Untilted

I had written this short story quite sometime back: on Tue, Aug 19, 2008 at 1:05 AM

Satish felt miserable that night. He was not satisfied with his work; he knew he could do better. There was something, a sense of a vacuum inside him which he couldn't explain. He never really got the time to sit back and analyze what was going through his head. He let ideas, visuals, sounds move around aimlessly in his head, without leaving any imprint. A few more classes at the Tutorial would help him feel more confident, dispel some misconceptions which he had and he hoped at the end of it; he would be able to see at least a faint ray of hope. It was his last year in college, he couldn't recollect memories in their proper order, and they all seemed to be overlapping with each other, creating a puddle of images drenched in sepia.

He hadn't experienced any strong emotion in him for a couple of months. May be a year had passed since he had wept lying on the sofa, thinking about a certain person whom he loved, but could never ask for reciprocation. He could never muster enough courage to confess his love for the person.

The bus which he boarded that night to return home had a number of empty seats. However, all the window seats to his left were occupied by office-goers looking out of the window. The ladies section had a couple of empty window seats, which attracted his attention. There was a lot of breeze in the air, and he stood in the bus trying to make up his mind – if he should at all sit in the Ladies section. Established notions of masculinity were at war with his ardent desire to look outside the window and watch Bari Masjid, on Chitpur Road with the honey coloured moon (which looked unusually dull and over sized) disappearing behind the minarets.

He grabbed one of the handles dangling from the rod near the window as the bus suddenly came to a halt. The screeching sound of the brakes made him feel nauseas. It had happened before – a sound that he found unpleasant could make him regurgitate. He balanced himself and landed on the seat. The shops on Chitpur Road were closed, except for a shop selling kurtas and namaaz topis. The bus was still not moving. He realized people were curiously looking out of the window. He felt lazy and didn't budge. The conductor was shouting at the top of his voice. It took him very little time to understand what had happened – a middle aged man, was trying to board the bus when he tripped and fell. His was lying in between the front and rear wheels, with the abdomen of the bus a few inches above his torso.

"The bus stops for everybody. At your age, do not try your luck on a running bus", yelled the conductor.

Yes, the bus stops for everybody, repeated Satish, grinning sarcastically.

The man, who was about to be crushed under the wheels of the bus, walked unsteadily and found a seat next to a bald gentleman. "Are you ok? Do you find your head spinning?" asked the bald guy.

The man smiled and shook his head. Then he lifted his arm to verify if there was a cut on his elbow. Yes, the skin had been ripped off and beads of blood were gradually appearing on the surface of the wound. Satish looked fixedly at the zone from where blood was oozing out, his eyes found something interesting to rest upon and he felt too lethargic to shift his look.

The man was now slowly becoming conscious of numerous spectators who were shamelessly all gazing at him. He finally caught Satish looking at his wound. Satish hesitated when he found out that he was no longer a voyeur and his presence has been identified. He looked at the man, and then looked out of the window. He felt uncomfortable, his thought of his father. He couldn't apply logic in describing why he was thinking of his father at that moment. He felt a terrible urge to reach home as soon as possible and embrace his father. He wanted to spend time with him, discuss cricket, the Olympics and Bengal Politics.

There were a lot of activities happening on either side of the road. Two trams stood in the middle of a crossing. A cart full of bananas was being pulled by two men who hurled abuses at each other at repeated intervals. The honey coloured moon hid itself behind the dome of the mosque. Satish didn't see anything, his mind was drifting away, drowning in the abyss of time, where memories created a brilliant mess, overlapping each other, fighting Oblivion and manufacturing a low frequency buzz in Satish's head which he could hear as a child whenever there was a power cut in the entire locality. Before the lanterns were lit, before the servants were called, Satish remembered he could experience a moment of solitude when he felt as if he could hear the hum of the earth. Satish felt frustrated when he realized that the duration of his sensation was indeed very short.

He closed his eyes. He could see a glow, smaller than a speck emerging from the dark. A faint memory of childhood was slowly arranging itself in the correct order and gaining some shape. He would acknowledge its presence only when he was sure it was a memory and not a figment of his imagination. His father, yes, it was his father he was thinking about.

One morning when he was leaving for school, his father had come to him, to ask him something. He didn't remember what it was. He didn't feel the necessity to ponder uselessly on a subject that was vaguely connected to what was happening at the present moment, inside the bus. He remembered that in the course of the conversation his father had mentioned that Satish had a small whirlpool at the back of his head. His hair formed this funny circle and somehow it had attracted his father's attention.

"When you'll grow old, you'll develop a bald patch. And it shall grow from there", his father had remarked. Satish had ignored the remark when his father added, "I'll not be present to see you develop a bald patch"

His family consisted of his mother and father. They had broken away from a patriarchy that had a tradition of suffocating individual freedom. Like many other nuclear families, his father had provided him everything he could ask for, and Satish too made them proud by scoring well in his exams. But somehow, over the past few years, he had grown disillusioned and somewhat confused.

He remembered, he had smiled back at his father after hearing his remark and had walked out of the house, suppressing a terrible urge to go back, hug his father and tell him how much he meant to him. He wanted him to know, how important he was to him and how much he loved Ma. However, he didn't go back.

Satish was brought up on a diet of American Cinema. He preferred watching Ray to Ghatak. He couldn't understand the concept of Indian Melodrama. He could never relate to the representation of the Indian Mother or Mother figure in Hindi films. He believed that you could express love by not expressing it; you could show you care without really uttering clichéd sentences. But the sudden surge of emotions created an inner conflict which had the intensity to contradict and overpower his preconceived notions.

Later when he was in his first year of college, a friend had requested him to act in one of his films and in the film, he had to cry. Being uninitiated, with little understanding of theatre and acting, he felt it was a very odd thing to do. He tried explaining his friend that no matter how depressed a person is, he should never be shown howling on screen. Cinema had better tools to establish strong emotions. His friend insisted that he should follow the script and develop his acting skills. Driven by an uncanny frenzy, Satish had done the role beautifully. His colleagues as well as theatre critics had appreciated his acting which seemed effortless on stage.

Satish had managed to pull it off. He concentrated for a while before the cameraman said 'Rolling' and his friend, the director shouted 'Action'.

He imagined his father to be dead. He imagined his dead body being shoved into the electric furnace at the funeral ghat of Nimtala.

Satish experienced a series of similar sensations. His heart seemed heavy, overburdened with a desperate desire of crying out in the middle of Chitpur Road. He wanted to sound as pathetic as Ghatak's heroines.

The man who had just escaped from the jaws of death had shifted from his original position. Satish went upto him. He failed to realize what he was doing. As if in trance, he sat next to the man and asked him if he was feeling alright.

The man nodded and shook hands with him. Satish went back to his seat. He tried to concentrate, test his tenacity and extract a memory that would help him overcome the terrible sense of loss. He closed his eyes again. He re-remembered the day when his father commented on the funny whirlpool at the back of his head. He attached a second memory to it. This time he imagined, because he couldn't select a special memory to reconstruct what he was thinking.

He saw his father, wearing a crisp cotton shirt, his hair carefully combed walking down the street to meet his friend and indulge in adda and Bengali nostalgia over a cup of tea.

Title: I am not your SON
Illustration: Anirban Ghosh (Nov 28, 2009)

BOHURUPI

December 5, 2009

She introduced herself as Madhumita. Tall, fair complexioned, probably in her mid thirties, her hair nourished in coconut oil was neatly tied in a bun - there were a few grey strands near the side parting. I noticed that like my mother, she too did not have any trace of vermillion in her hair. However, in contrast to my mother’s morose and emaciated features and sunken eyes buried deep in sockets, she appeared both cheerful and animated. She instantly appealed to the four year old, may be because he had been deprived of love and warmth at his own house for months at a stretch. My mother explained to her that under circumstances unavoidable, she could not leave me at home and had no other option but to bring me along with her. Madhumita appeared a little apprehensive in the beginning then suggested that she would take care of me till my mother’s session with the psychiatrist got over.

The clinic was on the ground floor of a tall mansion in north Calcutta. It was winter and a flight of pigeons circled the western patch of sky visible from the window next to which I was sitting. They returned to the bomm, erected on the edge of a terrace in the neighbourhood.

“Ma kokhon berobe?” (When will mother come out?) I enquired.

“Deri hote pare baba”, (She might take long, child) she replied as she signed a few log books and piled them up in one corner of her desk.

“Shesh. Tumi amar saathe ghurte jaabe?” (Finished. Would you mind going out with me?), she asked

I smiled and nodded approvingly.

A few buildings away, Madhumita and I discovered a small park, a patch of green squeezed in between the leaning balconies and facades of numerous claustrophobic buildings.

“Ei re… tomar naam ta toh jana holo na?” (I didn’t ask you your name.)

“Anirban”

“Anirban - the unvanquished?”

“Inextinguishable… that is what mother tells me”, I replied.

“Whom do you love more? Mom or Dad?”

“Neither of them. I love my friend Sarbojit’s parents – they don’t fight and are nice to me.”

I felt uncomfortable to have divulged my feelings to Madhumita who moments ago, was a complete stranger to me. I rose from my seat and walked up to the goal post.

“Don’t go too far, stay there. I’ll bring you some sweets.”

I did not turn. As she moved out of the gate, my eyes followed her through the grillwork till I saw her stop at a sweet shop on the other side of the street. Suddenly, I heard a rustle and clanking of metals from behind. I turned immediately and was stupefied to see a pair of huge eyes, each the size of a tennis ball embedded in a bright green face, with a gorgeous semi-circular headgear adorned with innumerable pieces of glass, plastic flowers and sparkling jewellery. Clad in bright yellow and blue dhoti, the figure was equipped with a bow and arrow. Horrified, I ran away from the figure. Madhumita had already returned. I ran and hugged her. She consoled me and then reprimanded the man for frightening a child.

“Ami bhoy dekhai ni. Babu shamne pore gechhilo.” (I didn’t wish to scare him. He just chanced to be on my way.)

“Don’t be afraid. He’s just a bohurupi (harlequin). Does it for money. He has dressed as Ram today.”

…

On our way back, mother started talking to me. She was more composed and looked a lot better. My birthday was approaching and she wanted to know as to what gift I’d like her to buy for me. I narrated every minute detail of my experience and wanted to know more about the harlequins.

That year a day before my birthday, all the local newspapers were flooded with the news of the demolition of a 16th century mosque in a place called Ayodhya. My father, his friends and our relatives everyone seemed to be talking about it. The army of soldiers dressed in saffron robes and ribbons had vandalized the site in order to construct a temple, as they felt it was the divine land where their God Ram was born. I instantly recalled the rendezvous with my Ram in the park where I was on the verge of breaking into tears, when Madhumita came to my rescue. We could not order cakes on my birthday as all the shops in our locality were shut. There was a curfew in our city, and our school was shut for a week or two. My mother recounted that Bengal was witnessing riots for the first time after the partition and that hundreds of people have been massacred all across the country. On several nights, I was haunted by the vision of Ram wearing horrifying green mask. The same dream would be repeated time and again, where I would see the harlequin chasing me with a bow and arrow – at times I saw Madhumita dying at the hands of Ram while attempting to protect me.

…

A month later, on Annual sports day our school organized a ‘Go as you like’ or a fancy dress competition. I expressed my desire to dress up as Ram and wear a gaudy outfit. Instead, my mother took charge and dressed me up in a chikan-kari kurta and a bright red jacket clubbed with a skull cap. She wrote with a brush on a placard these words:

“Mora ek-i brinte

Duti Kusum

Hindu-Musalman”

(We are two flowers on the same branch – Hindu and Muslim.)

She later told me that it was an excerpt from Kazi Nazrul Islam’s poetry.

Disillusioned and confused, dressed in an uncomfortable outfit, I ran back from the corner of the stage to the audience, to my mother. My mother asked me to go back and join the queue. My name was announced and one of the teachers asked me to go up on stage. She signaled me to hold the placard up so that people could read it and it didn’t cover my face. Photographs were being clicked and people were clapping. Behind me came my friends, some dressed as scare-crows, some as the Buddha.

Later in the changing room, our teachers whom we lovingly called Didimonis helped us take off our make-up and wear our regular school uniform. They were a bunch of plump, round and angelic women who shaped our early years in kindergarten. I wondered why Madhumita was still working at the psychiatrist’s clinic when she could do better in our school managing kids. Back in the audience’s seat next to my mother, gorging on the food packets distributed that evening we waited patiently for the results. Before the results were declared, we had to sit through some rigorous and then exhausting sessions of Rabindrasangeet sung by the lady teachers and school choir. Finally it was time for the results. Our headmistress came up on stage to do the emceeing. The first prize was given to the scare crow. I was blaming my mother in my mind to have not allowed me to dress up as Ram when suddenly the Headmistress announced a special prize – the Best Prize of the competition. She said that the winner was blessed with elders who had the ability to build connections between education and what was happening in society and that such insightful representation was enlightening.

I returned home with a certificate with my name written in calligraphy on it, a packet of sketch-pens, crayons, a sketch book and a copy of Thakumar Jhuli – a book on folktales of Bengal. In the autorickshaw, I asked my mother when she would visit the doctor again. She said that she was cured and it would not be necessary anymore.

That night Mother put off in me the little hope I had to see Madhumita again.

…

Title: In Search of Positive Spaces
Illustration: Anirban Ghosh

Gay by Choice

The question whether a man or a woman can be gay by choice or it is a matter of genetic orientation that you do not have any control upon, has baffled a large section of our society (both gay and otherwise) that is not initiated into the nitty-gritty of the gay domain. However, before a critic can go further with his research and analyze the area through simple common sense, he/she is pulled back in a larger ghetto of the majority where such topics are either shunned or ridiculed.

Let us make an attempt to understand the psyche of a gay individual through the basic understanding of human behaviour in a ‘normal’ society of ours. In India, be it in the rural areas or cosmopolitan cities, a man or a woman conforming to a gay identity attracts the wrath of his immediate family, his relatives (no matter how distant they are, they would want to participate unanimously in denouncing and disrespecting your personal opinions and marking you as a detestable parasite for the family), his friends (or the lack of them) – those who will grow up with you and be your class mates will make you the centre point of all jokes, physical abuse, mental trauma and help in eroding bit by bit, very systematically your self-esteem and confidence, so much so that you regret the fact that you were ever born. One grows up feeling abnormal and deprived of all love and affection that (s)he rightfully deserves. During the course of my documentary film shoot in Baruipur, in the outskirts of Calcutta I interacted with Sudev, who runs an NGO for sexual minorities. Here, I would like to summarize an excerpt from the interview:

“My mother had two sons – me and my brother. In my childhood, my brother used to be a menace, destroying everything in the house, playing football all day and was very unclean. My mother scolded him time and again but he would never listen. On the other hand, I would help my mother in the kitchen, decorate the altar and burn candles and incense every evening. Our neighbours and relatives would often draw a comparison between me and my brother by telling my mother how lucky she was to have got a son like me and that my brother was no match when it came to basic etiquette and maintenance of hygiene.

However, when we grew up, the same relatives ridiculed my interest in keeping the house clean and being confined to the kitchen – these were spaces where I felt comfortable and secure. My mother’s opinion about me changed drastically and she would often taunt me for being effeminate and not purush (masculine) enough. This time too, a comparison was drawn; though my brother’s habits had not improved even the slightest, he became the one to look upto and emulate.

When mother was on my side, I had the courage and audacity to disregard all affliction and derision. This time I was alone, I felt abandoned and deceived.”

There are several instances where a gay man due to his deviant tastes in the choice of clothes or hairstyle has attracted a host of ‘normal’ and ‘straight’ colleagues who have asked for sexual favours and when not entertained conspired publicly to make the atmosphere so negative for the individual is left with no other option but to resign from the job.

Lacan, like his predecessor Freud, concentrated in analyzing Sexuality of a certain kind and perhaps it is the only kind that exists in popular modes of expression – the sexuality of a hetero-patriarchal male. In such a phallocentric order, identities other than that of the heterosexual male are formed by categorizing negative forms of the male sexuality. Women sexuality hence remains largely unexplored and ignored – the fact that there can be something called Women Sexuality has been treated as absurd and unnecessary. Nevertheless, in simpler terms, the concept of a woman is that of a ‘no-man’ – an entity drawn from the idea of a man but devoid of the phallus. Hence, the owner of a phallus, in this case, a man is more empowered that the weaker version of that of a no-man (woman). Let us examine how the same definitions apply to an effeminate male or a male who desires another male. A man with a phallus penetrates. The penetrated becomes weaker than the penetrator as he/she is being ‘dominated’ in the act. Hence, men who penetrate re-establish their masculinity and the ones who receive domination loses his phallus and enters the domain of a no-man. In such cases, though the act of sex is happening between two males, the hetero-patriarchal doctrines seep deep into the psyche so as to nullify the maleness of the receiver emulating a man screwing a woman stereotype. It is often objectionable to say that a woman has fucked a man. It is a man who is active, who is strong, and who has the ability to fuck, and the woman (or a gay man) by default is submissive, passive and gets fucked. Hence, in most cases, even in the queer world, stereotypes are maintained and ‘Gender’ plays a bigger role and is often the last word – even before a dialogue on ‘Sexuality’ can begin. An effeminate gay man who plays bottom therefore is condemned in society, as being a man, not only does he challenge and subvert the heterosexual order of a penetrative male but also manifests castration anxiety among other males – he being penetrated hence lost his phallus.

Let us come back to the question of choice. Through the above instances and our personal experiences with a gay man or being gay ourselves, we have realized that being Gay means not to conform into a certain prototype, into a secured framework established in society that ensures certain basic fundamental rights assured to you. When you are gay, you are obviously not permitted to ask for similar treatment and be respected for what you are. Your dignity is constantly at stake and a host of violent heterosexist perpetrators around you to wipe out your Identity – in such a situation the question of Choice sticks out like a sore thumb. In a third world country like ours where history is regularly tarnished and our heritage of tolerance, dialogue and co-existence has no value anymore, the term Choice is absurd in every sphere. Hence, we can infer that either all gay men are chronically nihilistic and self destructive or maybe they do not have any Choice at all but be the way they are (we are). The latter appears to be a more logical explanation.

The question of Choice comes our way in a more complicated fashion. At first, I would like to make a clear distinction between the two commonly misunderstood terms – Identity and Behaviour. There are men who have sex with women, some out of desire and some out of compulsion to procreate. A good friend and mentor, Oishik Sircar during one of his sessions on Sexuality in Calcutta had explained the phenomenon with a brilliant example. Let us say that there is a man, who feels like a woman, but the woman in him has same sex desires. Hence the immediate manifestations would be that he is engaging in sex with another woman. To the outer world, such an act is nothing but a heterosexual form of mating. The act itself in this case is his Behaviour while his Identity is that of a Lesbian woman. Similarly, a transgendered individual, when he undergoes a sex re-assignment surgery and becomes a transsexual man or a woman can still love a person from the same sex (s)he after the surgery – a man becomes a woman after surgery, yet she can still love another woman. Sexuality therefore remains a huge spectrum which cannot be defined by what you have between your thighs but your own composition or image or yourself.

There are innumerable cases where a gay man is married off to a woman, at times due to family and peer pressure and at times self motivated to have a family and fall back on established stereotypes. I have personally experienced homophobia oozing out from so-called tolerant and anti-homophobic and liberal individuals when mentioned that in a repressed society like ours, it is highly possible that our fathers or fore fathers could have been homosexuals, that our mothers could have been lesbians rather are lesbians living in a claustrophobic homophobic world where expressing one’s desires will wreak havoc in their lives. In such situations, the listeners flare up in anger – because no matter how many books they have read, no matter how many friends they must have had who are gay, they cannot fathom the possibility of relating to someone from the immediate family because deep down in their hypocrite souls and dual identities they feel being Gay, being Transgendered, being non heterosexual, being effeminate (all the terms are independent and overlapping) is DERROGATORY. It is here where Choice becomes the key word. We are gay because that is the Law of Nature, we continue to be Gay because we DO NOT find it derogatory. There is nothing wrong in being what we are, in loving someone from our own sex and being reciprocated. It’s our Choice to come out of our closet and be accepted and respected for being Pink, being Blue, being effeminate, being masculine, being artistic, being sensitive, being gay.

PS: I am aware that there are numerous problems in this world, and especially in our society. But it does not need rocket science to understand that when two consenting adults irrespective or their sex and Gender indulge in love making PRIVATELY, it is no body’s business. In a hetero-sexist world, where conversations are peppered with sleazy overtones where women are still objectified as sex toys, there needs to be a breathing space for dialogue with the Other. It’s appalling to find how narrow minded we are in this campus when it comes to the basic understanding of human rights, which very prominently includes right to sexuality – not confined in closets but right to Sexuality under the Sun and being respected for being what we are. Caricaturing a human being for his behaviour is acceptable, caricaturizing generations after generations of homosexual and transgendered men is a sign of insecurity and self-denial. Being oblivious of the existence of diversity is being stupid,. It is the work of a pseudo-sympathizer and that of ignorance. Otherwise, maybe we will become designers who will create great masterpieces – (the Nazi holocaust mechanism was also a great design: devastating but great, so was the atom bomb that blinded humanity and caused equal damage) but we’ll still be shackled in our warped up notions of male-female, right and wrong. Also in order to be successfully sensitive, it is important to abandon dubious identities and stances – you cannot be anti-racist and support the anti-Apartheid movement but continue to be a Muslim hater during cosy conversations with your folks in your self-built ghettos.

Director: Samira Makhmalbaf

“To make a long story short:

The heart

In this barren desert

Wishes for a different vision”

-Ahmad Shamlu

Iran – a nation ravaged in war. In 1813, the Russians defeated the Qajars. The Islamic Revolution of 1979 spearheaded by Ayatollah Khomeni overthrew the empire of Shah Md. Reza Pahlavi. Khomeni’s regime changed the image of Islam, generating feelings both sympathetic and hostile. Iran was ushered into modernity with a bang. From colonized India to colonizing Hollywood, the world of cinema was the window to a modern world and Iran was learning fast. The pre-Revolution films were by and large melodramatic and thrillers - The Bride in the Sea, Siavash at Persepolis, Arman 1965 and Ferreydun Rahnama 1967. The visual element in Persian poetry, the obsession with Raj Kapoor and Nargess in Sangam contributed in encouraging the New Wave film makers. Abbas Kiarostami, Jafar Panahi, Majid Majidi, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, Abolfazl Jalili, Darious Mehrjui and Bahram Beizai explored ”the visual possibility of seeing the historical person (as opposed to the eternal Qur’anic man) on screen in arguably the singlemost important event allowing Iranian access to modernity.” (Hamid Dabashi. Article: Close Up – Iranian Cinema, Past, Present, Future.)

Internationally acclaimed Iranian director and scriptwriter Samira Makhmalbaf is the daughter of Mohsen Makhmalbaf who belongs to the New Wave in Iranian Cinema. In june 1963 Makhmalbaf created his own urban guerilla group, attacked a police officer and was subsequently arrested and jailed. He remained in prison till 1978. During this time, amidst the tumultuous uproar in Iran, minds were slowly emerging out of the codes of the written as well as unwritten law. With Hollwood’s overpowering presence since it was completely banned from the nation, new and interesting ideas and ways of expressing began to find prominence through the vocabulary of cinema. Samira was introduced to the world of cinema in a film named ‘The Bicyclist’ at the age of seven where she acted. At the age of seventeen she completed two video productions and her first film ‘Apple’ was released. She was the youngest film maker who participated in 1998 Cannes film and was awarded the jury prize in 2000 Cannes for her film, The Blackboard. The film focuses on a group of Kurdish refugees after the chemical bombing of Halabja by Saddam Hussein’s Iraq during the Iraq-Iran war. The screenplay was co-written by Makhbalbaf with her father, Mohsen Makhmalbaf.

“…something between reality and fiction. Smuggling, being homeless, and people’s efforts to survive are all part of reality – the film as a whole is a metaphor.” - Makhmalbaf

Her other films include Kabul, At five in the afternoon and two-legged horse. ‘At 5 in the afternoon’ dealt with an ambitious young woman trying to gain education in Afghanizthan after the defeat of Taliban. The film was shot in Kabul after the NATO invasion. During the course of the production, Samira’s younger sister, 14 year old Hana Makhmalbaf made a documentary called Joy of Madness which dealt with Samira’s trials and tribulations while trying to persuade people in Kabul to take part in her film. Samira meticulously formed an amalgamation of naturalistic and humanistic meanings. In her film Two Legged horse, she traces the animal-like instincts and motifs of ‘return to the animal’. The film is a gradual metamorphosis of a man studying how violence is a dominant human behavior and how power relationships exist and change. It is also a brilliant example of an attempt to try and understand the male psyche and the cause of violence.

“Mohsen Makhmalbaf has taught Samira Makhmalbaf how to make a film, but she has taught her father how to liberate a nation.”

Gender inequality, superstitions and a nation immersed in the depths of religion unchallenged and supreme, Samira’s films delved deeper into the Iranian psyche which was vulnerable to the influence of West that would erode solutions that are intrinsic and indigenous and label and stereotype their culture as non progressive. It also risked being blindfolded by the vicious doctrine of Islamic fundamentalism where human beings would be denounced access to their right to live freely. In Apple, Makhmalbaf blurs the line between the victims and perpetrators of violence. Here the oppressor is also engulfed in deep rooted prejudices that are sanctioned by religion. Makhmalbaf rarely used professional actors, and perhaps it is one of the finest examples of how techniques inspired by the French New Wave and Italian Neorealist cinema can evoke metaphors and allegories of visual expression and constantly negotiate in an otherwise rigid state apparatus that censored individual freedom.

Observation Exercise - Scriptwriting

Wed, Aug 12, 2009 at 12:55 PM

The sleeper class compartments - 894704 and 892050, towards the rear end of the Gujarat Mail has come to a halt a little ahead of the asbestos shade on Platform number 1. A rectangular sticker painted in bright yellow, on the body of the compartment, has ‘Western Railway’ written on it. A metal structure consisting of long vertical iron poles that branch into a receptacle supports the asbestos sheets. The cooing of two grey pigeons sitting on the metal receptacle is still quite prominent as activities around this space in the platform are rather minimum and mundane. The tracks next to platform 1 are bathed in diffused sunlight while the benches on the platform do not receive light due to the position of the train. Multiple tube lights hang from the ceiling of the shade; at this time they are all turned off. However, a ceiling fan droops down from the end of a long pole and rotates creating a tediously repetitive creak. Beside the ceiling fan, also hangs a loudspeaker which interrupts the uninteresting soundscape, by its blaring announcements informing the crowd about the arrival and departure of the different trains moving in and out of the station.

Running parallel to the asbestos shade is the Office of the Integrated Crew Lobby. A rhombus board is mounted on an iron pole next to the Lobby which reads ‘159 MC/MF Detachment’. A small telephone booth is housed next to the door of the Office; its vibrant red telephone placed on the small portion of plywood that is attached to the wall on the left. The trunk of large Banyan tree towers high next to the Office. A low cement parapet surrounds the roots of the giant. A foot or two away from the parapet, on the ground sleeps an old man, perhaps a sexagenarian, dressed in an ash coloured shirt and grey full pants. A golden coloured shawl is carefully wrapped around his shoulder. He is resting sideways, to his right with his head on a blue bag, while his bright blue socks stand out distinctively from the rest of the dull coloured clothes he is wearing. Two scooters and a motor bike are parked outside the office room while two stray dogs loiter around, frequently nettled by the presence of numerous flies that rest on their faces. Beyond the MC Office, are the iron railing which exposes a fragment of the outside road. On the other end of the platform, towards the rear end of the train, are numerous stalls selling beverages, newspapers and magazines. Cycle vans loaded with brown and white cargoes occupy a large area of the platform. Next to it lies another woman in soiled green salwaar.

Three water taps protrude out of a cement wash basin on the platform, next to it is a long wooden bench, with grey enamel paint on it. Two middle aged men dressed in blue shirts and trousers are sitting on the bench. One of them is smoking a cigarette while the other adjusts a white cap on his head. He occasionally casts an anxious glance at the direction of the MC Detachment Office. A young man, perhaps in his early twenties, wearing a blue shirt and dark blue trousers comes out of the Crew Lobby Office, carrying a black leather bag. He comes and sits next to the two men. The man, who was anxiously looking at the office, now looks relieved to have seen the man and exchanges a few words with him.

The bleak rays of the sun gradually become stronger and the shadows cast by the multiple structures on the platform become more distinct. A man wearing a sleeveless beige t-shirt and short pants enters the Office and brings out a broom. He starts sweeping, and the air around him suddenly comes alive, with millions of dust particles rising up, dancing and shimmering in the golden light of the Sun. Numerous packets of pan masala, sachets of shampoos, soap covers, cigarette buds and packets that were strewn all around the wooden bench is now piled up in a heap and later brushed aside at one corner of the basin. A bald man, in white vest and lungi, with a thread around his neck appears from behind the wall next to the office and moves towards the basin. He twines the thread around his left ear, fishes out a bottle and taps it on his palm. A tiny heap of red power that he obtains from the bottle is now used as toothpaste. Later he rinses his mouth with the water from the tap, gurgles and spits out red liquid on the basin. Without any moment of delay, he rolls up the folds of his lungi, and starts rubbing and cleaning his feet. He splashes water on his face aggressively and then takes off his vest to wipe his face.

In the mean time, two sadhus have appeared from the other end of the platform. One of them is bald, wearing loose saffron robes and carrying a mineral water bottle, while the other sporting a brown coloured turban. The owner of the mineral water bottle excuses himself from his companion, crouches next to the entrance to the 894704 compartment and relieves himself, only to hurry up once he is done, to catch up with his companion who had already moved ahead and was now climbing up the stairs of the over bridge. Five men appear from behind the over bridge, all wearing short grey and black trousers, pushing a wooden cart each, inclined perfectly in order to balance large cargos that are carefully sealed with brown tapes. They are followed by a well built man wearing a white and grey chequered shirt, bent towards his left, carrying an over sized black iron trunk.

Gradually, the flurry of passengers and other people on the platform near the two compartments gain momentum. The traffic outside also adds to the noise. A tall man, in a white full sleeved kurta and pathani-salwar, sporting a handle bar moustache, with a big and round crimson coloured turban wrapped carefully around his head walks animatedly towards railway tracks. He stops at the foot of the lamp post, a little ahead and then turns around and walks back to the direction he came from. A boy rag picker still in his adolescence, wearing a pair of over sized kohlapuri chappals, and green trousers rolled up to his knee, walks past the tall man carrying a large sack made of plastic mesh. He carefully examines the ground as he walks, rarely looking up, with his body always bent to ensure convenience in carrying the load. He exits behind a family consisting of a man in his late thirties, dressed in a light pink shirt and jeans, and accompanied by a woman. She is wearing a red sari, with carefully combed hair that is neatly arranged in a bun. They enjoy a hearty conversation while pausing every now and then to sip tea which they have bought from the nearby stall.

All of a sudden the engine of the non moving train emits the sound of release of air and the serpentine compartments shake off their heavy slumber. They start moving initially with a slow pace, but before long it accelerates and slithers out of the platform behind the multiple vertical poles, while bright sun shine floods the entire platform.

Hey Nirjon Giri-shringer Birohi
Shopne Jahake Alingon Koritey-chho
Megher Mukhe Jahake Shongbaad Pathaitechho
Ke Tomay Ashwash Dilow Je
Ek Apurba Shoundorjo Lokey
Shorot Purnima Raate
Tahar Shohit Chiromilon Hoibe?
Tomar toh Cheton-Acheton-e Parthokkho Gyan Nai
Ki jaani,
Jodi Shotyo Ebong Kolponar Modhey Probhed Haraiya Thaako

Prachin Sahitya Meghdoot
Rabindranath Tagore


Mehfuz

You were talking about the same song…
You even sang a couple of lines,
I pretended as if you retrieved it from the abyss of time.

I listen to it everyday; I listen when I sing it in my head