I come with another of those mother-songs I spoke of a while ago. Who do I tell, mother, the pain this separation brings? It feels odd sometimes to be experiencing the biggest upheaval of my life and not have my mother to discuss it with. Never is a harsh word.
Shah Hussain's kafi, of course, talks of a different separation. A desperate search. The Master is veiled, he is not easily attained but he is there, elusive, just beyond the reach.
O mother, who do I tell,
the pain this separation brings
माये नी मैं किन्नू आखां,
दर्द विछोरे दा हाल नी
धुआं थुखे मेरे मुर्शिद वाला,
जान फूलाँ ताँ लाल नी
सूलां मार दीवानी कीती,
बिर्हौं पेय साढ़े खयाली
दुखां दी रोटी, सूलाँ दा सालन,
आहें दा बालन बाल नी
जंगल बैले फिरां ढूँडैंदी
अजय न पायो लाल नि
रान्झां रान्झां फिराँ ढूँडैंदी,
रान्झां मेरे नाल नी
कहे हुसैन फकीर निमाणा,
शाह मिले तान थीवन निहाल
maye ni main kinnu aakhaan,
dard vichore da haal ni
O mother, who do I tell,
the pain this separation brings
dhuan thukhay mere murshid wala,
jaan phoulaan taan laal ni
My Master’s fire spits and smoulders
Red hot, everywhere I blow
soolan mar diwani keeti,
birhoun peya saday khayali
Driven mad with spikes,
Pain of separation fills my thoughts
dukhan di roti, soolaan da saalan,
aahen da baalan baal ve
The bread of sadness, the sauce of spikes,
The fire made up of laments and sighs
jungle bailay phiran mai dhoondaindi
ajay na paayo laal ni
I wandered jungles and deserts, searching
But found not the ruby
ranjhan ranjhan phiraan dhoudaindi,
ranjhan mairay nal
I wander seeking ‘Ranjha Ranjha’,
But Ranjha is with me
kahay hussain faqeer nimanaa,
shoh milay taan theevan nihaal
Says Hussain, the poor faqeer,
Meeting the Master would be ecstasy
Here are two versions of the song. The first, a traditional rendition by Hamid Ali Bela:
And this captivating more recent interpretation by Atif Aslam:
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The hush and shush of ash
Carol Ann Duffy, Britain's poet laureate, writes about the unpronounceable Iceland volcano and (please, I beg, note the pun) its fall-out.
SILVER LINING
Five miles up the hush and shush of ash.
Yet the sky is as clean as a white slate
I could write my childhood there.
Selfish to sit in this garden, listening to the past.
A gentleman bee wooing its flower, a lawnmower.
When the grounded planes mean ruined plans, holidays on hold,
saw absences at weddings, funerals.
Windless commerce.
But Britain’s birds sing in this spring from Inverness to Liverpool,
From Crieff to Cardiff, Oxford, London Town, Land’s End to John O’Groats.
The music, silence summoned, that Shakespeare heard,
and Edward Thomas.
Briefly, us.
SILVER LINING
Five miles up the hush and shush of ash.
Yet the sky is as clean as a white slate
I could write my childhood there.
Selfish to sit in this garden, listening to the past.
A gentleman bee wooing its flower, a lawnmower.
When the grounded planes mean ruined plans, holidays on hold,
saw absences at weddings, funerals.
Windless commerce.
But Britain’s birds sing in this spring from Inverness to Liverpool,
From Crieff to Cardiff, Oxford, London Town, Land’s End to John O’Groats.
The music, silence summoned, that Shakespeare heard,
and Edward Thomas.
Briefly, us.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Saas, bahu aur asar
Media analyst Sevanti Ninan writes a significant piece in The Hindu (4 April 2010) this Sunday. A very interesting article in which she discusses Indian television serials, what comes across as regressive content and the unexpected, unforeseen effect it seems to have had on women exposed to them.
Ninan quotes Prime Time Soap Operas on Indian Television by Shoma Munshi, which in turn partly bases its conclusions on research by Robert Jensen and Emily Oster on the effects of cable television in rural areas of India. Taken together, the argument is that Indian soaps are actually empowering women, that "regression" depends on the point of view. In her piece Ninan wonders at the results and the very convoluted route to empowerment.
The whole story is up here at The Hindu and here on The Hoot.
I responded to the article and the link is here at The Hoot.
And here, for my record, is all of it.
====
A response to 'Is this empowerment?'
I found myself laughing a little over Sevanti Ninan's bewilderment in the piece (Is this empowerment?) reprinted from The Hindu. As someone who bestrides what seems to be a chasm, I am tempted to respond. I am a modern woman - I am intelligent, I have a media degree, I'm a mediaperson (of sorts), I'm feminist (I like to paint in my own shades but the broad umbrella will do). Also I watch serials avidly - it started because I like the TV on and I prefer glittery clothes to the news. But lately, because it fascinates me.
As the writer says, there is a world of difference in perception. The casual disinterested viewer - or more particularly, the casual, contemptuous journalist/activist - is appalled at the goings-on in serials; the regular viewer cannot be persuaded to move her eyes from the screen enough to feed her squalling children. For a very long time now, media-watchers and analysts have berated the average viewer for her tastes, shuddered and averted their eyes from the gaudy colours, the campy vamps and the bizarre plotlines, and tried rather desperately to uplift everyone's frame of mind.
They have not succeeded. The serials have gone on being made and, more importantly, they have gone on been consumed. If Balaji Telefilms is no longer the market leader, it doesn't matter any more. They have handed on the torch of that particular stamp of television - it has grown many more heads.
Why these serials thrive is an interesting question. The easy, lazy answer is that these hordes of nameless women across the country (and in neighbouring Pakistan) are fools. That they don't know any better. That they could be watching... oh, I don't know what but certainly something more educative.
However, I don't think that is true. I think our middle class is peopled with sensitive, intelligent, attentive women capable of nuanced thinking - I have several TV fanatics myself among my family and friends; I even adore a large number of them. In which case, we must go by Holmes: when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We must consider that women are gaining something from this; that they are not merely swallowing whole every broad stroke of apparent regressiveness; that they are entertained; that they are sifting, sorting and picking nuggets that fit in with their current social constructs - and even moving ahead in desirable directions with whatever subtle manoeuvres are available to them. That in spite of the disastrous-seeming package it comes in, Indian TV serials MUST be doing something right.
I was delighted to learn from this article that even so far back as 2001-2003 - the very initial years of the saas-bahu sub-genre - the serials had such a positive impact. It also bears out my own persistent feeling that there is a great deal of difference between what appears to be the message and what is actually absorbed - because there is no other way to explain why they fascinate this huge mass of audience, why they have continually done so this entire decade.
Is it merely that these serials engage in women's concerns? Kitchen politics, in the broad scheme of things, may be insignificant. But perhaps to the woman trapped in it, it helps to have someone examine her situation? TV serials, after all, are not primarily for the outgoing modern woman with various exciting options for her evening's entertainment. They are watched (we assume) by women who have just finished their household chores; the woman who comes, at the end of the day, to her place in front of the television, where the rest of family resignedly relinquishes the remote. Even that, to my mind, is no small victory. It is understood across Indian households now that primetime television is the woman's right - in spite of scoffing malefolk in the background, she is entitled to watch her serials; moreover it is understood, by and large, that she is not to be disturbed as she does it.
Coming now in particular to Pratigya, which Ninan quotes. I'm not arguing for a minute that the plotline isn't utterly shocking, or that there is something right about marrying a harasser. But to see the “power of women”, or the charm of “Pratigya character”, the devil is in the details.
It is a piquant situation. There are two families that are contrasted here: Pratigya's refined, educated family with its genteel manners, and Krishna's rowdy, coarse, wealthy but unlettered folk, as ready with their fists as they are with abuses. Pratigya, for Krishna, is the aspiratonal goal. He wants her, he has got her. Now he needs her approval, he needs to measure up to her and is doing everything possible to please her, to be worthy of her. Through her eyes he now sees his family. A household in which his mother is kicked and punched the minute she steps out of line, where the older bahu is slapped down fairly regularly. I imagine it would curl quite a few stomachs (it did mine) to hear the maid servant inform her mistress with coy triumph that the bahu has already been ‘worshipped' for the day - she means the daily beating, of course. It is appalling. But as a study of how women buy into and participate in the suppression of their own kind, it shows a mirror.
I understand the writer's horror at Krishna's popularity. The context, however, is that he comes of such stock. He has a brother against whom he is measured - the brother (Shakti) is completely a product of his background, while Krishna questions it. Shakti buys into the male hegemony; Krishna is willing to see other sources of power. Krishna is ordered, pressured, mocked into abandoning his support of his wife on the grounds that such devotion makes him very unmanly - he has (so far) resisted attempts with commendable firmness.
Krishna's own (very crude) sister is now married into Pratigya's mild family - their unkindness is of a rather different kind. They sniff at her, they ignore her, they will have no truck with her - curiously, for someone used to being hurled abuses at and pushed around, she still finds their reception of her unbearably hostile. Her abrasive manner only thinly masks her hurt at the rejection. The families are deadlocked in a rather interesting situation, for each has a daughter hostage in the enemy camp.
The social milieu in Pratigya and recent developments in the show throw up a few note-worthy points:
I've been rather long winded about this - but the point, I suppose, is that these serials do occasionally shine the light on what exists; and that depiction doesn't always amount to ratification. Unfortunately, there has been a rather dismissive attitude to popular culture - as if low-brow material must necessarily lack sensibility. To draw a small lesson from Bollywood, not all the cinema and literary work before it managed to make homosexuality as acceptable to middle-class India as Dostana (2008) did. The movie took the idea, wrapped it up affectionately and placed it before the masses, who, to their credit, considered it and accepted it. It was a gentle transaction.
The stories streaming into our drawing rooms may not preach in an ‘acceptable' way. It is possible that they just show, allowing for people see themselves, recognise themselves and wherever possible, identify with this or the other character? They do this to the accompaniment of high melodrama. The saas-bahu genre is now heavily stylised, with its own vocabulary, make-up (what are the bindis and hair-dos but equivalents of the white hat/black hat or Kathakali costumes for positive and negative stereotypes), and a distinct style of editing involving many white flashes.
In spite of the presentation, merely the fact that television serials deal with a long line of female protagonists is encouraging. The female life is being rather thoroughly examined - the child bride, the new bride, the wife, the mistress, the mother, the businesswoman, the ruler, the matriarch. Not even Bollywood has paid us that compliment.
TV soaps with bizarre, regressive storylines pay scant respect to notions of women's empowerment. Yet, they seem wildly popular and, according to some studies, empowering too. Are these script writers more in touch with reality than literal-minded activists and journalists?she asks.
Ninan quotes Prime Time Soap Operas on Indian Television by Shoma Munshi, which in turn partly bases its conclusions on research by Robert Jensen and Emily Oster on the effects of cable television in rural areas of India. Taken together, the argument is that Indian soaps are actually empowering women, that "regression" depends on the point of view. In her piece Ninan wonders at the results and the very convoluted route to empowerment.
The whole story is up here at The Hindu and here on The Hoot.
I responded to the article and the link is here at The Hoot.
And here, for my record, is all of it.
====
A response to 'Is this empowerment?'
I found myself laughing a little over Sevanti Ninan's bewilderment in the piece (Is this empowerment?) reprinted from The Hindu. As someone who bestrides what seems to be a chasm, I am tempted to respond. I am a modern woman - I am intelligent, I have a media degree, I'm a mediaperson (of sorts), I'm feminist (I like to paint in my own shades but the broad umbrella will do). Also I watch serials avidly - it started because I like the TV on and I prefer glittery clothes to the news. But lately, because it fascinates me.
As the writer says, there is a world of difference in perception. The casual disinterested viewer - or more particularly, the casual, contemptuous journalist/activist - is appalled at the goings-on in serials; the regular viewer cannot be persuaded to move her eyes from the screen enough to feed her squalling children. For a very long time now, media-watchers and analysts have berated the average viewer for her tastes, shuddered and averted their eyes from the gaudy colours, the campy vamps and the bizarre plotlines, and tried rather desperately to uplift everyone's frame of mind.
They have not succeeded. The serials have gone on being made and, more importantly, they have gone on been consumed. If Balaji Telefilms is no longer the market leader, it doesn't matter any more. They have handed on the torch of that particular stamp of television - it has grown many more heads.
Why these serials thrive is an interesting question. The easy, lazy answer is that these hordes of nameless women across the country (and in neighbouring Pakistan) are fools. That they don't know any better. That they could be watching... oh, I don't know what but certainly something more educative.
However, I don't think that is true. I think our middle class is peopled with sensitive, intelligent, attentive women capable of nuanced thinking - I have several TV fanatics myself among my family and friends; I even adore a large number of them. In which case, we must go by Holmes: when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We must consider that women are gaining something from this; that they are not merely swallowing whole every broad stroke of apparent regressiveness; that they are entertained; that they are sifting, sorting and picking nuggets that fit in with their current social constructs - and even moving ahead in desirable directions with whatever subtle manoeuvres are available to them. That in spite of the disastrous-seeming package it comes in, Indian TV serials MUST be doing something right.
I was delighted to learn from this article that even so far back as 2001-2003 - the very initial years of the saas-bahu sub-genre - the serials had such a positive impact. It also bears out my own persistent feeling that there is a great deal of difference between what appears to be the message and what is actually absorbed - because there is no other way to explain why they fascinate this huge mass of audience, why they have continually done so this entire decade.
Is it merely that these serials engage in women's concerns? Kitchen politics, in the broad scheme of things, may be insignificant. But perhaps to the woman trapped in it, it helps to have someone examine her situation? TV serials, after all, are not primarily for the outgoing modern woman with various exciting options for her evening's entertainment. They are watched (we assume) by women who have just finished their household chores; the woman who comes, at the end of the day, to her place in front of the television, where the rest of family resignedly relinquishes the remote. Even that, to my mind, is no small victory. It is understood across Indian households now that primetime television is the woman's right - in spite of scoffing malefolk in the background, she is entitled to watch her serials; moreover it is understood, by and large, that she is not to be disturbed as she does it.
Coming now in particular to Pratigya, which Ninan quotes. I'm not arguing for a minute that the plotline isn't utterly shocking, or that there is something right about marrying a harasser. But to see the “power of women”, or the charm of “Pratigya character”, the devil is in the details.
It is a piquant situation. There are two families that are contrasted here: Pratigya's refined, educated family with its genteel manners, and Krishna's rowdy, coarse, wealthy but unlettered folk, as ready with their fists as they are with abuses. Pratigya, for Krishna, is the aspiratonal goal. He wants her, he has got her. Now he needs her approval, he needs to measure up to her and is doing everything possible to please her, to be worthy of her. Through her eyes he now sees his family. A household in which his mother is kicked and punched the minute she steps out of line, where the older bahu is slapped down fairly regularly. I imagine it would curl quite a few stomachs (it did mine) to hear the maid servant inform her mistress with coy triumph that the bahu has already been ‘worshipped' for the day - she means the daily beating, of course. It is appalling. But as a study of how women buy into and participate in the suppression of their own kind, it shows a mirror.
I understand the writer's horror at Krishna's popularity. The context, however, is that he comes of such stock. He has a brother against whom he is measured - the brother (Shakti) is completely a product of his background, while Krishna questions it. Shakti buys into the male hegemony; Krishna is willing to see other sources of power. Krishna is ordered, pressured, mocked into abandoning his support of his wife on the grounds that such devotion makes him very unmanly - he has (so far) resisted attempts with commendable firmness.
Krishna's own (very crude) sister is now married into Pratigya's mild family - their unkindness is of a rather different kind. They sniff at her, they ignore her, they will have no truck with her - curiously, for someone used to being hurled abuses at and pushed around, she still finds their reception of her unbearably hostile. Her abrasive manner only thinly masks her hurt at the rejection. The families are deadlocked in a rather interesting situation, for each has a daughter hostage in the enemy camp.
The social milieu in Pratigya and recent developments in the show throw up a few note-worthy points:
- Neither family wants to continue to stay in the situation it finds itself in. Most of the characters would rather retrieve their girl and break relations (the situation is being held in place by Krishna, who still desperately wants a good marriage with Pratigya and hopes to bring her around.) Marriage, apparently, is no longer a lifelong commitment. Interestingly, neither family makes any concerned noises at all about their daughter's future, should such a break happen. It makes a contrast from even a decade ago when we were told repeatedly that once a woman's ‘doli' had entered a portal, only her ‘arthi' could leave it.
- The Thakur family, in spite of its violent habits, does not actually have the stereotyped silent, suppressed women. They talk back, they argue, they fight. When they are abused, they exhibit no very great weakness - if it is an indignity, they do not permit it to touch them deeply. They brush it off, get up again and contrive to have their voices heard.
- Only last week, Pratigya refused to have her name changed in her sasural; refused to have her identity taken away and be demeaned by having another name foisted on her.
- Krishna's mother hates her daughter in law Pratigya because her son backs her to the hilt. It is a hate born of deep envy. It brings home to her the inadequacies of her own life, a glimpse what she might have had, viz., a husband who respects her.
- Pratigya's father has now managed to negotiate for his daughter an environment that contains books. The Thakur family is feeling backfooted because they cannot read, while their bahu can.
I've been rather long winded about this - but the point, I suppose, is that these serials do occasionally shine the light on what exists; and that depiction doesn't always amount to ratification. Unfortunately, there has been a rather dismissive attitude to popular culture - as if low-brow material must necessarily lack sensibility. To draw a small lesson from Bollywood, not all the cinema and literary work before it managed to make homosexuality as acceptable to middle-class India as Dostana (2008) did. The movie took the idea, wrapped it up affectionately and placed it before the masses, who, to their credit, considered it and accepted it. It was a gentle transaction.
The stories streaming into our drawing rooms may not preach in an ‘acceptable' way. It is possible that they just show, allowing for people see themselves, recognise themselves and wherever possible, identify with this or the other character? They do this to the accompaniment of high melodrama. The saas-bahu genre is now heavily stylised, with its own vocabulary, make-up (what are the bindis and hair-dos but equivalents of the white hat/black hat or Kathakali costumes for positive and negative stereotypes), and a distinct style of editing involving many white flashes.
In spite of the presentation, merely the fact that television serials deal with a long line of female protagonists is encouraging. The female life is being rather thoroughly examined - the child bride, the new bride, the wife, the mistress, the mother, the businesswoman, the ruler, the matriarch. Not even Bollywood has paid us that compliment.
Friday, April 02, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Ye shaam
The light is diffused strangely today. The mood is uncertain, tinted with a surrealistic hue. I want to be anywhere but where I am, but not any place that you could suggest to me. And even if you were able, by a happy coincidence, to come up with such a place that could please me this minute, the bother of going there daunts me, imbues the whole enterprise with distaste.
बाग़ में लगता नहीं, सेहरा से घबराता है दिल
कहाँ ले जाके बैठे ऐसे दीवाने को हम
बाग़ में लगता नहीं, सेहरा से घबराता है दिल
कहाँ ले जाके बैठे ऐसे दीवाने को हम
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Multani hours
It must be the warmth. Every afternoon these days, after the meal, eyelids weigh down, the nerves go numb. I take out my white white sheet, still cool from the cupboard, bring out the afternoon pillow and snuggle in.
A few weeks later it will be impossible to sleep - the hotness will whip in our faces and as soon as we have managed to sink a few inches deep, the power will go. So now to make the most of this. Good afternooon.
A few weeks later it will be impossible to sleep - the hotness will whip in our faces and as soon as we have managed to sink a few inches deep, the power will go. So now to make the most of this. Good afternooon.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Listen, mother
It is customary for traditional poets, those who lament in Punjabi, Sindhi, Urdu, to bring in the mother somehow. Questions, rhetorical questions, are asked of the maae, exhortations are made - tell him, mother! where do I go, mother? how shall I bear this, mother? I have befriended a hawk, mother!
It is a poetic device, I tell myself. But there is no denying that I have come across an inordinate number of such laments today. Here is one by Shiv Kumar Batalvi:
माये नि माये,
मेरे गीताँ दे नैणा विच
बिरहों दी रडक पवे...
अधि अधि रातीं उठ
रोण मोये मित्राणु
माये, साणु नींद न पवे...
Listen, mother,
My songs are eyes
Stinging with grains of separation.
In the middle of the night,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep.*
___
*Translation: Suman Kashyap
And you must listen to this man sing it:
It is a poetic device, I tell myself. But there is no denying that I have come across an inordinate number of such laments today. Here is one by Shiv Kumar Batalvi:
माये नि माये,
मेरे गीताँ दे नैणा विच
बिरहों दी रडक पवे...
अधि अधि रातीं उठ
रोण मोये मित्राणु
माये, साणु नींद न पवे...
Listen, mother,
My songs are eyes
Stinging with grains of separation.
In the middle of the night,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep.*
___
*Translation: Suman Kashyap
And you must listen to this man sing it:
Monday, February 15, 2010
In Which We Go Back to the Basics
Gather around, children, for Baba Sheetal has some advice. She will share pearls of wisdom wrought from her own experience.
Once in a way, you will feel that the world has gone wrong, or worse, that you have gone wrong in it. The impulse is for the mind to run hither and thither examining various probable reasons for the malaise. If you are like Baba Sheetal and many of her girlfriends, this will induce a prolonged analysis of the life sitution - one's motivations, one's desires, one's success, one's energy; questions on where one is and where one wants to go and what one must do about it.
Far be it for me to criticise such an exercise! It is important and must be undertaken by every thinking female once a week, or at least once a fortnight if one is in a particularly healthy emotional frame of mind.
However, I suggest to you that there might be other ways to tackle these little crises. If time is short and there is no time for a full analysis, to call friends and talk till ears on both sides of the conversation are hot and red from the phone being pressed so close, do not worry. There are a few emergency measures.
1) The minute you discover that you have been feeling out of sorts for a couple of hours, go immediately to the water dispenser and down three large glasses of water. After an interval of half an hour, down two more.
2) Sit down for five minutes. Sit straight, take off footwear, let the feet touch the ground. Take in 20 deep and long breaths. Take, if you can, 20-30 seconds for each inhale and 20-30 secs again for the exhale. Remember to breathe right into the stomach.
3) Take a tub. Put in one palmful of rock salt, two fat drops of oil (cooking/gingelly/mustard/olive) and any essence you like, if you like. Fill it with hot water and soak your feet for 15 mins. Pour water down the drain.
These three should hold you in till you can get help or get over the issue. Remember a well hydrated, well aerated and decontaminated (subtle) body equals a happy person! I shall now sit back and wait for your fervent thanks.
Once in a way, you will feel that the world has gone wrong, or worse, that you have gone wrong in it. The impulse is for the mind to run hither and thither examining various probable reasons for the malaise. If you are like Baba Sheetal and many of her girlfriends, this will induce a prolonged analysis of the life sitution - one's motivations, one's desires, one's success, one's energy; questions on where one is and where one wants to go and what one must do about it.
Far be it for me to criticise such an exercise! It is important and must be undertaken by every thinking female once a week, or at least once a fortnight if one is in a particularly healthy emotional frame of mind.
However, I suggest to you that there might be other ways to tackle these little crises. If time is short and there is no time for a full analysis, to call friends and talk till ears on both sides of the conversation are hot and red from the phone being pressed so close, do not worry. There are a few emergency measures.
1) The minute you discover that you have been feeling out of sorts for a couple of hours, go immediately to the water dispenser and down three large glasses of water. After an interval of half an hour, down two more.
2) Sit down for five minutes. Sit straight, take off footwear, let the feet touch the ground. Take in 20 deep and long breaths. Take, if you can, 20-30 seconds for each inhale and 20-30 secs again for the exhale. Remember to breathe right into the stomach.
3) Take a tub. Put in one palmful of rock salt, two fat drops of oil (cooking/gingelly/mustard/olive) and any essence you like, if you like. Fill it with hot water and soak your feet for 15 mins. Pour water down the drain.
These three should hold you in till you can get help or get over the issue. Remember a well hydrated, well aerated and decontaminated (subtle) body equals a happy person! I shall now sit back and wait for your fervent thanks.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Ketaki, gulaab, juhi...
Shivaratri has come and gone, and like my Bapa used to say, the cold has retreated on a 'siva, siva!' I'm being fanciful but the cold was distinctly backfooted this morning. Spring-Summer smells are rising, summer light has started to stream in, the bulbuls are pichkuing with renewed vigour. Much as I enjoy winters, I'm feeling very cheered by the strengthening sun.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Season of Mists
I have been behindhand in uploading my travel pieces but I've really been wanting to. My travel to Meghalaya was memorable. I've said before how some places, some views force the mind open to other worlds, other possibilities. There were many such scenes here. Scenes that sometimes bubble up from the murky depths of consciousness, if you're sitting quiet for a moment, vacant.
This piece appeared in the July 2009 issue of Outlook Traveller, the monsoon issue. The link is here.
===
A Walk in the Clouds
On the subject of entrancing places, M.M. Kaye talks of names “that possess a peculiar, singing magic in every syllable; like Samarkand or Rajasthan, or Kilimanjaro…” In that list she should include Meghalaya, the ‘Abode of Clouds’. Round the vowels a touch full, stretch the ‘a’ that links ‘megh’ and ‘aalaya’…The name presages dream-like vistas—a magical land with its head perpetually in the clouds.
It is best said at the outset so you can paint them into your mental frames: Meghalaya’s colours are white and green. The white of cloud and mist is “a shining and affirmative thing” but the green—the green annihilates everything “to a green thought in a green shade.” The colours form backdrop to everything – the roads, the landscapes, the ubiquitous waterfalls. The verdure is not surprising, of course, given that the small state gets an awful lot of rain. On average it receives 12,000mm each year – more than any other state in the country.
I was hoping for rain – some vigorous showers would add much-desired verisimilitude to a monsoon travel story – but not too much. In the event, it rained quite precisely to plan. So here I was ensconced in the beautiful resort Ri Kynjai, sitting out in the balcony overlooking the equally beautiful Umiam Lake, watching clouds gather. They were light-hearted at first, and light-coloured. But the grey seeped in, darkening the skies, darkening the lake and the clouds burst all over with unabashed drama.
I drove that evening along rain-drenched hill roads with no very particular destination. I peeped into a nearby Jesuit monastery, stood at spectacular vantage points everywhere. I passed through villages, where, with only a small concession to the rain in form of something held over their heads, people continued with chores outside. You cannot, I suppose, put off your tasks till the downpour has exhausted itself if you’ve known it to last 20 days.
Shillong was a slight surprise. A hill town, with narrow winding roads meeting big city with its buses, choked traffic and teeming office goers. I hadn’t known it to be such a centre for education, that it attracted students from all the Northeastern states; hadn’t expected to be caught in traffic jams. Local Khasi women manned the shops everywhere, their manner a nice mixture of brisk politeness. They are a matrilineal tribe and tend to produce independent women. In the business centres of the city, women sped about wearing the traditional two-piece Jainsem. I was very taken with the garment – it fell so gracefully, seemed to afford ease of movement and, going by the variety on Shillong’s streets, could be very smart indeed. When I walked about Police Bazaar, I looked for Jainsems at the wonderful shops there. The salesgirls have coached me on how to wear them – one of these days, I mean to dazzle my friends by turning up in it.
The morning went to some tourist activity – waterfalls and peaks that make for cosy picnic spots, and I was fascinated by the sacred grove near Smit. A group of trees standing together in a stately manner, conscious of their dignity and their hallowed status. Meghalaya’s landscape is dotted with such delicious significances – there are over 80 such groves or law kyntangs dedicated to forest spirits, and several ancient stone circles and monoliths that supposedly serve as memorials.
There was a rare treat in store that afternoon. Everywhere in Shillong, I had noticed small box shops, all prominently displaying a slate with four numbers chalked out on them. The significance was lost on me till Amar Rai of Ri Kynjai led me with a grin to Siat Khnam, introducing me to a lottery by archery that Meghalaya is obsessed with. It was an amazing scene. What happens is this: some 50-60 archers stand in an arc and shoot at a haystack for four minutes. The number of arrows is counted and the last two digits are announced. Bets are placed daily on what the numbers might be: your investment could be as little as one rupee, which could earn you eight if you’re a good guesser; the second round of shooting yields a little less — six rupees to one. There is, of course, no upper limit and bets are often placed to the tune of thousands of rupees. Fortunes are made on the teer, I was told, and the gambling is both compulsive and, as I found, terribly infectious. I placed modest sums on a clutch of favourite numbers and stood back. The archers took aim, the start was announced and a rain of arrows shot across the field, most embedding themselves in the stack. It was spectacular. It was over a few minutes later, and some of the watchers rushed over to the betting booths, quite certain they had the right count.
The counting began, with proper transparency. I moved in front to take a picture and was hastily shooed away – I had briefly blocked the view of investors who waited like hound dogs for the verdict, keen-eyed, alert and noses aquiver. 81 and 20! Alas, one more arrow and I would’ve made a tidy sum. Phone calls were placed, SMSes went hither and thither broadcasting the numbers and I could imagine men in box shops all over the state, reaching out for their placards and writing out the fresh results – dashing hopes, making fortunes.
I made my way to Cherrapunji the following day. It has for long held the record for being the “wettest place on earth” but the record is now regularly tossed back and forth between Cherra and neighbouring Mawsynram. I was going to stay not in the town proper but at Cherrapunjee Holiday Resort, 17km away. The route was incredibly picturesque – the plains of Bangladesh lay below, obscured by swirling mists and small waterfalls gurgled here and there. Cherrapunjee Resort does not have too much by way of competition, but it does not believe in resting on its laurels for it made its presence felt throughout the 17km-stretch. Boulders advertised the joys to come – the living-root bridges, the caving adventures, the wonderful treks and went on to become increasingly ambitious “Tourism to conserve top soil” and “Tourism for sustainable development”. There was no doubting the earnestness behind all this.
The resort turned out to be a pleasant place – modest but nicely located, with clear views of the hills around. The owner Denis P. Rayen is an interesting man with a fascinating history. Married to a Khasi, this banker from Madurai has established himself here against many odds. It was he who worked to bring the now famous living-root bridges to the attention of the world, and he relentlessly plugs Cherrapunji as a place “every meteorologist should visit at least once in their lifetime.” His agenda in two-fold: one, purely scientific, for the phenomenon of excessive rain in Cherrapunji enthrals him; the other, he wishes to help the Khasi people with alternate livelihoods.
There are a few living-root bridges around the resort – the most interesting one, a two-tiered double-decker at Nongriat would take all day to trek to but another at Ummunoi could be reached in half a day. The forest plantation engulfed us as we made our way down the steep mossy path. “The green part is slippery, madam,” my guide said helpfully. I had to bite back a laugh and the urge to ask him to show me one square inch only that wasn’t ‘green’.
The bridge itself was fabulous. About 200 years old, the roots of the Indian rubber tree on either side have been trained by local tribesmen to grow across the stream, and they hold strong in a glorious organic network. The first one was made in Cherra, I learnt, and later duplicated all over the region.
As we sat outdoors that evening, munching on roasted cashews with fireflies darting all around us, I tried to understand why exactly it is that Cherrapunji receives so much rain. The explanation involves moisture-laden clouds travelling unhindered for over 400km before they crash into the Khasi Hills. The orography of the region adds its twist and Cherrapunji gets rained on – a lot.
Leaving behind the mist-kissed cliffs of Cherra with a trace of regret, I made my way to Mawlynnong, a village almost on the Bangladesh border. My choice wasn’t random: Mawlynnong has a reputation for being the “cleanest village in Asia”. The Meghalaya Tourism Development Forum (MTDF) has worked hard to position the village as a rural tourism destination, going to great lengths to create tourist-friendly conditions. They have succeeded very well indeed, perhaps too well.
The guesthouse specially created for overnight guests is an utterly charming place. Raised on stilts, the hut is built with traditional materials and overlooks a thicket and small waterfall. The larger of the two accommodations has a machan propped on the uppermost branches of a tree – a childhood dream come to life. The village is pretty – flowers bloom in every hue and in great profusion. Also, there is no denying Mawlynnong is extremely clean – the roads are metalled, a large parking lot accommodates visiting cars, a teashop does brisk business and visitors line to clamber up ‘Sky View’, a tall, bamboo tower that affords a view of the Bangla plains yonder.
For the people of Mawlynnong, I suspect, this is a balancing act. They are proud, justifiably proud, of the ‘clean’ tag. Indeed Khasi households everywhere are impeccably kept. More than half the times I saw a Khasi woman throughout my stay, she would be out washing or drying clothes, or sweeping out her yard. On the other hand, they are very private. They seem to dislike being photographed and they are a subtle people, their manners complex and full of nuances. Every gesture is significant; their need for politeness is very high. To be viewed as they are, like fish in a glass bowl, must surely annoy them? Their urban visitors bring in money but they are also occasionally boorish, certainly brash by Khasi standards.
Deepak Laloo, the MTDF man behind Mawlynnong’s tourist thrust, is also concerned about how the constant interaction may change the villagers’ traditional way of living. He took me along to visit a family – friends of his – in the village. I was led hospitably indoors to sit by the kitchen fire and offered tea and slices of pineapple. The children came in from play and one ran across as Ba Laloo and I sat talking. He was summoned back by his elders to have his ear pinched: he had broken our line of gaze – unacceptable behaviour!
I touched down in Delhi to find that only six days in Meghalaya had altered me. I blinked at the grey, flinched at the honking and felt more than a little bewildered. The culture shock I hadn’t felt going in showed up coming back.
This piece appeared in the July 2009 issue of Outlook Traveller, the monsoon issue. The link is here.
===
A Walk in the Clouds
On the subject of entrancing places, M.M. Kaye talks of names “that possess a peculiar, singing magic in every syllable; like Samarkand or Rajasthan, or Kilimanjaro…” In that list she should include Meghalaya, the ‘Abode of Clouds’. Round the vowels a touch full, stretch the ‘a’ that links ‘megh’ and ‘aalaya’…The name presages dream-like vistas—a magical land with its head perpetually in the clouds.
It is best said at the outset so you can paint them into your mental frames: Meghalaya’s colours are white and green. The white of cloud and mist is “a shining and affirmative thing” but the green—the green annihilates everything “to a green thought in a green shade.” The colours form backdrop to everything – the roads, the landscapes, the ubiquitous waterfalls. The verdure is not surprising, of course, given that the small state gets an awful lot of rain. On average it receives 12,000mm each year – more than any other state in the country.
I was hoping for rain – some vigorous showers would add much-desired verisimilitude to a monsoon travel story – but not too much. In the event, it rained quite precisely to plan. So here I was ensconced in the beautiful resort Ri Kynjai, sitting out in the balcony overlooking the equally beautiful Umiam Lake, watching clouds gather. They were light-hearted at first, and light-coloured. But the grey seeped in, darkening the skies, darkening the lake and the clouds burst all over with unabashed drama.
I drove that evening along rain-drenched hill roads with no very particular destination. I peeped into a nearby Jesuit monastery, stood at spectacular vantage points everywhere. I passed through villages, where, with only a small concession to the rain in form of something held over their heads, people continued with chores outside. You cannot, I suppose, put off your tasks till the downpour has exhausted itself if you’ve known it to last 20 days.
Shillong was a slight surprise. A hill town, with narrow winding roads meeting big city with its buses, choked traffic and teeming office goers. I hadn’t known it to be such a centre for education, that it attracted students from all the Northeastern states; hadn’t expected to be caught in traffic jams. Local Khasi women manned the shops everywhere, their manner a nice mixture of brisk politeness. They are a matrilineal tribe and tend to produce independent women. In the business centres of the city, women sped about wearing the traditional two-piece Jainsem. I was very taken with the garment – it fell so gracefully, seemed to afford ease of movement and, going by the variety on Shillong’s streets, could be very smart indeed. When I walked about Police Bazaar, I looked for Jainsems at the wonderful shops there. The salesgirls have coached me on how to wear them – one of these days, I mean to dazzle my friends by turning up in it.
The morning went to some tourist activity – waterfalls and peaks that make for cosy picnic spots, and I was fascinated by the sacred grove near Smit. A group of trees standing together in a stately manner, conscious of their dignity and their hallowed status. Meghalaya’s landscape is dotted with such delicious significances – there are over 80 such groves or law kyntangs dedicated to forest spirits, and several ancient stone circles and monoliths that supposedly serve as memorials.
There was a rare treat in store that afternoon. Everywhere in Shillong, I had noticed small box shops, all prominently displaying a slate with four numbers chalked out on them. The significance was lost on me till Amar Rai of Ri Kynjai led me with a grin to Siat Khnam, introducing me to a lottery by archery that Meghalaya is obsessed with. It was an amazing scene. What happens is this: some 50-60 archers stand in an arc and shoot at a haystack for four minutes. The number of arrows is counted and the last two digits are announced. Bets are placed daily on what the numbers might be: your investment could be as little as one rupee, which could earn you eight if you’re a good guesser; the second round of shooting yields a little less — six rupees to one. There is, of course, no upper limit and bets are often placed to the tune of thousands of rupees. Fortunes are made on the teer, I was told, and the gambling is both compulsive and, as I found, terribly infectious. I placed modest sums on a clutch of favourite numbers and stood back. The archers took aim, the start was announced and a rain of arrows shot across the field, most embedding themselves in the stack. It was spectacular. It was over a few minutes later, and some of the watchers rushed over to the betting booths, quite certain they had the right count.
The counting began, with proper transparency. I moved in front to take a picture and was hastily shooed away – I had briefly blocked the view of investors who waited like hound dogs for the verdict, keen-eyed, alert and noses aquiver. 81 and 20! Alas, one more arrow and I would’ve made a tidy sum. Phone calls were placed, SMSes went hither and thither broadcasting the numbers and I could imagine men in box shops all over the state, reaching out for their placards and writing out the fresh results – dashing hopes, making fortunes.
I made my way to Cherrapunji the following day. It has for long held the record for being the “wettest place on earth” but the record is now regularly tossed back and forth between Cherra and neighbouring Mawsynram. I was going to stay not in the town proper but at Cherrapunjee Holiday Resort, 17km away. The route was incredibly picturesque – the plains of Bangladesh lay below, obscured by swirling mists and small waterfalls gurgled here and there. Cherrapunjee Resort does not have too much by way of competition, but it does not believe in resting on its laurels for it made its presence felt throughout the 17km-stretch. Boulders advertised the joys to come – the living-root bridges, the caving adventures, the wonderful treks and went on to become increasingly ambitious “Tourism to conserve top soil” and “Tourism for sustainable development”. There was no doubting the earnestness behind all this.
The resort turned out to be a pleasant place – modest but nicely located, with clear views of the hills around. The owner Denis P. Rayen is an interesting man with a fascinating history. Married to a Khasi, this banker from Madurai has established himself here against many odds. It was he who worked to bring the now famous living-root bridges to the attention of the world, and he relentlessly plugs Cherrapunji as a place “every meteorologist should visit at least once in their lifetime.” His agenda in two-fold: one, purely scientific, for the phenomenon of excessive rain in Cherrapunji enthrals him; the other, he wishes to help the Khasi people with alternate livelihoods.
There are a few living-root bridges around the resort – the most interesting one, a two-tiered double-decker at Nongriat would take all day to trek to but another at Ummunoi could be reached in half a day. The forest plantation engulfed us as we made our way down the steep mossy path. “The green part is slippery, madam,” my guide said helpfully. I had to bite back a laugh and the urge to ask him to show me one square inch only that wasn’t ‘green’.
The bridge itself was fabulous. About 200 years old, the roots of the Indian rubber tree on either side have been trained by local tribesmen to grow across the stream, and they hold strong in a glorious organic network. The first one was made in Cherra, I learnt, and later duplicated all over the region.
As we sat outdoors that evening, munching on roasted cashews with fireflies darting all around us, I tried to understand why exactly it is that Cherrapunji receives so much rain. The explanation involves moisture-laden clouds travelling unhindered for over 400km before they crash into the Khasi Hills. The orography of the region adds its twist and Cherrapunji gets rained on – a lot.
Leaving behind the mist-kissed cliffs of Cherra with a trace of regret, I made my way to Mawlynnong, a village almost on the Bangladesh border. My choice wasn’t random: Mawlynnong has a reputation for being the “cleanest village in Asia”. The Meghalaya Tourism Development Forum (MTDF) has worked hard to position the village as a rural tourism destination, going to great lengths to create tourist-friendly conditions. They have succeeded very well indeed, perhaps too well.
The guesthouse specially created for overnight guests is an utterly charming place. Raised on stilts, the hut is built with traditional materials and overlooks a thicket and small waterfall. The larger of the two accommodations has a machan propped on the uppermost branches of a tree – a childhood dream come to life. The village is pretty – flowers bloom in every hue and in great profusion. Also, there is no denying Mawlynnong is extremely clean – the roads are metalled, a large parking lot accommodates visiting cars, a teashop does brisk business and visitors line to clamber up ‘Sky View’, a tall, bamboo tower that affords a view of the Bangla plains yonder.
For the people of Mawlynnong, I suspect, this is a balancing act. They are proud, justifiably proud, of the ‘clean’ tag. Indeed Khasi households everywhere are impeccably kept. More than half the times I saw a Khasi woman throughout my stay, she would be out washing or drying clothes, or sweeping out her yard. On the other hand, they are very private. They seem to dislike being photographed and they are a subtle people, their manners complex and full of nuances. Every gesture is significant; their need for politeness is very high. To be viewed as they are, like fish in a glass bowl, must surely annoy them? Their urban visitors bring in money but they are also occasionally boorish, certainly brash by Khasi standards.
Deepak Laloo, the MTDF man behind Mawlynnong’s tourist thrust, is also concerned about how the constant interaction may change the villagers’ traditional way of living. He took me along to visit a family – friends of his – in the village. I was led hospitably indoors to sit by the kitchen fire and offered tea and slices of pineapple. The children came in from play and one ran across as Ba Laloo and I sat talking. He was summoned back by his elders to have his ear pinched: he had broken our line of gaze – unacceptable behaviour!
I touched down in Delhi to find that only six days in Meghalaya had altered me. I blinked at the grey, flinched at the honking and felt more than a little bewildered. The culture shock I hadn’t felt going in showed up coming back.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Something fresh
Television is a great source of comfort to me. When I have time for TV, it means that I’m at my base state, with enough mindspace to spare from my life, from whatever is occupying my days. Luckily there have been many such days, many such periods where I’ve followed series with great relish, bemoaning the trends in themes and programming, or merely sighing over whatever current ship I’ve been floating on.
Ekta Kapoor, of course, reworked the television landscape to an unrecognisable extent. Balaji Telefilms may have passed its prime but the effects still linger – when the Indian TV industry is in doubt, it still falls back on Kektaisms. She brought in the saas-bahus, she brought in the daily soaps, she turned everything on its head so comprehensively we could see no other way to do it.
What has me excited now is Sony TV and its new batch of programming, because we may be seeing the return (fanfare...) of the weekly show. When was the last time we saw one? I can’t remember watching any after Hotel Kingston on Star One. Many reasons to welcome the trend, of course – once a week means there is a possibility for diverse genres; that the story is treated differently as far as pacing, editing and cliffhangers go; the series is bound to enjoy higher production standards, cater to different audiences and simply BE better because the creative team has more time over the episode they’re presenting. Even in the case of your standard romance or soap-like plotline, hopefully it is possible to create story arcs that can be treated more naturally than they are in daily soaps, and to actually end plots that are wanting to end.
After Indian Idol and the highs of Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahi, Sony TV fell into the most depressing slump. I have of late been appalled by their schedules - back-to-back episodes of their one truly enduring series, CID. The investigative drama is fun but how much of it?! But new things now. Yash Raj Films now has a subsidiary wing creating content for Sony TV to be aired on weekends. Karan Johar starts a new talk show, Lift kara de with (who else but) Shah Rukh Khan and there is a thriller about cops on the drug trail called Powder. Now these two don’t interest me at all. Karan Johar I can leave with pleasure, and although I watched Doordarshan’s Subah with wide-eyed fascination, gritty dark dramas of this sort are not really my thing. However there are two rom-coms, Mahi Way and Rishta.com and, finally, a homegrown fantasy thriller called Seven, a superhero series apparently on the lines of Heroes, which I desperately hope is a hit, if only to inspire more of the sort.
I’m slightly disappointed that Sony, having decided to buck the trend, went with only one content provider to produce all these shows – another monopoly when we need diversity. Also Yash Raj, I have been feeling, has become rather too cynical, too formulaic a player under Aditya Chopra. In spite of the reservations, though, I’m happy with the beginning. If it takes (and it should seeing there’s such a hole in programming over weekends) every channel will follow suit and that means a sea-change all over again. Very exciting.
***
Oh, I found this title song for DD’s Subah, in case anyone’s feeling nostalgic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6g0egugUNI
Ekta Kapoor, of course, reworked the television landscape to an unrecognisable extent. Balaji Telefilms may have passed its prime but the effects still linger – when the Indian TV industry is in doubt, it still falls back on Kektaisms. She brought in the saas-bahus, she brought in the daily soaps, she turned everything on its head so comprehensively we could see no other way to do it.
What has me excited now is Sony TV and its new batch of programming, because we may be seeing the return (fanfare...) of the weekly show. When was the last time we saw one? I can’t remember watching any after Hotel Kingston on Star One. Many reasons to welcome the trend, of course – once a week means there is a possibility for diverse genres; that the story is treated differently as far as pacing, editing and cliffhangers go; the series is bound to enjoy higher production standards, cater to different audiences and simply BE better because the creative team has more time over the episode they’re presenting. Even in the case of your standard romance or soap-like plotline, hopefully it is possible to create story arcs that can be treated more naturally than they are in daily soaps, and to actually end plots that are wanting to end.
After Indian Idol and the highs of Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahi, Sony TV fell into the most depressing slump. I have of late been appalled by their schedules - back-to-back episodes of their one truly enduring series, CID. The investigative drama is fun but how much of it?! But new things now. Yash Raj Films now has a subsidiary wing creating content for Sony TV to be aired on weekends. Karan Johar starts a new talk show, Lift kara de with (who else but) Shah Rukh Khan and there is a thriller about cops on the drug trail called Powder. Now these two don’t interest me at all. Karan Johar I can leave with pleasure, and although I watched Doordarshan’s Subah with wide-eyed fascination, gritty dark dramas of this sort are not really my thing. However there are two rom-coms, Mahi Way and Rishta.com and, finally, a homegrown fantasy thriller called Seven, a superhero series apparently on the lines of Heroes, which I desperately hope is a hit, if only to inspire more of the sort.
I’m slightly disappointed that Sony, having decided to buck the trend, went with only one content provider to produce all these shows – another monopoly when we need diversity. Also Yash Raj, I have been feeling, has become rather too cynical, too formulaic a player under Aditya Chopra. In spite of the reservations, though, I’m happy with the beginning. If it takes (and it should seeing there’s such a hole in programming over weekends) every channel will follow suit and that means a sea-change all over again. Very exciting.
***
Oh, I found this title song for DD’s Subah, in case anyone’s feeling nostalgic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6g0egugUNI
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