Crystal

Ahh! Look, Sarasa’s love scene” cried Nuri in excitement. I gave her a, ‘don’t be stupid’, glare and turned back annoyed.

We had just started a game with five smooth stones, where one stone is thrown up and others are picked one by one from the floor. I was already vexed as I broke my glass bangles, running into a pillar on our veranda. Nuri took out a candy and placing it between the door and frame, crushed it gently by closing the door. She carefully removed the pieces and shared it with me. I know that is her special way of consoling me. Then she went to the window to throw the wrapper and was stuck there.

“He is the bangle seller”. Nuri whispered in an utmost secret tone with a twinkle in her large eyes. That was enough. I joined her. Not knowing the complexities of adult life, 10 year old curiosity sprang up instantly.

We peeped down from the first floor at them in the side alley. Sarasa was talking to the bangle seller with an impish smile. Her saree did not cover her ample bosom but was carelessly roped in a sensuous twist like a river winding through valleys. Deftly she spat out her half chewed betel leaves and walked into the house with him, laughing. We looked at each other gasping in disbelief.
The door closed lazily. I stood there with pounding heart and twirling the locks of hair dangling by the ear.

The bangle seller comes once a month, a middle aged, short man with his large bag on his shoulder, screaming in a song like “Valayal….valayal …kannadi valayal, attracting the female customers. His bag had 2 halves hanging on either side of his right shoulder, connected by a strap in the centre. This strap rested on a black shawl which he spreads to display his lustrous circles of joy in a multitude of colours.

I liked him because he glided the bangles gently on the hand without causing pain and he talked cheerfully like the delicate, tinkling, radiance in his bag. But we never guessed he had a fling with Sarasa.

Sarasa was a nasty piece of work; very curvaceous with a teasing twist on her betel stained lips which made her look like a temptress. Her large red nose-stud and thick jewelery on the tanned, taunt skin made her seductive. Abusive fowl language flowed out of her mouth like water in the municipal bore well tap in front of her house when she indulged in those feline fights.

She holds the copy right for all the Tamil bad words I know. Having the license to sell kerosene in our area she considered herself to be some oil baron as the commodity was scarce in those days. Her husband was a hairy man with large, long hands and they had no children.

We forgot our game and waited in anticipation. Seconds ticked off. Some tired autorikshaws passed by. A whistling boy on a bicycle rode without holding the handle bar. Few crows were analysing the garbage and two lazy cows were cud chewing in the haze of the afternoon sun.

“What is happening?” I was impatient. Nuri gestured to remain silent. She was my early sex educator. She passed on valuable information like, if a boy kissed a girl, and lights were turned off, a baby will be born, apparently knowledge from movies and we talk about such things giggling secretly for hours.

As we stood there, we saw the most terrifying sight. Sarasa’s husband was walking toward the house. He was a big, beefy guy who never spoke much, a labourer in a cotton mill. He walked briskly and looked like returning from a trip carrying a cheap plastic baggage. He entered through the open door and I took in a sharp breath.

Nuri’s sister shocked us from behind, "What are you two up to? Nosey little devils!", and pulled us by the ears. We cringed and whined. We had, the most horrified look on our innocent faces. She looked out at a normal afternoon on the road and turning to me said, “You better run home …your mother was looking for you…and Nuri get ready, aunt is on her way to pick you for shopping.”

We rushed out with a little guilt. From the staircase we stealthily looked at Sarasa’s door. It was closed. We were expecting a murder or at least a wrestling match but…it was calm. We neither did the normal sliding down the railing nor had the courage to go out and check the consequences.

I got a good tongue lashing from my mother for leaving the broken glass pieces on the veranda and for my chalk art on the floor and was confined to the house the whole evening. I was dying to know what happened to Sarasa.

Next day, we saw Sarasa screaming and shouting at the street tap in here usual robust tone. Tinkling on her wrist were red, glass bangles.

You were close to me...

added more life inside me;

occupied the same space,

shared the same system

some time ago.

Time has uprooted you to far off lands
leaving only memories
and ugly stretch marks behind.

Let me open up some secrets to my choice audience, lest my conscience will rot in guilt!

Well, now a question to myself... 

What gadget could you never give up?

I fell in love with this gadget say...probably, since age dot…when I sat propped up by a mount of cushions for my first snap. I believe...soon I was conditioned to clicks,...pretty Pavlovian

Around 12 years, I had zeroed in that without possessing a camera, my life would be devoid of graphic details. So I persuaded my dad, everyday for a month, by eloquently listing the pros of owning one for the family profile. Mine were such strong appeals that could have coaxed even the government to install a nuclear plant in our locality but my father did not budge. So I attacked his weak spot and asked if I would get one by scoring 50% marks in Mathematics...it was a high risk deal though. He agreed, believing in the least probability of the occurrence and to escape from the nagging.

Then, to keep up my numbers I sought the help of C, who by hooks or crooks made me accomplish the task. Ultimately with 49 marks (the teacher refused all pleas for one charity mark) and a lot of wrangling, I got the first camera, 'Click III'. I was like an ant that fell into alcohol. The camera soon consumed half of my wakeful hours forcing me to beg and borrow to feed the monster with b/w films...Eventually, my school tasks were out of focus but had an album filled with black and white crap.

At the threshold of wedding my only bid was to check if the bridegroom-to-be had a good camera. Luckily, he qualified and I graduated to color photography.

When my daughter was born I took her snap on the second day. It is blasphemous to do such a dastardly act on a new born. I asked my brother to sneak in the camera, as he could not accomplish this abominable deed, I stealthily got up and edged towards her. When the infant looked at me not knowing the imminent danger, I aimed and clicked. The blinding flash struck the tender eyes and made them shut tightly. Some light hit my head too...Oh my god! what have I done? I suffered in secret agony until the day she focused her eyes on me and smiled pardoning my dreadful action.

Taking pictures of food stuff is totally banned in our house. Many a times, family had to sit in front of food, drooling with hunger pangs until I get a perfect shot. As the curfew stays, my edible shots are performed as undercover operations.

As my oldest passion grew from film to digital....my discovery that it has reached insulting new heights is driving me nuts. Recently on my visit to India, I was so engrossed in taking pictures that I would slip half way between conversations stare at some odd sight and then draw out my weapon. And to everyone’s awe I start screwing and fitting the accessories and focus on worthless targets which drew endless criticism. I even surprised myself for being snappish, shameless and disturbed.

One time I was aiming at a papaya tree in a petrol station when my mother got so unreasonably (according to me) angry and stopped me from the heinous act by blocking the lense with her hand. It naturally triggered a tight exchange of 'not so soft' words and the whole family cheered her by adding encouragement to fuel her accusations. I didn’t give up either. 

Later, immensely regretful that I fought with my only mom, over an inanimate worthless piece of plastic and glass, when on a short visit after 3 years made me remorseful. I swore never to touch that evil temptation again. Gracious! my vow lasted 20 minutes... 

When did this obsession take over me completely and swallow my integrity?  Am I becoming a slave to that evil object of desire...or is it OCD?

Seriously looking for an attractive shrink who will smile when I say, 'cheese'. 

that unwind like a magical dream.

As a child, with jaunty steps and dazzling clothes,

vacations used to balloon the heart

when I travel to the evergreen village,

where superstitions are woven into its tapestry.

Our country home lulls in a sweet solitude,

surrounded by thick outgrowth of rain fed trees,

a tiled house with wooden walls

and old beams that hold a hundred vibrant tales.

A serpent carved on a rock is the family deity,

guardian angles, sprites and wood nymphs

adorn different spots around the house

to ward-off all evils.

The ancestral grave stares from a distance,

“They watch all our deeds”, warns my aunt.

Strong fragrance of the white flowers

from the banshee haunted tree charms every soul.

A gnome dwells in the well

and pulls children who peep;

cousins uncover such creepy stories

so I avoid even a glance at its gaping mouth.

Festive dawns are marked by tinkling bells

and hypnotic drum beats from the temple.

Grandmother chants a sing song prayer

as she conjures coconut savoured delicacies.

When the tropical heat

and the humidity thickens the air,
we rush down the mossy steps chasing butterflies
or stand gazing at the wind twirling paddy fields

While eyes drink the cocktail of colours,
we race through the crackling dry leaves
to gather the luscious sweetness
that mango trees shed at the gust of a wind.

Swinging high on a low branch,

I watch with envious wonder
the noisy dive of scrawny boys

shattering the glassiness of the deep river.

Velvet nights are dotted with glow worms,

crickets, croaking frogs and mysterious night creatures. 
Rough throated staggering, clumsy drunkard
tears the darkness with a song and a palm leaf torch.

Now, the fields have given way to

thirsty, dehydrating rubber plantations,

the river has dwindled to nothingness

and my comely grandmother is far away in heaven.

Two in a row! Ahem….when the going gets tougher…the weak gets to watch movies in the home theater. 
 

Amal

An official selection to Toronto International Film Festival and four other best awards aren't proof enough for a good movie…so I watched it with the usual skepticism. But surely Amal is a class apart. It is one of those decent movies that drive home a point…unlike the Slumdog millionaire.

Richie Mehta, the director navigates with his crew through the dirt and grime of the poor streets of Delhi shadowing the autorickshaw driver Amal kumar (Rupinder Nagra). G.K (Naseeruddin Shah), the eccentric millionaire realizes that 'Sometimes the poorest of men can be richest' and leaves his wealth to Amal. Amal emerges unscathed due to his mere ignorance.

Love, kindness and empathy are on the periphery in Amal. Just like a sap laden tree that oozes out the milk at the slightest rub, humanity flows easily from him. When he hands out some money and the most important letter to the beggar girl, it is so natural and effortless that I was dumbstruck. His soft utterances and slow pace makes him unbelievably pleasant.

Amal’s contentment, his obedience to his mother, respect to customers and compassion makes him adorable. Half the face concealed in beard, his sparkling eyes and shy innocent smile adds character to that lanky frame. Amal you are my hero for the season!

The background score is so vibrant and subtle that it speaks when the characters are silent to add meaning and depth to the scenes. 

Amal is not overwhelming but definitely made a marked difference in my attitude.

Both Mehta and Nagra being talents from Ontario deserve some special accolades.

[Thank you, dear blogger for recommending it.]

 

Heaven on Earth

In B.C, whenever I hear radio discussions or read about domestic violence, I was always bewildered with a thousand questions. It came as a heavy blow when our realtor, the lady who took us through endless lists of houses with a pleasant smile was murdered and her husband was accused. That is when the reality struck. Still the question remains. Why?

Director, Deepa Mehta clearly spells out the turmoil a bride from India goes through when married to a household in Canada. Chand (Preity Zinta) is subjected to unforeseen sufferings contrary to her expectations. She overcomes her beatings, bruises and kicks and everything else with a silent courage amidst hard work up until a point. Then the rest of the way, a figment of imagination helps her endure the misfortune. She seeks relief in her imaginary pleasure. An Indian cobra fable imparts some relief in her loveless life as fantasy and reality inter twines. This metaphor eventually transforms the movie from an ordinary story to a work of art.

It is with awe I watched the helplessness of this young woman in a cold country as it plucks the heart strings and fills the chest with a suppressed sob.  

[Thanks Shoba, for placing a hold on these movies for me.You are the best!]