The word SHOULD
is a stick that stains red
and claims its territory
over bruises, tears and
a scratched up childhood.
The word SHOULD
is a stick that stains red
and claims its territory
over bruises, tears and
a scratched up childhood.
All things sweet eventually turn bitter.
Maybe you can only truly taste sweet as a child.
What of those whose childhoods weren’t?
There’s always blessed sleep.
Sleep the sleep of a child under an eclipsed moon.
Follow my writings on https://www.yourquote.in/idea-smith-qor/quotes/
This is something I wrote at one of Rochelle’s workshops. I haven’t edited it too much and I might consider performing it. Then again, once I put it out there, I might not need to anymore. This is a delayed poem for the April 2015 A to Z Challenge.
Four years old
and learning new lessons
A lesson on violence
written in finger-shaped streaks
across my face
A lesson of searching
for thoughts that shook loose
and rolled off into corners
where I can still hear them
rattling and thudding
A lesson of displacement
of finding myself
in a different corner of the room
from where I was 10 seconds ago
of vision blurring and refocussing
seeing a different person each time, every slap
A lesson of size
Of how it comes in hugs and punches
And unbreakable grips
And grips that can break you
Of security and fear
Holding hands and holding you
A lesson of waiting
Of devouring books
in search of words to explain
Of trying to believe in
a normal where love means smiles
And home is happiness
Four years old and still learning.
*Follow the April 2015 AtoZ HERE.
I’m rather late with today’s, having been struck down by a hot day and Andheri in general. But the delightful Jai Ranjit pushed me to explore my creative limits and how can I resist a challenge? He gave me ‘D is for Dread‘ and challenged me to write a story that had a positive ending. Here’s today’s #AtoZChallenge. (and have you read A, B and C as yet?)
D is for Dread
We took our casualties. We took the hits, like men. Sticks and stones, there were some broken bones. But that John, he cries like a girl anyway. Some guys can’t handle Grade IV fire. We’ve left him behind.
There’s brief respite. We’re home with our families. The summer is beautiful. But we all know what’s waiting at the end of it. These past four years have been playground fights, in comparison.
It must be done. The women speak of it with almost demented cheerfulness. But at night, when I’m sitting on the steps, watching my mother shell peas, I hear her sniff and say, “He’s not ready yet.” I’m tempted to run out and hug her. But I hold back and trudge back to bed. The time for tears is past.
It went by so fast. Yesterday Monica walked to the end of the road with me. We didn’t say much. It was everything that we were walking together. When we reached my door, she said, “See you.” I nodded, unsmiling and turned away. We both know she won’t. By next summer, she’ll have forgotten me. In fact, this Saturday, I know she’s seeing another guy. He lives next door to Allen. Allen, my best buddy, he gave it to me straight. Or maybe he was just happy to see her go. Allen never liked her. Allen doesn’t like girls, never has.
But he’s a good friend to have in all times. Especially in times like the one we’re going to be having. We don’t yet know what their militia have in their arsenal. Everyone in my section knows I’m the bravest of them all. But I’ll be glad to have good ol’ Allen at my side, flanking me, especially when the bus drives up tomorrow to pick us up.
I lay out my uniform on the bed. It’s crisp and new. The unfamiliar colours, that I’ve only ever seen on the older lads are now mine to touch and wear, every single day. I hang them up carefully, turn off the light and try to sleep. I’m going to need my wits about me.
Tomorrow, fifth grade.
*Image courtesy olovedog on FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Remember the Bournvita Quiz contest with Derek O’ Brien with its jingle that went ‘Ba-ba-luba-ba-ba-books-books-BOOKS!’?
Much of a person’s attitude to reading depends on the books they’ve experienced, especially early in life. I was fortunate enough to meet a number of stories, early in my childhood. I think the best thing my parents ever did for me was to surround me with a lot of books. They opened up my mind, shaped my thinking and in general, made me a
I’m sharing ten of my most cherished memories from childhood reading in my first post over at Friends of Books. If you’ve loved books too or have a child who does, leave a comment telling me about your favorite books too!
A Sultan believing that all women are unfaithful, takes a new wife each night and has her executed the following morning. One of these wives, is Scheherazade, the daughter of his Vazir, who offers to entertain him by telling him a story. Her tale intrigues him enough to pardon her for another night,provided she has another story to tell. And thus begins a ritual where each story buys Scheherazade another day of life. When she finally runs out of stories, nearly three years later, the Sultan pardons her and installs her as his queen. Scheherazade’s stories are compiled as Alif Laila, more popularly known as the Arabian Nights. The collection includes classics like Ali Baba, Aladdin and Sindbad. I was also intrigued by stories of the wise Caliph of Baghdad, simple-minded Abu Sir and his greedy friend Abu Kir and several others. Any child really should be introduced to the colourful, exotic world of the Arabian Nights.
I received this short story collection as a gift and I assumed that it had been given to me as ‘meaningful reading’. So I was pleasantly surprised to find it full of nuggets like ‘How the leopard got his spots’, ‘How the camel got his hump’, ‘How the alphabet was made’ and ‘The butterfly that stamped’. What’s more, the book was interspersed with beautiful illustrations of the stories. Each picture was accompanied by a caption, half a page long, which described the picture but also a conspiratorial note from the author on why he drew it in a certain way, what he was thinking and where the pencil slipped, causing mistakes. This last will tickle children who are constantly dodging the perfect world of adult admonitions to ‘stay within the lines’.
Upendrakishore Roychoudhury created the tale of two struggling musicians, ostracized because their music annoys everyone else to distraction. Goopy Gyne and Bagha Byne, have since crept into contemporary folklore through songs and dramatic enactments of their stories. Roychoudhury’s vibrant story was later made into a film by his grandson, the noted film-maker, Satyajit Ray. I found an English translation of this book, well into my adult years but I immensely enjoyed
meeting Goopy and Bagha.
R K Narayan’s tales of a quaint, fictitious little town called Malgudi situated on the banks of the Cauvery river have charmed Indian audiences for many years. Those who grew up in the 80s will remember the television series based on Malgudi Days (featuring Anant Nag). Swami, one of the most popular characters of R K Narayan’s quaint universe, is a 10-year-old boy growing up in British Raj India. He dodges bullies in the school playground, leaves a special offering to God before his examinations, listens to his grandmother’s stories and tries to avoid school and his father’s scolding. Even with the historical setting, Swami’s endearing antics make his stories relatable and thoroughly enjoyable.
A serious Badger, an earnest Mole, a laidback Rat and a troublesome but lovable Toad are the four characters that make up this funny story of friends. Toad is the richest of the four and most inclined to fall into problems but never learn from them. The other three embark on a quest, led by Badger, to reform Toad of his bratty ways. It’s usually a young children’s book that uses animals as key characters. However the characters, their relationships, conversations and the episodes in their lives are so human that this story is extremely relatable, not to mention entertaining for much older readers.
From the Swiss Alps, comes the story of Heidi, a five-year-old girl left in the care of her gruff grandfather. The early chapters of Heidi depict rural life as seen through the eyes of a child. Later, Heidi is taken to Frankfurt to be a companion to a rich, crippled girl called Klara. Heidi grows to love Klara but struggles with the city life, so different from her past. Eventually she returns to her home, her grandfather and her shepherd friend, Peter. Heidi is a simple tale of childhood, of friendship, of fear and loss. The beautiful descriptions of the mountains of Switzerland and the bustle of European cities leave the reader spellbound.
Whether you read this in original or an abridged pocket book (like I did), Tom Sawyer’s antics will appeal to the little rascal in every one of us. The most famous anecdote in this young scamp’s story involves Tom convincing other boys to pay him (in sweets, marbles, knobs, dead insects and other objects of strange curiosity to the boy-child) for the honor of doing his chores – painting the house fence. Tom is constantly in trouble with his strict (and harried) aunt, resents his good-boy brother, falls in love with the new girl in town, defies the town convention by befriending social outcast Huckleberry Finn (who has a book of his own), fakes his death and does everything and anything that a naughty boy possibly could.
Judy Blume writes some of the most popular books for young people today. Her stories are set in urban/suburban America but have a certain universal appeal because the stories are about sibling rivalry, playground bullies, school problems and adolescent friendships. Peter Warren is the narrator of all the ‘Fudge’ books. In Tales Of A Fourth Grade Nothing, we meet nine-year-old Peter who lives in New York City with his parents and his younger brother ‘Fudge’ (who Peter says is his biggest problem). Fudge swallows Peter’s turtle, ruins his school project, misbehaves in public and embarrasses Peter. Anybody who has ever had a sibling will relate to Peter’s troubles and love how he approaches life.
I met Pippi in an excerpt in the Childcraft books. I must have been roughly nine (Pippi’s age) and my mind was instantly filled with visions of living in a mansion by myself and having a horse on the back porch just like the young heroine herself. Pippi loses her mother at birth and then her father, a ship captain is lost at sea. He leaves her a suitcase full of gold coins, a monkey named Mr.Nelson and shoes twice her size, for her to grow into. Pippi is also the strongest girl in the world so she can lift her horse into the dining room when she feels like company, defeat the strong man in the circus and do many other wonderful things. But Pippi having spent most of her life at sea, is unfamiliar with local norms and social customs. A comedy of errors ensues; her adventures followed by her neighbors Tommy and Anika. The high-spirited Pippi is part super heroine and part comic relief in her own story which will appeal to young readers of both sexes.
My sole saving grace about the start of school, was a new English textbook. Among the many memorable stories, I was captivated by a young artist who drew a picture of a elephant inside a boa constrictor, which was mistaken for a hat by the adults. Years later, I worked with the college magazine. Its editor, the Literature professor gifted me this book for my efforts. When I turned the page, sure enough there was the picture of the elephant within a boa constrictor. In the story, the child artist becomes a pilot who, on crashing into a desert, meets a solemn lad who demands that he draw him a sheep. The Little Prince goes on to regale the author with stories of his own life on a tiny planet with three volcanoes (which he cleans out meticulously every day), baobab trees and a single rose. The Little Prince is a class fairytale, layered with many meanings. Read it as a child and enjoy the sunset world of the Prince. Or read it as an adult when you need a little perspective on life, love and inspiration.
The open space opposite to my building affords a number of interesting sights. It inspired this story, for one. That was about the ground as a separator. But how about the ground as a space in itself? Here’s what it plays home to.
Yesterday evening, I spotted this man walking his dog in the pouring rain. Now, I have heard of doggy-sweaters before, in cold places. But this is the first time I’ve seen a dog in a raincoat! What was funnier was that the man himself wasn’t rain-protected. Some people sure love their animals more than life itself!
The summer was full of screaming kids, playing crazily in a way that only children on summer vacations do. In one of those brief lulls, the park looked almost desolate. Except for its lone guest, a solitary bicycle parked right in its midst.
The same thing a few weeks later, right after a particularly rainy night yielded this sight: a log right in the middle of the empty ground, now lush with grass.
The weather hasn’t deterred our young, budding sportsmen.
Any semi-green patch in Mumbai acts like a magnet for all the children of the vicinity. This particular park doesn’t belong to any one housing society and doesn’t have an entrance fee either. So it often plays host to impromptu cricket matches, rainy football games, bat-and-ball toss and sundry other games that appeal to every boy under the age of 12 (and most of them above to, in retrospect). The kids come from the surrounding colonies and also the adjoining slum area. I’d like to say it’s a place where they all mingle but that isn’t really the case. They play in their own groups but at least they all play within close vicinity and I haven’t seen any territory battles happening.
A cricket game had just begun. First, a lone ranger staked out the pitch. Or perhaps he was sentenced to a remote fielding location. Either way, he didn’t look too bothered by it.
I was most intrigued by the batsman, being as he was the same height as the bat he was holding…just about.
They were watched by a cosy duo sitting on a log in a corner. I wondered what these two had to talk about that was so important. *Sigh* The good old days of a bestest friend to share playground secrets with!
In another corner, I spotted a bunch of boys practicing dahi-ka-handi for upcoming Janamashtami (which also kicks off festival season in Mumbai…hooray!).
Childhood is never out of vogue, even in a concrete jungle. It stakes out its own spaces and finds plays to jump and play.
What’s better than spending Saturday night with a gorgeous, intelligent, witty and sensitive man? I had the privilege this weekend. Harish Iyer invited me to a private screening of the short film ‘AMEN’ based in part, on his life. My first question was to ask if I should dress up. He said, “No yaar, I’ll be there in my regular jeans and all.” Thank goodness for me then, that I’ve met Harish before and I know what his idea of ‘regular jeans’ is. Never trust a gay man who says he isn’t dressing up!
The movie was screened at Pixion, a luxurious 24-seater in Bandra. The poster shows a part of the famous Michelangelo fresco depicting the Genesis and bears the tagline,
“Life does not let you choose your parents or your sexuality.”
One social message is a heavy charge for a film to bear without getting typecast into the shoddily made, preachy documentary mold. AMEN touched on internet hookups, rape, incest, child abuse, trust issues and love, in addition to homosexuality. It is remarkable that a film could accomplish all of that without sounding like a laundry-list of the ills of society.
From a storyteller’s point of view, it was interesting to see how the team managed to make a powerful commentary about the life of a gay man, fraught as it is with much uncertainty, loneliness, fear, mistrust and anger….all of this through the very intimate portrayal of two characters. The film could have gone two ways – maudlin or sleazy. Instead, it came through as sensitive, realistic, disturbing but also thought-provoking.
AMEN is a 24-minute film with taut storyline and a certain freshness without the glitches of an amateur production. The characters were well-defined and both actors (Karan Mehra and Jitin Gulati) essayed their roles without any of the self-consciousness that one might associate with such a bold project. One of the best compliments of the evening came from Vinta Nanda (director, Tara). When she said,
“Ordinarily when you watch a boy-meets-girl story, the women associate with the heroine and the men with the hero. I am a woman but I was completely immersed in the story of two men.”
Personally I liked the two intertwining threads of story within the film – two characters who’ve come to a situation from different places. Their individual experiences have shaped them differently and as a result, how they come to terms with their lives and their sexuality is different. Everything that we watch and read about love stories involves a certain automatic slotting of characters into their gender roles, a certain, ‘It’s a guy thing’/ ‘That’s so girly’ attitude. But AMEN made me see the characters as two people, each one a unique set of emotions and experiences. It made me empathise with each one separately and isn’t that an artist’s greatest challenge?
One normally expects a certain kind of scene to draw a certain premediated response. The violence and intensity of the starting scenes were disturbing. However it was the subtlety of Harry (Karan Mehra)’s mirror scene that really brought tears to my eyes. The mirror, as a metaphor for self-reflection, for facing one’s fears and the subsequent connection of fingertip to reflection was beautifully done.
I also liked the way the conflict was resolved realistically and not in the conventional ‘happily ever after’ way. The ending completely satisfied me as a viewer and that may be the best thing that can be said about any movie.
The making of AMEN is probably enough material for another movie altogether. A labour of love for both Ranadeep Bhattacharyya & Judhajit Bagchi, the experience had them playing producer, director but also spotboy, technician, teaboy and scriptwriter. The shoot commenced over 3 days in a small bungalow, after which the team hand-packed the sets, bundled into a tempo and delivered back the props borrowed from friends and family. Midway during the production, they found even their tight budgeting would not cover the costs of the film. Then Harish put up a status update on Twitter about this and to their surprise, a stranger offered to help them. Expenses were often cut down but money would continue to make its way to them till they finished. Their online guardian angel, Tina Valentina, actually met the team for the first time only at the preview of the film. AMEN was helped greatly by an excellent background score, a gift from Jonathon Fessenden, Hollywood composer and a professional look/feel thanks to Prasonjit.
In sum, AMEN is a fine movie with a solid story that also carries a number of powerful messages. It will definitely be of interest to the gay community but also to anyone who likes good cinema.
(pictures from the AMEN Facebook Fanpage)
While every day brings new books, every visit to the bookstore results in a fresh wave of delight, I’m drawn to my memories of certain books that once possessed me. Every book has a story and is also part of another story, its relationship with the reader. How can I possibly express what I feel about a book, unless I tell you how and why it happened to me?
I picked up Marg Nelson’s A Girl Called Chris at the raddiwalla. (I refrain from preceding that with ‘friendly neighborhood’ owing to the fact that he once hit on me). It had a plain white cover with an image on the bottom-left corner which on scrutiny revealed itself to be a sort of modern artsy rendition of a girl in colourful slacks slouching as if in a corner.
The story was simple but rather extraordinary. A young girl who has just finished school and doesn’t have money for the college she wants after losing her father. In search of employment, she lands up – in all places – a cannery. And amidst stuffing tuna fish into cans, she finds friendship, resolution, love, confidence and some life lessons. It was a sweet coming-of-age story and it was perfect because I was about the same age as the protagonist (a girl called Chris) when I read it.
The year I turned seventeen, my mother was hospitalized after a long illness. She was under care for nearly three weeks and then recuperating for another two months. Caring for her was more than a fulltime job and we struggled to handle it. Tempers were short and I was at the depth of my own adolescent angst. It was a dark, heavy period in my life. The monsoons were particularly heavy that year, our phone line kept going down and we didn’t have household help. In sum, while my father ran from doctor to lab to hospital, I struggled to manage housework, groceries and cooking, the biggest bane of them all. I think my fear of the kitchen came from that time since my early experiences are tinged irrevocably with a sense of dread, fear and worry.
I’d have my lunch at college and then get to the hospital to wait till 4pm for visiting hours. Patients were only allowed one accompanying person and my father or grandmother would be by her side. I remember one particular day when I got to the hospital a half-hour early. I sat down on a bench in the little patch of grass facing the building. And then it started to rain. I had forgotten my windcheater in class that day. There was nowhere else to shelter. So I sat under the tree, not flinching from the water, almost grateful for the cold drops that covered me from head to toe. It was one of the few times I felt something and something that didn’t hurt.
Once inside, I would sit with my mother for about an hour. Then when she had other visitors, I’d walk around the hospital, especially the pediatrics ward, hoping the freshness of that place would lift my mood. Most days it did. Except when, after days of watching an incubator baby, I found it empty and the child’s mother, an omnipresent feature next to it, gone as well. One dead and the other, who knows where?
I turned my footsteps in the opposite direction for the rest of my mother’s stay in the hospital. One day a young girl dressed like a patient in hospital white entered mum’s room and backed out immediately with a worried expression on her face. I saw her sitting at the nurses station often after that and even the surly nurses would be smiling as they spoke to her. One day I smiled at her and thereafter we’d chat everyday.
Annie was from London, she said. She was two years older than I was. She had had several boyfriends though ‘none lasted beyond a week or two’, she admitted with a rueful grin. Her parents called her ‘Anne-molle’ (Malayalam for little girl) and her brother called her Annie-mal. Sometimes I’d see her pirouetting or turning circles with a solemn expression, in front of the wall mirror in the nurses station. She said she had taken ballet lessons and was practicing.
I was clutching A Girl Called Chris one evening, having finished the last pages as I sat in the visitors lobby waiting for her. She came and sat down next to me and took it from my hands without a word and turned it over. When we finished our chat and got up, she took it with her.
Mum and grandmother who saw her through most of the day hours thought she was slightly ‘off’ in the head. Nurses’ gossip later brought in the news that she had been assaulted by her father and had run away from home.
The day my mother was discharged, I took a round tour of the hospital again, with even a shuddering glance at the pediatric ward. And at the end of it, as a special occasion, I went to Annie’s room. She was sitting on the bed, talking to one of the nurses as she nodded in my direction. I waited for a pause in the conversation then told her that I was leaving. She got up, came over and hugged me, an action that surprised me since I wasn’t used to physical affection with my friends. Then I asked her for the book. She looked puzzled and then she seemed to remember. She looked under her bed and on the table and then told me blankly that she couldn’t find it. No problem, I shrugged and told her to take care of herself.
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to ask her for her contact details. Or to visit her in the hospital later. I liked her. Perhaps I was a little scared of what I had heard about her past, even though she had never discussed it with me. But most likely I was just frozen into a suspended state of being and couldn’t feel anything human for a long time after that.
I never forgot Annie though. I miss my book also but I can’t think of it without also remembering Annie. And for what little it is worth, perhaps the spark of joy that the story brings is worth more to her than to me.
Marg Nelson’s A Girl Called Chris doesn’t seem to be well-known as its one Amazon entry doesn’t even have an accompanying image of the cover. I did find an entry on GoodReads with an image though it’s not the one that was on my book. I’d really love to read this book again so if any of you knows where I can find a copy, please do get in touch.