—
A hundred thousand, and—at last—be saved!
O, no end is limited to damned souls!
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?(105)
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Unto some brutish beast! all beasts are happy,
For, when they die,(110)
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live, still to be plagued in hell.
Curst be the parents that engendered me!
No, Faustus: curse thyself: curse Lucifer
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.(115)

[The clock strikes twelve.]

O, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!

[Thunder and lightning.]

O soul, be changed into little water-drops,
And fall into the ocean ne'er be found.

[Enter Devils.]

My God, my God, look not so fierce on me!(120)
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!
Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books!—Ah Mephistophilis!

[Exeunt Devils with FAUSTUS.]

My Inseparable Companion

2009-08-21T08:46:00.000-07:00

You live in my eyes. You share my dreams. You share my joys. You see me fall. You see me rise. You are the reason the kohl drains away from my eyes. I own you, yet you claim me. You are His gift, you are nearer than ever. My inseparable companion, you are but a drop of tear.

Hope Floats

2009-08-19T06:43:00.000-07:00

Hatred makes sense because there's love, sadness makes sense because there's happiness, failure makes sense because there's success. I find happiness in my despair and despair in my happiness. The fountain of eternity just showered happiness on me. Not in a human form, neither in tangible one. It's gift is a joy akin to the one that comes from the fragrance of a woman's body once it has been conquered. It's inside me, much like an unborn child. It will grow and lead a life that never ends. It is the immortal within the mortal. You call it hope, I call it desire.

Ode to Cynicism

2009-05-31T23:47:00.000-07:00

Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot, Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, The Notebook (film), calligraphy exhibitions. A growing fascination for these means not all's quite well in your life. Did I say my life? No, I meant yours, and you could be anybody. Even me.

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

2009-04-05T03:46:00.000-07:00

As I walked in the garden of good and evil, little did I know how I was being consumed. Now that I know, I am nothing but a skeleton.

Pursuing happiness

2008-08-14T02:51:00.000-07:00

Of all the qualities that people my generation have, the one I respect the most is the sheer irreverence we tend to have for certain things. And a part of this irreverence is the casual detachment most of us have towards a couple of things in life. Something that was a prized possession once (even if in our thoughts), transforms into a memory--- good or bad, you don't know. You gave birth to a dream and began to live it as well. You nurtured it with utmost care and believed in it when others mocked your obsession. You realised that they were right, but pretended to move on hoping for the impossible to happen. You grow with the dream, the dream grows on you. You bloat with the hope of an impending happiness. And then...

.... it is all over. You can't figure out why or how? It's just over. What comes along is another hope, another place where you can find happiness. It is like a shallow pond that has nothing to offer you except for a momentary high. This is when you realise you are dreaming...dreaming once again of greener pastures, those subtle drops of rain and the flower beds. Your flight of fancy has taken off pretty well. Will it come to an end soon. Maybe, maybe not. It's the rise before the fall, its the salvation preceding the doom

The Other Knight

2008-07-30T14:41:00.000-07:00

It took me a week to realise why exactly I liked The Dark Knight. There were great special effects, Batman had a new vehicle to drive and finally Heath Ledger. I must confess I like such psychologically s*****d up characters but this one certainly takes the cake. You see, for me, first impression is not the last impression ... it's more of a teaser. SO WHAT DID I DO?

After a rather gruelling day at work, I decided to watch the film again… alone. And so on a rather lazy Thursday evening I went to see the latest installment of the caped crusader’s latest adventure. After a second watch, the movie seemed to be a parable of the eternal good versus evil conflict. It seemed like an extended lecture on Milton's Paradise Lost, for this wasn't just yet another that heavily banks on the popularity of the heroism of the superhero in question (sometimes even imposing it), but it was something more.

I found most of my answers in the Joker. Being a sceptic myself, I found the anarchist in the Joker more appealing. He is very similar to Milton’s Satan (in the early sections of Paradise Lost). Like Satan, he too questions the authority of an established order, in this case as a self-proclaimed vigilante. Like Satan, he too convinces people to sin, and in fact succeeds in transforming Harvey Dent to a potential murderer (remember the way the serpent convinced Eve to eat the apple). Like Satan, the Joker too, admits being an 'agent of chaos'. It’s a choice he has made seemingly because of a father who was “a drinker and a fiend. And one night he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit. So, me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it. Turns to me and he says "Why so serious?" Comes at me with the knife,"Why so serious?" He sticks the blade in my mouth. 'Lets put a smile on that face!' And..... Why so serious?” He also remembers his wife in one of the most poignant scenes in the film. “I had a wife, beautiful; like you. Who tells me, I worry too much. Who tells me, I ought to smile more. Who gambles, and gets in deep with sharks. One day they carve her face. We have no money for surgeries. She can't take it! I just want to see her smile again. I just want her to know that I don't care about the scars. So I stick a razor in my mouth and do this... to myself. And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me! She leaves. Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling!”

A viewer never really gets to know if all this really happened or if this is just a figment of a 'psychopath's imagination'. But what seemed more real to me was the fact that the character, pretty much like his other half (read Batman) makes an attempt at heroism through a battle that's more psychological than physical . His heroism is anarchy, chaos, anything which could shake the very foundation of an otherwise acceptable existence. Come to think of it, there's a lot that binds the destinies of these men. Both have had seemingly troubled childhood. Both choose to hide behind a mask and most importantly both, in their own ways, claim to be vigilante. While one attempts to don the hat of a saviour, the other is the self-proclaimed new "classic gangster that the city needs".

What I liked about the film was the way Batman's pedestalisation is deflated in the film. This time Batman wants someone to take forward his legacy (through DA Harvey Dent who ultimately goes against what he once stood for), wants to be with his lady love (who chooses someone else over her long time love interest), makes a choice as to who to save (he saves Harvey Dent while Rachel dies in a trap set by Joker) and finally accepts to wear the mantle of a Dark Knight (even though he has not killed Moroni). In a nutshell, towards the end of the film, even though he remains a guardian figure, but by then the society he's been protecting has already turned its back towards him. The Joker wins the battle.

So what exactly makes the Joker more convincing to me?

a) He wants to puncture the deification of Batman by asking him take his mask off. Once the mask is off, would the hero be still worshipped? Probably yes, but even then at least he would come across as a more human a figure.

b) He doesn’t want to kill the superhero because ‘you complete me”. In a rather poignant scene in the film, the Joker says ‘You just couldn't let me go could you? This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are incorruptible aren't you? You won't kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, and I won't kill you, because you're just too much fun. I think you and I are destined to do this forever.” They truly complete each other. Probably that's why neither of them wants to kill each other.

c) Millionaire Wayne aka Batman is just too heavily dependent on technology to rescue him (probably because he can afford it) while the Joker falls back on his dry wit and presence of mind. That proves more powerful as the narrative progresses.

If the negative characters are so deeply etched like this one, a day will come when movie buffs like us would go and watch superhero flicks for such super'villains'.

Surviving Brida

2008-07-22T04:23:00.000-07:00

Reading about a quest for fulfilment has rarely been this predictable an experience for a Paulo Coelho reader. But there's always a room for exceptions. The author's latest book, Brida, delves on quintessential Coelho themes --- search for wisdom (read Soul mate), magic, failures and self introspection. The story is set in the eighties where a young Irish woman embarks on a journey, both physical and psychological, to find her Soul mate. In her endeavor, she seeks the help of a witch, Wicca and a 'wise man', Magus. To attain that everlasting wisdom she does not mind spending a night in the woods, even though it scares her to death. She "dances to the sound of the world" and wears each and every cloth in her wardrobe because "everything that contains energy should be in constant movement". Twenty one year-old Brida's journey might be a novel experience for her but not for a Coelho reader who has treaded on similar paths before as well (remember The Alchemist and The Witch of Portobello). However, there are moments of self introspection. For instance when Brida is advised to wear all the clothes in her wardrobe, she wonders "Perhaps Wicca had overstepped the bounds of her power. Perhaps she was trying to interfere in things she shouldn't." At this stage, the reader can't help but celebrate the protagonist's pragmatism, so what if it lasts only for some milliseconds.

Pitted against her is a witch, Wicca, who like Magus, sees 'the gift' in her and helps her 'find the Soulmate'. For the uninitiated, Wicca is also a term used to refer to a modern version of an old witchcraft religion. While Brida is still jostling between the ifs and the shoulds, Wicca, on the other hand is a complete believer. Magus comes across as more believable of all the characters. One gets acquainted to the genuinity in his very first meeting with Brida, when he realises 'he had met his Soul mate', but simultaneously wonders 'She's pretty. But I am twice her age." At yet another poignant stage in the narrative he realises his masculine needs are more important than the ones he has being a Teacher of the Tradition. And then there is a moment of realisation, "The Magus watched Brida lie down on the ground. He tried to concentrate only on her aura, but he was a man, and a man always looks at a woman's body."

You certainly can't miss those one -liners that form the core of all Coelho narratives. "We might know the how, where and when of being here, but the why will always be a question that remains unanswered." or "Gardeners always recognise each other, because they know that in the history of each plant lies the growth of the whole world."

The novel is pacy and just in case you feel too compelled, you can read it on a lazy weekend afternoon.

A drink and a heartbreak later...

2008-07-17T11:16:00.000-07:00

A drink and a heartbreak later, you begin to wonder if life was just incidental to living. Even if it was, it has to be lived. There are things to look forward to and people to run away from. Every high has to be cheered for and every fall has to be lamented. Happiness is not just over-rated, it's also overpriced. We all have our Godots to wait for. They turn their faces when they see us, only to return when they aren't needed any more. The tragic farce is that you live your life but that life never lives in you.

A bit of Neruda

2008-07-03T13:58:00.000-07:00

Nothing beats Pablo Neruda. Of many of his poems that I have read, this one's my personal favourite.

Thinking, Tangling Shadows

Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
buying lamps.

Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!
Stifling laments, miling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city!

Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tr5acts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.

You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.

It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?

Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude,
hour that is mi9ne from among them all!
Hunting horn through which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.

Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.

Who are you, who are you?

(From Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)

An ode to opium

2008-07-02T12:37:00.000-07:00

A man of few words but many languages, Amitav Ghosh traces his journey as an author with Anamika Chatterjee

Sitting cosy in his suite at Taj Mahal Hotel, author Amitav Ghosh sips his coffee and reminisces about the good old days. “I can see The Claridges from here. That's where I had my first book party. Those days I had a motorcycle and I remember parking it outside. The magic that happens with the launch of your first book never comes back." Cut to present, Ghosh is out with his tenth book, Sea of Poppies, that delves on the issue of opium trade in colonial India of 1830s. “After Glass Palace, I wanted to write another inter-generational book and I started thinking about it in 2004 when The Hungry Tide came out.”
Often regarded as an author who's quite generous with descriptions, one is compelled to wonder if writing a trilogy offers him more liberties. A notorious laughter follows as he explains, "While writing a book you can keep changing some things towards the end or the beginning. But in a trilogy, you have to keep your options open. Moreover, Sea of Poppies was the foundation of the trilogy. It had to be solid and secure." The author admits that he would have loved to cover at least 30 -40 years in the trilogy but then “500 pages later and I have covered just 8 months. I know there are readers who just like to go from point A to point B, but such a reader should not pick up my book.”
This book also set Ghosh his toughest test as researcher, as he “never had such a wide range of characters from different backgrounds”. But what about the British ones that have according to many reviews been “stereotyped”. The Observer review, in fact calls it a "clever parable for British colonialism". On a rather defensive note, he points out, "By the end of the book, everyone is a villain. It'd be ridiculous to put in some goody goody Englishmen. My book is about drug smugglers, convicts and transporters. I am certainly not going to go out of my way to create good English schoolteachers because clearly it isn't a book about them."
Striking a balance between history and fiction is not an easy task, not even for this “master storyteller”. He offers the metaphor of clay to explain his position as an author. "History is just like clay. We have to respect its unyielding nature. A writer's job is pretty much like a potter's. He gives a shape to the clay by using his imagination."
Ghosh whose first book, The Circle of Reason, came out in 1986 feels it is much easier for a writer to get published now. "When I started out, there was just one publisher in Delhi, and I think he used to publish business books only. By then my first book had been accepted in England, and I desperately wanted to get published in India. So in desperation, I went to his office with my manuscript and knocked the door. The chapraasi opened the door and let me in. He saw my manuscript and asked, "Yeh kya hai' and I said, 'Saab, yeh ek novel hai' and to this the chapraasi said, "Novel… nikal jaao."
Ghosh also has his share of favourites when it comes to Indian writing in English. “I enjoyed reading Above Average by Amitabh Bagchi. I am told Indrajit Hazra's The Bioscope Man and Tabish Khair's latest are interesting.” Even though the author thinks that Indian writing in English has been accepted worldwide, he admits that it is at the risk of stereotyping several themes and characters. "If I see the word, 'arranged marriage' in the blurb or at the back of the book, it annoys me. But stereotyping is happening everywhere. When we pick up an American novel, we tend to expect themes like gangland warfare or the mafia.”
Even as there is a buzz that The Hungry Tide will soon be made into a film, the author wants his involvement in the project to be "minimal". “Filmmaking is a distinctive art. I tried it after I wrote The Shadow Lines, in 1989. Mira Nair who is an old friend wanted to make Mississippi Masala and I was to do the screenplay. Mira, her husband and I actually drove down to deep southern America and had a good look at the Gujarati motels for our background research. But gradually I realised that it wasn't my cup of tea." But Ghosh also reveals that The Hungry Tide is an option right now by a Bengali director, Suman Mukhopadhyay who has been working on it for some time.
An adaptation works best "when a filmmaker completely reimagines the book", so believes the author. "I know the writers of several books that were made into films by Satyajit Ray and none of them were happy with the films. I told them that the films were much better than the books."
Married to writer Deborah Baker, Ghosh is also a father of two children, who have never read any of his books. “ I am actually grateful that they haven't read my works. You know when you are young and writing novels, you have to tell yourself that your mother might just read your book, and when you grow old, you keep your children in mind while reading the book, because there are things in the book they shouldn't be reading about. So I am actually grateful that they don't."
Confessing that he’s rather self-indulgent, Ghosh says, “I write for myself and my circle of friends. Sometimes when people open my book and read, I actually wonder if this would make sense to anyone. I guess that's something that only your editors and publishers can tell From Circle of Reason to Sea of Poppies, the author has indeed come a long way, but he doesn’t seem to think so. "My friend, Mukul Kesavan says that I have moved back to The Circle of Reason. The prospect of spending 10-15 years with these characters has been deeply pleasurable. In a way my friends have seen my life change and I have seen theirs changing too.” He also admits that solitude is quintessential to writing. “Months go by and I see no one but my wife and my kids. Sometimes I come out of my house and wonder why there are so many people here. Your book becomes your only reality then. It is important also because if your book does not become your reality, then it won't work." Well, considering the writer is aiming for a hattrick this time, it seems more solitude awaits him!

Casting a literary spell

2008-06-28T08:55:00.000-07:00

His latest indulgence as an author has yielded yet another bestseller (read Brida). Paulo Coelho shares his success story with Anamika Chatterjee in this e-mail interview.

Themes like spirituality and mysticism are recurrent in most of your works. How do you rate Brida?
When I start a new book, I approach myself from a different angle. In The Alchemist, for example, I was trying to explain what writing meant to me. The way I found to do this was through a metaphor. In Brida, I explore the life of a woman who dives into sorcery and experiments with different magical traditions. Through her life and character, I explore many themes that are dear to me, such as The Great Mother, pagan religions and the different perceptions of love.
All stories, characters bare the seal of my personality, but each has its own path, its own identity. It’s only by living intensively that I’m able to gather enough experiences, emotions, that later on guide me when I decide to write.

Your books are said to have “changed the lives of many”.
Readers are always very inventive. I remember once an Indian reader sent me a letter saying that she had offered one of my books to the Ganges. I thought this was such a poetic and beautiful thing to do.

Brida was written in 1990. Why is it that it came out for publication after almost two decades?
When I wrote this book, ideas such as the feminine face of
God were still alien to most people, but now, I see a shift in perception — people are more open now to the intuitive perception of the world and are less easily seduced by the fixed rules of the society. And that’s why I came out with Brida in its first English translation. I think her time has come.

Would you say that there’s a certain formula for a bestseller?
I don’t have a ready-made formula to apply when I embark on a new book, but I’m always controlled by my discipline, compassion and a sincere eagerness to understand myself.

Any message for Indian readers. I think the best advice is always to not follow any advice. Try life by yourself. Freedom is people making their decisions by themselves, not giving it away for a guru to answer and decide for them.

Condemned to remember

2008-06-21T13:17:00.000-07:00

I beg, cry and pray for freedom,

Hoping you will grant it to me some day

But at times my vision blurs

And I cross the line in a haze!

A blasphemous silence is all you have,

A gift you offer me every day,

I have accepted it graciously

Knowing that I won't ever find that ray!

Sunset has become more beautiful than ever

For it reminds me of a speechless you,

That moonlit night, that starry sky
All they offer are countless memories of you!

An ocean of happiness is what I hide

It makes me weak, but often strong

The memories will die their own death

and I shall know I was always wrong!

That road we walked on still bears our footprints,

That palace of dreams still echoes our laughter

So what if you didn't hold my hand,

I always knew there wouldn't be a 'happily ever after'!

Kol katha

2008-06-13T06:48:00.000-07:00

Going back to a city after more than a decade can be extremely depressing. My recent visit to Kolkata just goes on to prove that only too well. Last time I visited Cal, as most in my family love to address it, was when I was 12 years of age and completely doted on small bribes like the Bijoli Grill ice cream soda, daanedar mishti , the human rickshaw.... and the list is endless. While packing my bags I had hoped to be in the same old Cal, but alas! The city has changed a lot in these years, and if the residents are to be believed, things have changed only for the better. Malls and multiplex invasion have paved way for the formation of a clan that I'd personally call Kolkata GenNow. These aren't your regular youngsters in denims and Nike t-shirts. This is a bunch that has a cigarette placed perpetually in their hands (smoking is just incidental here), prefer a loose tee with a worn out jeans and most importantly, is all set to criticise anything that's remotely Delhi. To see this kind of a crowd in the malls was rather unexpected, but when some of them happen to be your friends, you can't do much about it except for listening patiently.

For these youngsters, Delhi isn't a place-to-bge primarily because it has no culture. And why not? "People there behave as if they have come from savage lands." "They can't even respect women or the elderly. There's just no safety." "The feeling of belonging among Delhi-ites is missing. It could be because most of them are migrants." My rather politically correct answer was " If you can live in Delhi, you can live anywhere."

After encountering the abhorrence for Del;hi, my next tryst with a rather unusual complain was how come being 23, I was comfortably single. My cousin's argument was 'Make full use of your freedom as a financially independent woman." Her views were echoed by some aunts , even though the uncles stayed out of the matter. Little did the women realise that by forcing a freedom on me she was, in fact, limiting the notion of freedom most of us have young women. Her reasons... "In Kolkata, women start dating as and when they join college." I giggled for a while thinking that in most parts of the country the progression takes place rather early. I presume that's the reason I was taken to the malls even though I pleaded to go to places like New Market, Digha and Gariahat.

After the isms were thoroughly analysed in our chatting sessions, it was time to pay a visit to the Ganges. If there's a singularly most divine thing that a human beiong could do, is to try boating in the Outrum Ghats. As you look around, you feel you are floating in the water.... you reach a point where you are somewhat closer to redemption. This singular indulgence atones for all the isms that are imposed on you for being a Delhi-ite.

As she liked it

2008-06-01T11:56:00.000-07:00

Accompanying a friend in love for shopping is almost like playing Shakespeare's archetypal court fool...someone like Touchstone (in As You Like It). There is something very comical about spending hours accompanying a woman whose very purpose of existence for that very day is buying a 'wallet' for a 'friend' who, of course, has been promoted from that level to being a potential lover. Sadly you know you are not a part of this 'reality', but yet you embark on the Odyssean journey of finding that precious little gift.

This Sunday evening, I played a Touchstone to an old friend who was on a similar trip. Our search, rather hers, for that peeeeeeerfect wallet made us walk through the dinghy inner circle, in CP, twice. I could see the shine in her eyes as she was looking for that wallet. She picked one, but threw it aside after the size of the wallet disappointed her. She wanted the size to be bigger than regular wallets. Traditional wisdom suggests that a large wallet helps keep men more money. The lady's explanation was quite simple. "If he can't fill this wallet up, I shall know that he's not worthy of my love." Not that I believe in the money-is-not-everything dictum, but the fact that she said this was a reason enough for me to laugh at the whole exercise. A gift had to be given to the guy, and the gift had to be a wallet, and the wallet was expected to0 be full in all days, all the time. And finally, she laid her hands on a reasonably decent wallet and spent Rs 1,000 on it. (Of course I was lamenting the fact that I'd get a Patrick French and a large chocolate croissant with lemonade at the Oxford Bookstore for that amount). However, I wasn't in for a complete disappintment either. I was treated with a bhutta and a bunta for my services and of course, some tips on how to win a suitable guy in 10 days. By then I at least knew one ... buy him a big wallet.

One fine day

2008-05-31T10:38:00.000-07:00

A breeze lifting that unruly lock of hair, murmuring leaves whispering something, figures...part human, part animals walking aimlessly on the street, pages of books written hundreds of years back turning on their own, clouds overpowering the sun... and the alarm rings and I head back to editing a story on 'how to be size zero'.

Dial M for mediocrity

2008-05-30T11:55:00.000-07:00

I crave for a thing most of you detest
coz you believe in faking an intellect,
I love mediocrity, for it makes me who I am
unsure, uncertain, wrong but always correct!

An affair to remember

2008-05-29T12:54:00.000-07:00

Had someone asked me five years back where I'd like to see myself few years down the line, my answer would have been a snobbish, "Masters in post colonial literature, University of Massachusetts." But that was then.... a time when I wouldn't know how to spell Massachusetts. Thankfully after five years I do. Being a Bong, mastering the art of speaking and writing English well is more of a cultural demand rather than an intellectual one. I chose to remain loyal to it. And I did have good reasons for my loyalty. The language came to my rescue after I scored a horrendous 73.5 % in my 12th standard.

The lack of sobriety in the marks that I had scored was a reason enough for me to join a course that valued the REAL intelligence of a student. I was, of course, trying to avoid the fact that unlike the fortunate duds of my batch, I had scored less and had to make most of what I got. And after a series of entrance exams (PS: DU conducts entrance exams for English Literature, much to the relief of Bong students who crack it most of the times), I knew which college I had to finally settle for.

Away from the hustle bustle of the North Campus, was JANKI DEVI MEMORIAL COLLEGE, a place I was to go for my grads. To say being in an all-girls' college was a rather painful experience would be an understatement. Women, women and more women, life at JDM was almost like a feminist movement I was forced to be a part of. The first class began with Ismat Chughtai's Lihaaf, a tale of suppressed sexuality that gradually transforms itself into homosexual love. Being in a women's college, and studying Lihaaf, was scary, but the fear in question was a rather naive and juvenile. My romantic interests and preferences remained in the malekind. Yet there was the other 'kind' men, some hundreds of years old and some not-so-old, who came to my intellectual rescue. Shakespeare, Geoffrey Chaucer, Amitav Ghosh, TS Elliott, William Butler Yeats, Charles Dickens, Samuel Coleridge, Dario Fo, Henrik Ibsen and many more. This not to say the women didn't hold their own. Jane Austen, Ambai, Margaret Mitchell and Chughtai, of course, were forces to reckon with. It was then that my love affair with the language began. It had by then also become my best friend- helping me get an admission, being my USP at the college interviews...so on and so forth.

To add to that dream-like state were the wonderful, wonderful lecs who not only taught me the texts, but also helped in understanding life beyond English Literature. Of course, my notions had been rather rosy then. I had a rather extended honeymoon with language. Topped twice, was even a rank holder in the Univ once, won a paper presentation (it was great coz there were just two teams). It was blissful, a match made in heaven. After three years of being a Bachelor's student, I decided to take the love affair to another level - Masters. Thankfully my scores were good enough and I got the admission directly. Of course, fate (read my folks) had some other plans.

Media had always been a seductress of its own kind, and my folks couldn't help but get entangled in its clutches. I was asked to appear for entrances at Mass Communication Research Centre, Jamia (Mommy dearest loved the idea of me going there coz Barkha Dutt studied from the college some eons back) and Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC). After some odd cribbing sessions, I gave in, and agreed to appear for the entrances. I prayed to God every day that I must not clear the entrance, but then God seems to help those who do not help themselves. Unfortunately, I cleared both the entrances. Jamia being a more "prestigious" institution, was an obvious destination.

What began then were mad , mad sessions on film history, photography, radio , TV journalism, short films, and all the things that did not interest me one bit. A year passed, and brought with it a sense of discomfort. Expectations were soaring , and as always, I had to live upto them once again. Qualified for a media scholarship interview and met a reputed mediaperson there. After a rather long question-answer session (where every possible thing I knew about was scrutinised), he offered me a job right in the middle of the interview and asked me to join his organisation, one of the most popular newspapers in the country.

The man, in question, is of such high stature that it took me an hour to come to terms with the fact that he had, in fact, offered me a job. Waited endlessly for him to come out of the interview, and when he did, he gave me his visiting card, and said those golden words, "Come whenever you want, the job is yours!" Everyone in college cheered for me...the lecs had a new found respect for me. I knew then that I had to give up my loyalty for English Literature and move on to what I thought then were the " greener pastures". But the subject has always had a way of making its presence felt in my life. As and when I joined, my bosses detected my USP in the English language and quite unexpectedly I was to edit stories on pages. My return gift was the beat that I was to cover- books. The joy was, of course, unparalleled.

Now after two years of being in the business, the language has made a senior copy editor out of me. I discover the language every day, and sometimes even celebrate the reunion!

Revelling in hopelessness

2008-05-23T04:11:00.000-07:00

Even though he never c0mes, Godot clearly is a genius! He's nothing yet something! He's a belief, he's a myth! He slowly creeps into my world and transforms it completely. For good or for bad, I don't know. He slowly makes his way to my mind and convinces it of a change, that otherwise is not likely to happen. He tells me that there is no forever, yet asserts that there will be no end! He forces me to write, yet tells me there is no point! He is vague and he is sublime! But still he is there somewhere! He's my biggest curse and my only hope!

Art of darkness

2008-05-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

A familiar road is always deceptive. I tread on it and get cheated every day. It holds me back. It prevents me from knowing the unknown. I fear the sunshine, it darkens my spirit. As the darkness sets in, I see the vaccum getting filled. It is only in the darkness that I can cry. It is only in the darkness that I can accept my failures. It's all for good, it's all for good! At least I become the person I am. Once, I've cried, once I've tried, I see a ray of hope, not in that familar load, but in that unfamiliar road!

Death of love

2008-05-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

When we were together,
we laughed, we cried,
then came that moment
when even our tears dried!

We sat on the highway of dreams,
hoping to feel the raindrops
But then a bell rang,
and there rolled a fresh corpse!

We went ahead, hoping to see it
there was no shape, no curve,
fearing and loathing, we neared it,
only to realise it was our love!

When love died, THEY conducted a funeral,
Everyone came in black, only INDIFFERENCE came in white
When THEY asked the reason
INDIFFERENCE said, "Brothers, even I go with the tide!"

To see me that fateful day,
you walked on those sun-kissed roads,
As we killed each other,
we realised being in love was not about breaking codes!

The world is not a good place for lovers
it loathes, it conspires, sometimes even connives,
But we, the damned, insist on waiting,
for when eternity ends, Godot arrives!

--- Anamika Chatterjee

Journalism or generalism?

2008-03-25T13:07:00.000-07:00

"I have been working in media for eight years, but I can't say if I have been in journalism for eight years."

This isn't an original line, but an extract taken out of a friend's application for a scholarship. Just liked the thought...

License to flirt

2008-03-25T12:59:00.001-07:00

I just came across this post I wrote last to last year about Holi. So here it is

I've always felt that apart from being the festival of colour, Holi actually adds some wanted ....and at times unwanted spice in people's life. Considering the way most men function, I have reasons to believe that for *some* of them it actually serves as a societal sanction for venting out their innate perversities. Now, before I go any further in proving my theory, let me tell you,,,I love the festival too....because I have rarely played it. Just as I was standing outside the verandah of my house, I saw a 16-year old chap holding both the hands of this girl I happen to be friends with,,, and rubbing her face with colours. IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN A MORE DISGUSTING VIEW. Now for most of you, it may not even be a case of eve-teasing....but I think otherwise. The girl apparently has rashes all over her face and this was the reason she did not want to be smeared with colours. This 16 year old jerk had the audacity to go to her lace and drag her out only to put colours on her face an throw a bucketful of ater on her. How singularly annoying is that!!!! Anyways, even if you see some of our classic Hindi film songs on Holi, you will notice that the festival has been projected in a similar fashion. Be it Rang Barse where a married Amitabh Bachchan romances his ex....or the Ang se Ang Lagana where the lyrics are explicit but do sum up the way the festival is played.

Dreams or despair

2008-03-20T10:37:00.001-07:00

There are ups and there are downs. There are highs and there are lows. But life goes on and mine is going on as well. So what if it royally s******? So what if I am unhappy? Life's just going on. Creativity has gone for a toss and RJ cares a damn about my existence. Sometimes, I am not quite sure if he acknowledges it at all. But me being 23 and utterly stupid, spin fancy yarns about a possibility of companionship. Everyone around me seems to have moved on and for the better. Most friends and colleagues are exploring alternatives, making choices. I, on the other hand, am stuck in the haven of a secured space (which, mind you, is killing me every day). RJ, on the contrary, has a wonderful , wonderful career ahead of him. He's young, bright, ambitious and most importantly self indulgent... lady luck is bound to shine on him soon. No, I am not jealous of him. Just that I want to believe that I matter to him...maybe in some rather insignificant way. One odd SMS in a month, one odd phone call made in weeks makes a world of difference to me. It's enough to keep me happy for a fortnight. But then lady despair knocks my door again, transporting me into a world of nothingness where I begin to... WISH YOU WERE HERE

Random

2008-03-06T00:20:00.000-08:00

I haven't exactly been the happiest person on the planet and difficult situations, difficult people have only added to that.

Chains of Mephistopheles

2008-02-08T01:19:00.000-08:00

Things haven't really been hunky dory. My world is turning upside down , quite like this

Random stuff

2008-01-07T11:37:00.000-08:00

Hmm....I am actually wondering what to write......

Here I got this one. It's been ages since I did a story for our paper. Never mind that! Was just thinking about good, old days of writing. It was like opening a Pandora's box... A bit of seriousness, a bit of spice, and a whole lot of imagination....and the story was a perfect page 1 piece. Only that boss didn't quite share the feeling. You see like all great writers in the world, even I used to think that my writing skills are God's gift to the world. But journalism has its way of teaching you a lesson. The copies are chopped, sometimes wisely, and sometimes in the most mindless ways possible. But on a fewer occasion our copy gets its due. The quarrel and conflict between the reporters and the editors dates back to the time immemorial, and goes deeper than the two world wars the city has witnessed. Sometimes even I have been accused of editing callously, but on most occasions I have understood it as a means of constructive criticism. However, I must confess that listening to such criticism hits you under the belt...

Crushing the crush

2008-01-01T10:19:00.000-08:00

It's first day of the year and unlike people who are high on the New Year spirit (all puns intended), I'm not quite thrilled. 31st was a great evening , but as I saw some not-so-cute couples getting cosy, in stead of feeling quite amused as I usually do, I felt quite bad... not for them, for my self.

Officially, I can't claim I haven't been in a relationship. For whatever little time I was in one, I must confess dear readers, I FELT STRANGULATED. Not that the guy in question was an epitome of villainy. He was just a regular, snooty, incorrigible man. I had known him for a long and thought that he could be a guy any girl could fall back on for support. Much later did I realise that it was the other way around. I have always felt that women are born with maternal qualities, and these emotions come out best when they are dating/going around/are married to a man. And men , even when they are in a relationship, look for these qualities in their existing or prospective better halves.

Cut to present, there is somebody I know who promises to be an exception. My fondness for this gentleman has increased manifolds ever since I came to know him better. Not that we talk frequently. An SMS is exchanged in a month or so. And so, now you know, where the realtionship stands. As I asked a friend on the New Year's eve if asking him out would be the right thing to do, I felt I had opened Pandora's box. She stated the following reasons not to ask him out

1. It'd mean compromising on my dignity because the chances are that this dude may not have similar feelings.

2. Even if I get into a relationship by asking this man out, he'd have an upper hand, because I was the one to ask him out.

3. What if he doesn't pay the bill for the dinner.

Good. So that's a reason enough to stay single. CRUSH YOUR CRUSH BEFORE HE CRUSHES YOU...

I am actually wondering if it could be true...

Venting out

2007-12-30T08:30:00.000-08:00

New year is always a good enough a reason to start a new blog...which is almost like another means of venting out one's frustration. This Sunday was seemed like a perfect day. But ;little did I know that it'd be such a nightmare. Best friend (1) and I had plans to meet at the PVR Priya complex, (fondly caled Priya's... never mind the incorrectness of the grammar in question). Firstly, a loser came and asked if I'd go accompany him to RPM (an extremely LS disc). That was a reason enough to ask him to f*** o**. As and when Best Friend came, we went on a shopping spree, only to be pulled down by one phone call. It was my editor. There was a major fuck up with the page I had edited. Had the mistake gone, the company would have surely asked for my resignation the next day. But thankfully, the printing press had been lazing around, (it was a Sunday and like all good offices that are open on Sundays, mine too loves taking it easy on weekends. Anyway, the error was rectified, thanks to Boss.

I am supposed to go to office tomorrow. This time, I am feeling a bit awkward. Not that I have goofed up for the very first time, just that Boss is a darling and doesn't scream. Somehow, I find it a more difficult situation to handle. Had she been screaming and shouting, I'd have vented out by cursing. But her attitude gives me reasons to work harder for her. Let's hope the last day of the year has something good in store for me. Not that I have high hopes, but still