My house burnt down.

Now I can better see

The rising moon.

- a haiku by Basho -

Seed

Life

Hope

Love

the gift of a daughter

Last evening I watched 'Kanyadaan' (the gift of a daughter) an award winning play by Vijay Tendulkar, directed by Lillete Dubey. The original Marathi play written around early 1980s, has been staged in various languages over the years but this was the first time it was staged in English.

The promotional literature and the earlier reviews did not prepare me for the myriad emotions I experienced through the 105 minutes and long after. The auditorium was packed and the crowd most discerning. Though the screen opened half an hour late, the riveting performance made the delay inconsequential.

Much has been written in its praise but for me this was a personal experience of the most intimate nature. More than the social, moral, cultural and political questions that the play raised, it was the human emotions that moved me. The play examines the complex father–daughter relationship and how the various circumstantial compulsions and decisions transforms that relationship based on respect and inspiration into hatred and self-loathing. A coming of age story of the violent kind. The violence both overt and covert is aimed at our ideology, personal beliefs, value-systems and cultural mores and therefore loathsome. It is also a story with a simple narration but complex interpretation. The emotions are multi-layered yet transparent. It talks about a woman’s struggle with her inspired belief and how that fails to prepare her for reality and finally her acceptence of the same. There are no real heroes in the story as each character carries multiple shades of grey just like in the real world. Finally, the play makes us reexamine our long established belief systems and there in lies its greatness.

I suspect some of the nuances would have been lost in translation but to the director's credit much of the emotional spew was allowed in its origianl Marathi which enriched the impression and leaves me longing for experiencing the play in its original language.

Crisis & Tagore

Guernica

Pablo Picasso, 1937

Last evening, I went to a concert of rabindro songeet at Chowdiah Memorial. The publicity brochure promised 20 chosen Tagore songs that bring out the various facets of crisis…both personal and otherwise. The concert theme was Crisis and Tagore. There were a few celebrated voices from Kolkata but what appealed to me was the innovative attempt to fuse robindro songeet with a symphony orchestra. This brought in a diverse flavour to the much-celebrated songs. Particularly the closing song “sonkochero biubholotaye nijere opoman…”, which Tagore wrote to encourage the women students at Shantiniketan to learn jiu jitsu from the Japanese master whom he had invited to stay in Shatiniketan, adapts well to the symphonic style. A few others were memorable too like “eki labonno purno praan…”sung by Poroma Banerjee, which Satyajit Ray used widely in many of his films (Ghare Baire to name one). Though the attempt to give robindro songeet a different dimension, succeeded just partly, I am enthused to know that we are opening up what we consider an integral part of our identity, to these kinds of experimentation. For this alone I am glad. I am aware that many dislike and trivialize such attempts (I heard someone say "Rubbish! This is Tagore in Crisis!") but I strongly believe that experimentation is one way of keeping culture alive.

Ohhh! I must mention that the concert stage backdrop was Picasso’s Guernica.

Moon Knows Its Own

My current inspiration. Created by an emerging artist . The title of this work is the title of this post.

"My fancies are fireflies..."

I woke up today with “Akash bhora shurjo tara…” Quickly realizing through the early morning slumber that Ma was playing one of her favourite CDs. I listened through the quietness of the morning. This is not how ordinary Wednesdays begin.

But then this is no ordinary Wednesday. Today is ‘Ponchishey Boiskakh’, the Poet’s birth anniversary. Rabindranath Tagore. Robithakur, as we were to know him in childhood. This man has been an anchor in Ma’s otherwise clichéd life.

As a young bride, she determinedly completed her then-considered exalted education (she was the only girl in her batch of Jadavpur Univ. B.Tech) despite pressures of a traditional joint family and a boisterous child (me), uprooted all her known ties and followed my father to an alien land.

In the clutter of a new land, she hung on to his words, his wisdom, his poems, his songs. We had been at awe. Not so much for his words but for Ma’s devotion to him.

We assimilated well, bhai and I, with the world outside home. We went to school just like other kids in the neighbourhood. We made friends, spoke deutsch, ate sauerkraut with relish. But once inside, it was a different world. A world filled with Rabindranath, Bankinchandra, Saratchandra and other stalwarts and of course Ma’s enormous collection of bangla music. From puratoni to calcutta youth choir, she had it all. And what she didn’t have in records, she would sing. Her beautiful voice would fill our hearts with a longing but we didn’t quite know for what. It would take us to the world we sampled during our annual visits to Kolkata and a world we found difficult to relate, at times. She took us through the meanings behind those mellifluous words and helped us learn the bangla script. With patience she corrected our intonations till she was satisfied. She took enormous pride when bhai could sing “alo amar alo ogo…” with near-perfection (he lisped a little), when he turned five.

My mother was undoubtedly the mistress of the house. And everything ‘in’ the house was essentially bengalee. Or rather as bengalee as one can get in an ‘alien’ land. Baba never interfered and I believe he secretly enjoyed and indulged Ma’s obsession with turning us into genteel bengalee bhadrolok. “This is who you will always be” she told us gently, “no matter where you are”.

Over the years I rebelled and I balked. I indulged in music and thoughts that Ma considered anguished. My new world of Sartre and Camus, Floyd, Morrison, Iron Maiden and later Nirvana and the rest of the urban angst didn’t appeal to her. Successively, life took me to various cities away from home and as I moved through the maze much got lost. But somewhere the strains of music long forgotten stayed with me.

Today, I listen to the same music with care. It appeals to me in ways it had never appealed before. Today I want my son to appreciate this legacy. Life has indeed come a full circle.

For that alone, I salute you, The Poet.