The Raconteurs of Ulhasnagar

I begin with a description; allow me to defamiliarise a familiar landscape. The town I describe of is Ulhasnagar, a small town with narrow lanes and busy bazaars. A town where a common history and myriad anecdotes stride across the paths and lanes. A walk down the streets and a friendly encounter with the townsfolk is all that is needed to spark a curiosity about this land with bountiful stories waiting to be narrated. All of us, at least those living in and around Mumbai, know about the city and its history; and those who do not, might acquire the factual details easily from the internet. Yet, what would fascinate one is history narrated from the point of view of those that have lived different times. And when the townsfolk become the raconteurs, what one hears is the same story told from unseen perspectives.

Almost immediately, I felt the warmth of hospitality with scrumptious kokis prepared by different mothers and grandmothers under similar thatched roofs. Recounted an old grandmother thus: I left a kilo of onions and potatoes in my basket. I wonder if they are still there. Another old lady, fondly known as Amma, remembered the frantic drama at the time of the exodus. We had hidden some gold in different sections under a few clothes we had packed. Some people knew this. We knew so many of them who were looted before they could escape. Nobody complained. Of course, life was dearer than gold. Eighty three year old Dada still remembers the day he was most terrified. It still seems to me like yesterday. It’s so fresh in my mind, you know, I doubt whether one could have such instances whose impact, ah, how do you put it? The image; that ghastly, hopelessness one feels at a certain point is sometimes so deeply etched into the mind, it still rolls over like a tape playing a recorded cinema. My father asked me to leave that day with the whole family to India. He stayed back and promised to call us once the situation got better. It didn’t. we traveled a lot of places. Karachi, Agra, Hyderabad, and finally Ulhasnagar. Back in 1981, I went to Pakistan for eight days. I saw our old home and the years had left it untouched. The air was the same; similar laughter, murmurs and other voices, unheard, unless you closed your eyes and breathed that familiar, knowing air again.

A still of Ulhasnagar railway station.

The Kalyan camp  which is what is known as Ulhasnagar today was the biggest camp. A sigh of relief was yet to be heaved, for the quest to earn peace and rest had not been accomplished with their safe arrival at the camp. Those who thought they had managed to evade the turbulent weather in Pakistan and thought had dodged the dangers of imminent death during the journey were in for a shock. Survival at the camp was as difficult or perhaps more difficult than the hardships they had so far faced. We were ready to do any kind of work. We didn’t have much choice with families to feed. The government gave us ration supplies for about six months. Some of us started out with small businesses like baking breads, making papad or designing dresses.

Importantly, we did not give up. I saw some students studying under the street lights. That was a big inspiration to us. I still use that image to motivate someone when he or she is down. You see, those students silently gave me a message: of a brighter, educated tomorrow. I think that’s always something to look forward to, isn’t it? Nalandji, a simple man, and a staff of the Sindhi library fondly celebrated his memory of encouragement of education. A lot of teachers came together to establish schools in the newly formed town. New Era was one of them, especially for girls so that they did not have to go far from the city to study.

The newer generation today may not have experienced the wrath of displacement and forced migration but it is certainly a history that should not be forgotten. Those who still think Ulhasnagar is just another small suburban city outside Mumbai without much importance, might just subtly discover the treasure of anecdotes hidden away in the narrow lanes and small houses. I end this with a smile; allow me to reverberate on the stories I had heard from the raconteurs I hadn’t imagined to meet. 

Tinkle, and Reading Memories

I remember the last period of the day in school when I’d be itching to go back home, not for being bored of the long hours of school or even the delicious lunch mom would have prepared, but to lay my hands on a magazine which I know I’d enjoy reading for hours on end. So, the last time I’d been to Crossword, which was just a few days back, I happened to chance upon this month’s issue of Tinkle. For those of you who don’t know what Tinkle is, it is a children’s illustrated magazine which instilled a healthy reading habit in me.

  

So, instinctively, I reached out for the magazine and started browsing through it. Now, I’m reading Tinkle again after eight or ten years and I must say, they look more attractive now. The pages are glossier and the illustrations are brighter. However, I did notice some changes. For instance, the number of ads in the magazine is a lot more than they were a decade ago. Understandably, the printing prices must have gone up which must have forced them to place these ads. Then again, there are some of the ads which are made quite well, for instance, a child would read them and get influenced by it. These are ads that take up an entire page and which has illustrations and dialogues promoting the product of concern. The good thing about them is they are made in manner that a child would read them instead of turning the page by; sadly though, they take an entire page which reduces the number pages that may have been used for printing, say, a nice Suppandi tale.

Some of the older editions of Tinkle I still possess

Tinkle has retained a lot of its older, original characters. I must say, I was really pleased to read Suppandi, Tantri, Shambu; and also columns like “It Happened to Me.” Language still is, as it always has been, proper. One does not often find errors in an edition of Tinkle which motivates parents to let their children read them. Their inclusion of a few more informative sections adds to the education of children. Anyway, while I have seen most good publications die out or some which I’m about to subscribe to, dying out, it’s really heart-warming to see Tinkle still out there in the newsstands and bookstores encouraging and inspiring a lot of children to read, and write.   

When it’s a Crazy World Inside Your Head

If you ever decide to stay up an entire night without a wink of sleep, I’d suggest you, quite seriously, not to step out of home the next day. The consequences of doing so might just be hilariously serious. Although, I have spent sleepless nights (this is, in no way a metaphor, it is “sleepless” in its literal sense) burdened by the pressure of examinations or presentations, quite successfully, I realise that at 23, my body is already trying to revolt against such horrific feats. Additionally, in case you were to involve yourself in a mentally stimulating activity such as writing ten pages of a play in a single night, rest assured, you may also have to tackle a headache alongside a sore back the following morning.

Now before I get to the point, my first question to you is, have you ever been drunk before? If you have, then you may relate to a few things I will be stating in the due course of this article; in case not, then you’d understand how similar it is to stay sleep deprived and drunk.

Because you are sleep deprived, the moment you sit down anywhere in a moving vehicle, you’d fall over the next person beside you. Be ready to be pushed or tossed over to another neighbour. Please be really careful in case there are female passengers nearby (especially if you are a man) because you might just get a rude awakening.

Once you wake up, whether in between dozes or for good, you won’t be sure which stop to get down. This is because the entire world suddenly appears like a new place on Earth.

You’d wake up suddenly with a jolt thinking you've slept for hours and you've missed out on something important.

You’d smile at a stranger and when he or she doesn't smile back, politely inquire whether you went to college together.

You’d realise that people are watching you, considering you've done all or some of the above, and yet you’d wonder why they are staring at you.

You’d be extra-cautious of your mobile phones and wallet and anybody even accidentally touching you would get a stink eye.

Lastly, when you walk, brushing someone’s shoulder and apologizing to someone else, and people assume you to be slightly drunk, you’re justifying in your head what a horrid night you've had working without a wink of sleep.

A Chat with Siddhartha Gigoo

He casually lit a cigarette and enquired if I smoke. I refused, smiling and marveled at how comfortable he was at getting along with a perfect stranger. I must admit, when I was first asked to pick him up from Hotel Jawahar, Ulhasnagar, I was very nervous mostly because I hadn’t spoken to anyone of his stature yet. My assumptions of him being supercilious and rather too erudite were proved false when I started conversing with him.

Cover page of The Garden of Solitude

When I reached Hotel Jawahar, Siddhartha Gigoo was at the reception awaiting my arrival. I was to keep him occupied until some final arrangements were being made for his reception back at college. We shook hands and I introduced myself as I sat beside him on the couch. Mr. Gigoo is a compulsive talker and high on inquisitiveness. His initial interest was unsurprisingly about the town, its people and the small lanes and busy bazaars. Shortly after, I tilted the conversation towards literature and writing. As each minute ticked by, I was learning something new about him. Siddhartha Gigoo is a man who loves to write. Undoubtedly, for that is how any writer should be, one who takes utmost joy in the process as a whole but sees his writing as something that needs to be worked on carefully. He uses realist settings, might even write with the help of a few personal experiences, but eventually he writes to produce art. When I read his debut novel, The Garden of Solitude, I felt that his angst against injustice was reflected in his writing. I discovered upon talking to him that I was only partly right about my observation. Siddhartha Gigoo represents a community of Kashmiri Pandits who are not often spoken widely of these days. The camp settlements and the stories of migrants are being erased with the passage of time. However, Mr. Gigoo’s focus is to create an art to keep the voice and culture of this community alive. . this is clearly demonstrated in the passages of The Garden of Solitude; being “the last generation of Pandits to have lived in Kashmir” as Sridar, the protagonist of The Garden of Solitude puts it, Gigoo feels that the coming generation must know and read about the rivers, the valleys, the customs, the rituals, traditions and most importantly bear in mind the fact that they co-existed befriending a majority Muslim population for over a hundred years.

Our conversation invariably shifted from books to culture and to writing. In reply to my query about how writing was going on, Siddhartha Gigoo narrated an anecdote of Victor Hugo who was attempting to rewrite one of his published novels. Often, he felt the urge to rewrite The Garden of Solitude, but he would never get the time for it. He could relate to the tale I shared with him of Kafka writing to Max Brod about his despair at not finding sufficient time to write and added that it is in fact an inveterate tendency of every writer to be too involved in the task. Being a literature student himself, he was curious to know which authors I read and was pleased to hear that I shared an unequivocal passion for writing.

A personal note by Gigoo which reads "With Love, Siddhartha, Ulhasnagar. One day I shall read your novel"

On our way to college, we were discussing cinema. As it happens, Mr. Gigoo is trying to make his mark even on the visual medium. He talked to me about his debut novel, The Last Day and narrated to me of its making. Shot under two days, he told me it was a collective effort with lots of inputs from his friends who happened to be in the media. The Last Day unmistakably elucidates itself as another creation of art. A lot of shots, carefully constructed without dialogue and at times even without music at its background is left for the audience to fill in. It is artful naturally in this regard as it evokes a participation of the audience in the construction of meaning. When asked why the shift from literature to cinema, Gigoo confirmed my inference of him as a romantic at heart. He had just wanted to try something new; it was another venture in which he sought to exhibit his thoughts and feelings.

Siddhartha Gigoo was whisked away from my presence by the teachers and other dignitaries minutes after he stepped into the hall. Though the session he conducted later did not involve bombastic speeches about the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits or the politics of militant groups, it was more or less, a discovery and exploration of Gigoo’s venture in cinema and literature. When, at the end he signed my copy of The Garden of Solitude and added a personal note hoping to read my published novel one day, I was filled with warm, unspoken encomium for his gesture.

The Beauty of Simplicity

The anecdote Sanket narrated that rainy evening when I stood waiting for the bus to take me home made me smile hours later. It was a strange coincidence that I was thinking about people and relationships and to meet him then unexpectedly only continued my thoughts in the manner of speech. Only minutes before I could reach the bus stop, I had seen a young couple sharing a laugh. Having lived alone for nearly two years, I could feel the warmth of their affection reverberate inside me. So, I stood at the bus stop holding an umbrella and reflecting on the image I had just seen.

Sanket met Ketki through a common friend. He had begun narrating the tale after an enquiry of “Are you seeing someone?” They became friends instantly, began chatting daily and even went out a few times. When he got a job, they got together yet again and treated her. It was, however, when the next time they met that they raised the question of what was going on. I turned my head to look at him at this point, catch his expressions and possibly guess what he was feeling at that instant. He seemed cheerful and jumped forward to finish his tale in a hurry. “We realized we liked each other a lot. I'm falling in love with her each passing day.”

I smiled even hours after he had finished his tale. I was perhaps smiling even as I was in the bus on my way back home. Their relationship would complete a month in a few days and I was smiling at how easily they hit upon that realization. Not many people are lucky to fall in love quickly and as I believe, the complexity of most things actually lies in their simplicity. If one were to wonder how it is possible to fall in love this quickly, one would have to keep wondering in vain. Love is a simple thing which we complicate often with too many thoughts unnecessary.   

English, Not Latin

Me

(Absorbedly narrating and explaining the story of Lal Bahadur Shastri’s childhood to my ten-year-old student) …and little Shastri was only two months old when his mother lost him in a crowd during the mela.

Ten-Year-Old

(Nodding, apparently listening to the tale intently)

Me

So, how old was Shastri at the time?

Ten-Year-Old

(Continues nodding, eyes unblinking)

Me

How old was Shastri?

Ten-Year-Old (still nodding)

Me

No. That was a question.

Ten-Year-Old

Oh, a question? (Thinking. Looks up at the ceiling) Two years old? (Smiles sheepishly)

*

I knew when I started teaching children a couple of weeks back that it was going to be a challenge. And this instance I mentioned above was funnier if you were to be present at the moment when it happened. I wondered if it was really English I taught them or whether what I spoke to them sounded like Latin.

I teach students from standard five to nine and I handle minds from childish to maturing. Despite our colonial rule by the British for over a hundred and fifty years, communicating in English has been a problem. I am not really sure if that is a good thing or a bad one but I think as much as knowing our own culture and language, it becomes essential that we know some of the other languages, especially English, as it is, today, used as a standardized language at all institutions. As I see students grappling with words and meanings, I am compelled to do something to make them familiarized with the texts in their syllabus, their relevance and its use outside of their curriculum.

When teaching and learning become a difficult task

Schooling in Mumbai has changed rapidly over the last few years. I remember a decade ago when I was in school, we had fewer, thinner text books and were given enough writing assignments as homework apart from  encouraging interested students to take part in various written and spoken competitions. I was quite astonished to learn that students are instructed not to write more than a page for essays in their exams. It makes me wonder if teachers want students to be precise about their expressions or they do not want to read too much. Whatever the case, when students battle with the language and fail to even express their thoughts, I think that is the signal for teachers to be proactive and make the students involved in the process of teaching and learning.

Challenging the task may be, but the thought of guiding young minds and constructing efficient citizens out of them makes my job more meaningful. And although I realise that students may not entirely like the additional assignments I enforce them to work with, I know it will bear its fruits once they are out of school. And though other teachers and parents might wonder how my assignments help them score in their exams, I look at a bigger picture.

So when my ten year old student sheepishly smiles at me and answers my questions wrong, I simply grin at him and ask him to read his text aloud and narrate to me the story in his words. And when he does that, he looks at me with a look of epiphany and replies, “Oh, it is two months!” I heave a sigh of relief thanking God that I teach them English, not Latin.

My Thoughts as they are: The Absurdity of Togetherness

It was one of those rare lazy afternoons I could afford to lie on the couch with a hot cup of tea cooling off right beside on the table. Outside the window, it was raining quite heavily and the imagery might have become a cliché now with frequent online posts about people watching the rain with a cup of tea or coffee. It was, however, how it was and I was contemplating over what I had read for an hour and a half. If Thoreau’s Walden spoke about the joyous solitude in the woods, then Albee’s plays talked about the misery of loneliness and the vain efforts to seek contact. And I could understand best and relate to both, loneliness and self solicited solitude, as I lay down on that couch thinking about the year I had celebrated Christmas with a group of strangers. This was something I would never have done, say, a few years back. I am sure most of you would agree that after a certain period of time of silence, conversation becomes necessary. Like water after a long jog in the morning.

What if I have to say something?

Albee elucidates a similar theme in his plays The Zoo Story and The Death of Bessie Smith. In The Zoo Story, two strangers start talking at a park and as the play progresses, we realise that the two people hardly have anything in common, yet they are trying to seek some connection, linking each line of their speech to something or another. This reminded me of nothing but the Christmas episode when I was in the train on my way back from Kerala. So you see, even this story follows a similar route. We were about eight of us in that small compartment and within a span of twenty four hours, we had celebrated Christmas, shared a cake and enjoyed a movie together. It is quite something if you ask me, yet not at all unbelievable and if you were to wonder how this was possible, you would not find a logical explanation to it. That is the absurd nature by which we communicate.

Carver, in his short story Viewfinder, describes a stranger visiting the protagonist with a photograph he had clicked of the character’s house. The story centers around the conversations of these two characters. And throughout the story, the characters do everything except talk about the sale or purchase of the photograph in question. And what were they trying to achieve by prolonging the talk of business? Nothing. They probably wanted to break spells of long silence.

Mundaneness ought to be obliterated and what comprises of our existence is the rest. We find a little joy in the brief conversations we have while commuting or while travelling alone somewhere. My “viewfinder” is this screen you are peering into and just in case you find the entire idea absurd, think about whether you know me. Of all the things we read, or speak, or write, what do we really do? And if not for this absurdity of communication and togetherness, what would we possibly share?

A Fleeting Glance Backward

What distinguishes real life from a dream is our ability to recollect how things began, where we came from and what we are or will do. Frankly, I do not find it really pleasing to stop for a moment and rewind the years that have gone by. Some of them are depressing ones, I’m waiting for a fact for even this year to end. Each of us await something new in life, we are like children eagerly looking forward to our Christmas toy or new clothes for Diwali. But a moment, just that one fleeting moment draws upon some kind of a realisation like never before.

I walk backward for a moment, the time when I was in school. Sometimes you would laugh at yourself when you know what thoughts or ambitions ran in your head at a certain age. I wanted to become an engineer back then, pursue my MBA and then wanted to do a job and earn my salary in lakhs. Had just one simple three letter word struck my head, I would not have spent two years of my life under depression. Why? Why did I want to do what I wanted to do? It was only after I took up science for two years that I realised I had to look for another alternative. Poof. All those thoughts of becoming an engineer vanished just like that.

In a way, I hadn’t questioned myself then for the better for my decisions henceforth are well thought of and not hasty. Now my eye looks for a clear vision of things, any venture before it is begun has the output or at least a vague output decided.

It is a way of life that when you have things sorted out, something has to go wrong. You only learn things one at a time, sometimes one experience or one phase is enough to teach you number of things. I had so far learnt only one and missed the others. As a boy I learnt quite early never to jump into a relationship with a girl. My disastrous experience was enough to teach me this. Again, looking back, there was only word that failed to occur in my head. What? What was I thinking back then? Why did I like her? I didn’t know. It’s not a big task to ask yourself what and why you are doing something. People often dislike me for asking a lot of questions, either to myself or to others. I take my lesson that these questions that I put and the answers that I learn from it take me forward. They make my way forward smoother.

Drifting away from questions, there are times when you do things right yet they go wrong. I chose BMM to do journalism. It is not often when new ideas occur in your head and you discover yourself and your passions a little more. I had always wanted to write, a collection of short stories or even a novel; for that matter even for a daily. Yet what am I doing right now? Clearly, that was rhetoric; I’m not one bit enjoying my job. Yet I’m at no fault for having to spend a few months at my workplace. My graduation choice was well thought of, my plans ahead too are quite well decided, however a simple University error has my year wasted. Yet, my perception tells me it’s not all bad an experience for I have my own funds and an additional year to plan further and strengthen my base for life.

The most important things that my past has taught me is to get things right and sorted out. Eventually what makes one happy is what one must do. A smile is a necessity. Of what use that life spent in sorrow, we live life yet learn nothing out of it? A fleeting glance backward might just be the tonic that one needs.

What’s in a Name?

For long I have been delaying on my piece about my recent trip to Kerala. I knew while I was travelling that I would be a writing a piece, but on what topic exactly, I wasn’t sure, for Kerala is so green and such beauty on every nook and corner, you can’t help but feel an urge to write. But well, I’m not here to talk about the beauty of the land and perhaps compel you to take a trip or make you regret about not travelling to the God’s own country. I’m here simply to state a few of my observations and perhaps amuse you a little with them.

In case you are visiting the place for the first time, be assured, you shall be confused, for the place, or to say, the state looks identical, you would find similar winding roads, the same old tea stalls, similar toddy shops, identical houses, and what’s more, identical houses with similar colours! This was still not my first observation; my first observation was about the paint. I do not give here credit to me for my observations for it was the colours that were strong; the observation was forced upon me. There was a mixture of myriad colours that were forced upon me like a cop flashing a torch into my eyes in the dead of night to check if I’m drunk. There were mild colours adjacent dark ones, and fluorescent ones here and there, all for the same house, each competing amongst themselves as to which one’s more disgusting than the other. Each house gave me something to smile, to grin and sometimes even to laugh aloud making people around me wonder about my mental stability. I found it all the more amusing that there weren’t people outside or around the house as if the owners were ashamed of showing themselves in public- “No sir, we aren’t the owners of the bungalows you are laughing at!”

My frequent bus travels allowed me to sight-see not just bungalows but shops too. Some of the names were really interesting, it is perhaps the lack of creativity or perhaps sheer laziness, I feel, that forced them to keep such names. One shop carried the name Linkin Park Shoes. I surely admired the band once and still like listening to their music, but wearing Linkin Park shoes doesn’t seem quite acceptable to me. Boyzone is another band that was converted to a Boys’ Club. Some of the hotels and towers there were self-proclaimed. Smart Tower, yes, the tower was smart or maybe you suddenly felt smart after you got inside it. Famous Hotel, yes, everyone knew about it, or so they claimed. Silly Bakery, well, need I add anything to that? Spicy Hotel, no, you don’t get anything else there. With such specifics mentioned, people would perhaps already know whether they ought to visit the place!

But my trip was enjoyable, you can easily deduce that. Alas, I couldn’t feel like writing about the waterfalls, mountains and greenery, the social life interested me more. All the same, I ended my sojourn happily remembering all the names I had encountered and what I planned to do with them!

Mind Your Tone

I can’t help but start this with a cliché- language is a very funny thing. Verbal or written, the tone matters more than the words. People do talk about the invention of technology but for a common man like me, it only adds to the misery. Communication has taken turns in a similarly different manner. Allow me to explain. When once there were letters written to one another, today it is mails, and a much faster version of the same has appeared, which the social networking sites and its users call chat.

I was not a big user of Facebook or Yahoo Messenger until recently when these sites impressed me by finding some of my old friends. Whether you want it or not, a window pops up every time you log in; it could be any of your friends, your best ones or the ones you secretly despise. And once you start chatting, it becomes a serious murder of the English language and a series of signs and symbols which would take longer time to convey its meaning and message than the old telegram. Language, however, is not the topic here, though I had initially thought I would write a piece about it. Tone is the issue at hand.

I believe I would not have had this fight with this good friend of mine had it not been for these sites and the mobile phone text messages. Understanding the tone of a person becomes extremely difficult and sometimes funny too. When I had once remarked on a friend’s hairdo, she replied, ‘Very funny (sarcastically)!’When I thought the exclamatory mark should have done it, I realized brackets conveyed the tone better, though I’d still like to believe it was more humorous than sarcastic. A simple line like ‘No thanks, I’m busy’ could make you look arrogant and you try to spend a lot of time explaining your tone. And a tone misunderstand hampers your relations with people; I have spoiled a few in these few years.

Ah, the older, simpler communication was better for me, or perhaps, I don’t fit in with the new complex means of communication. In any case if you meet people personally and you find them ignoring you, realise that you must have written something ‘offensive’ on chat.

The Creative Mind

THE CREATIVE MIND- Part I

I start this article by giving you a glimpse of what I shall be talking about next week than today. But, the reference I am making has a connection. In simple words, Forster says that for any plot to sustain, it must have the necessary curiosity aroused in the reader, a human feeling, a sense of value for the characters, intelligence and memory for the plot. True enough, what Forster says, for if these aspects be observed in the plots of all the novels we have discussed so far, you find the genius of each author. Connect this to the poems, so few in words, yet touching one very effectively.

We take a detour from what we have read so far and consider the term “imagination” for a while. I shall be discussing books of course, but along with it I shall be talking through the words of Forster today on Fantasy which is one among the many aspects of the novel. Beauty of language is an aspect that compels us to stick to the plot (and of course the plot itself and other aspects are just as important). Consider the beauty and magnificence in the use of language from an excerpt from Zuleika Dobson:

Through the square across the High, down Grove Street they passed. The Duke looked up at the tower of Merton. Strange that tonight it would still be standing here, in all its sober and solid beauty- still be gazing, over the roofs and chimneys, at the tower of Magdalen, its rightful bride. Through untold centuries of the future it would stand thus, gaze thus. He winced. Oxford walls have a way of belittling us; and the duke was loth to regard his doom as trivial.

Aye, by all minerals we are mocked. Vegetables, yearly deciduous are far more sympathetic. The lilac and laburnum, making lovely now the railed pathway to Christ Church Meadow, were all a-swaying and nodding to the duke as he passed by. ‘Adieu, adieu, your Grace,’ they were whispering. ‘We are very sorry for you, very sorry indeed. We never dared suppose you would pre-decease us. We think your death a very great tragedy. Adieu! Perhaps we shall meet in another world- that is, if the members of the animal kingdom have immortal souls, as we have.’

The Duke was little versed in their language; yet, as he passed between these gently garrulous blooms, he caught at the least the drift of their salutation and smiled a vague but courteous acknowledgement, to the right and then left alternatively, creating a very favourable impression.

I need not explain more. Flecker’s Magic is another example of an author’s creativity, although at first if I were to explain the plot to you, you might perhaps pass an early judgement. The plot goes like this: Flecker, an American boy who is learning to paint in Paris, is given a ring by a girl in a café; she is a witch, she tells him; he has only to be sure what he wants and he will get it. To prove her power, a motor bus rises slowly from the street and turns upside down in the air. The plot proceeds with a growing tension and the boy starts thinking by something obvious, like Rolls-Royce, or a beautiful lady? Or money? Ah, that’s more like it- he is almost a beggar, but how much? One million, two, or ten?

This way we find out the boy isn’t sure what to ask for. Once again I am tempted to talk about the plot and its aspects, but I shall strictly stick to the creativity part. The plot is obviously quite plain but it becomes strong when the author plays with the character’s mind. The story proceeds developing a curiosity in the reader by letting him know what he already does. The human mind is such, the more details of the mind we dwell into, the better the story becomes. We have seen how Lawrence is an excellent writer in terms of description, especially descriptions in terms of every minute detail of the character’s mind. An emotional connection with the reader is another aspect of creativity.

The Lord of the Rings offered the reader plenty of quality, creative reading. If one were to think about the creation of various creatures, one would marvel at the conception of the idea. Consider the language used, so attractive and the creativity with regards to the creation of creatures. The simple fact that enough value and meaning is assigned to a mere object as a ring shows the author’s creativity. In every assignment we do, we learn from this that simplicity holds the key to most problems. The ring is symbolic of power, temptation and greed. These are elements effectively used to exploit human nature. And it is only when we read creative masterpieces our mind starts thinking in those lines. If you don’t believe me, I will tell you how. J R R Tolkien and C S Lewis were good friends and Lewis created his Narnia after he drew inspiration from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. I shall not dwell into the conflicts between the two authors in Lewis’ works and neither shall I talk about the symbols used or about the portrayal of Christianity because we are talking about the mind here.

However, if new books be compared to that of the old ones, the Harry Potter series seem to be one with some originality in it. Now, I am comparing the series with The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini. Paolini’s work is an inspiration by different authors which can be evidently seen and which is also said by too many reviewers and critiques; the writing style matches strongly with that of Tolkien’s. The plot remains by far original but seems as if written just for the sake of writing because of its length. Harry Potter books have simple themes evident for anyone in them, but it has an emotional quotient in it that forces readers to stay glued to the books.

I shall talk at length about the nature of plot (Forster has an entire chapter dedicated to it) and the killing of characters (I have a detailed analysis of it through comparison of different books); and of course how writers connect with the readers through their writing style and plot. But all this I shall talk next week with further excerpts on the topic, “The Plot and Killing of Characters”.

Frozen

FROZEN: A TREASURY OF SYMBOLISMS

In case you wonder how to put symbolisms in a movie, watch Frozen to learn it. For if there is one movie in which one thing is symbolic of another, it is Frozen. Technically, the direction has been outstanding or perhaps if there had been a better word for class then it befits the direction. Specifically watch scenes/shots that are shot from above focusing on the roads or trucks. These shots symbolise the vastness and emptiness of the place (which is Kashmir). Speaking about trucks, we see a number of trucks coming in from outside which symbolises the entry of the army.

Invasion of privacy is a very strong theme portrayed in the movie. The scenes where the trucks enter are the beginning of it all. Lights flashing into the house from the lighthouses while the family sleeps at night emphasise the theme of invasion of privacy. Wheel is another symbol used which signifies the passage of time.

The script has been good if not outstanding. Certain dialogues like “Wheel is harmony between man and the life he lives” strengthen the script and stress on wheel being a symbol for continuation and forward movement. Another point that strengthens the script is the subtle irony used in it. At one point towards the end of the movie, Lasya comments on things being the same and no change whatsoever taking place in their lives. From one angle what she says is true for their debts seem only to increase with the passing days and months and their struggles and hardships too, in direct proportion to their debts. However if looked from another angle, then enters the irony. Since Lasya is the one saying this, let’s take up the change in her. When the movie begins we see Lasya as someone who needs a bit of psychological help and throughout the movie, the viewer knows her as a highly immature girl; this is proved on many occasions. Let’s take up one. There is a scene in the first half an hour where she enters into the house and snatches the cup of tea from his hands and drinks it. The latter half of the movie (the point where Lasya makes these comments) she promises her father she shall take good care of him. When her father offers her the tea that he is drinking, she refuses knowing that he is the one who needs it more. This is where we encounter change first. The slow transformation of an immature Lasya into a maturing one. And why Lasya is still a “maturing” girl rather than a “matured” girl is her act of ignorance displayed when she goes out for a ride with a complete stranger. Another part where change takes place is an obvious one. The family or the place in general loses its privacy and freedom. Lasya and Chomo are refused their regular visits to their mother’s memorial. The final part where change occurs is yet again a bit too obvious. This is the end where Lasya and the pet dog enter into “colour” which symbolises clarity about things. Another symbol could be the climate of the place (now, it is always cold in Kashmir). The biting cold could be symbolic of the family’s intense struggle.

Now, we come across an interesting character through Karma. He is a person who has strong will power and good temperament, somebody who could be compared with Santiago (from Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea) who never gives up come what may. Though Karma shows enough resilience throughout the movie, we see on a couple of occasions bouts of anger. Karma has a peculiar (non violent and unharmful) way of venting his rage. He smashes his jam bottles while making it look rather like an accident. Here are examples: first when he tries to sell his jam bottles to the shopkeeper who refuses to buy, he tries to get up from his seat smashing the bottles in the process. Somewhat similar is the situation when he is refused help by the landlord who in turn remarks of Lasya’s youth in a rude fashion.

Romeo (aptly named) is a character we come across who acquires roughly 10-15 minutes (or perhaps a little more) of screen space. The time he occupies, the viewer might feel, is a total waste since he follows, fruitlessly and without purpose, Lasya. In the end he is shown going abroad and returning back, however showing no concrete role of the character. On this character, Shivaji Chandrabhushan himself says, he was a random character who is too common in the area and that, though he wished to give it some solid role, he couldn’t due to lack of time.

Now, we enter into the interesting part: the plot of the movie, and Chomo as a character. The plot is rather plain and we observe it was not given much of an attention. It follows the story of a family that is debt-ridden and struggling due to poverty, with the eventual death of Karma, and Lasya gaining deeper understanding and insight about things. Throughout the movie, we hear Chomo’s (who is Lasya’s brother) narration and believe he is one of the major characters of the movie. But in the end we come to know that Chomo was, in fact, a non existent character. He was something that Lasya made up or rather he was someone who she wished had existed. One question that arises with this revelation is why the character was created. The immediate answer could be, out of loneliness. Lasya’s immature behavior could be attributed to lack of company (her father would be away most of the time). Therefore comes Chomo into the picture. The viewer might feel a bit cheated in the end with the truth about Chomo being revealed but the writer cannot be blamed and the plot remains without flaw. Surely there were hints that were definitely missed leading to the eventual surprise or shock.

In the beginning we see a scene where the family (Karma, Lasya and Chomo) having their noonday meal. It could well be asked why the father’s attention was only on Lasya nd not on Chomo: because he did not exist at all. Also throughout the movie we see only Lasya talking to Chomo and vice versa. Chomo never shared a conversation with any other character.

Overall, the movie is good enough and could be rated eight on ten. However under further criticism marks could be detained because of the overdose of symbolism, but nevertheless, a chest full of “treasure”: Symbolisms.