PUNJABI BY NATURE

by Jessica Singh

(No intended mockery, just a peek-a-boo into a Punjabi wedding from my eyes)

A colossal farmhouse situated far from the city and undoubtedly it would take you at least an hour to reach there no matter where you live. On the way you just might get confused as to where are you actually heading to as you would be driving on a highway at night among those horrendous trucks but one diminutive thought to your attire will bring you back to reality. Finally you somehow manage to reach your destination, partially aware and partially ignorant of what lies ahead. You step down from the car and while uncreasing your wrinkled outfit you put on a facsimile smile almost instantaneously as you see a relative. The parking which is generally positioned at a comparatively higher level than the main party area, gives you an overview of the throng of ‘sardars’,their turbans in shades of black, grey and blue with a few odd ones in red or maroon accompanied by their wives dressed in multitude of colors.

Now starts the actual process which can be divided into two broad categories- formality and actuality. Formality would be performed by the distant relatives of the bride and groom, whose sole purpose out there is attendance. But they also perform another important function of ‘indulgence’ into all kind of edible stuff they can put hands on. Actuality processes would include all the close relatives, the immediate families of the bride and groom who are actually a part of all the ceremonies taking place and often would not even know what was on the menu. It also includes the bride and groom for whom actuality, more appropriately put, is reality. The bride uneasy in her weighty dress, anxious but giving a smile portraying her disarmingly charming beauty and the groom waiting patiently on the stage as the bride enters gaining all the attention. As soon as the bride reaches the stage everybody goes back to their own tasks.

The aunties, congregating in groups forming a place to watch and be watched, a place to flaunt something on which they spent thousands over the past month. After minutely examining each one in their own transitory group and in the vicinity of the group they would start commenting on how many kilos each has gained or lost and why. While the uncles can be found wherever some drinks and non-vegetarian snacks are being served. The children would either be up to some mischief with their new-found playmates or they would be trying to find a way to rid of their over possessive mothers. Among the ever ignored group of adolescents, some find their way into the limelight through ways I am totally unaware of, and others like me comparatively socially awkward, tend to adhere to someone with whom they can possibly have a word or two and then again look for their parents, finding them with some relatives and manage to get an occasional remark on their growth spurt.

I do not intend to ignore the most important part of a wedding, FOOD, which I believe concerns 95% of the people in the party. The variety as we all know is bountiful for snacks, drinks, main course and desserts, making it a sort of paradise for ‘foodies’.If one observes closely, there are interesting ways in which the food is served and consumed. The waiters would do everything they can for beautiful ladies or seemingly wealthy and generous ‘foodies’, where there would be high probability of baksheesh. Other waiters can be mostly found serving with reckless discourtesy, carelessly spilling things over some auntie’s expensive sari who would in turn curse him with observable artful animosity. But a waiter, a server, emanates some kind of anguish, shows stoic anger that hangs in the eyes of repetitive ill-paid work. The consumption of food would bring forth yet another fascinating aspect, coming back to the aunties; they must never be found eating something while meeting a relative. You can actually see them making all possible attempts to hide the fact that they were eating and also its against their pride to go and take something on their own (except fruit chat and gol-gappas).So they devise ways to do that, they hunt for their children and tell them to do the same, the obedient child goes and gets whatever her mommy wanted only to find out that four other aunties also want the same thing, and the poor child is trapped. Whereas the uncles have no worries of being caught they rather tell the other person to join them.

So after getting your attendance marked (giving the ‘sagan’), you mentally start preparing yourself to go but physically it would take a lot of time. The spouses would keep telling each other that they are getting late, but either of them gets stuck up with something and the other gets goaded in that time. Then somehow they reach a consensus and finally move out, settle back in their cozy car, loosen their ties and other tight strings (whatsoever), yawn and go back home discussing everything from food, to clothes, to venue, the overall arrangement et cetera, et cetera.Just then an idiotic argument would crop up from nowhere and the husband takes a wrong turn by mistake, wife:” how many pegs did u have tonight” ,then pin-drop silence in the car until they reach home.

Copyright©Jessica Singh

LONGINGS OF A 'LOST' SOUL

I yearned to not part,
I pleaded to remain stark,
I confessed to be a spark.

It was all clear and hazy,
I was both empty and full.
The grip was strong yet lose,
The passion was growing yet fading,
I was laughing and crying,
I was smiling and smirking,
I was connected yet aloof...

I was yours and not,
The pain was mine and not,
Blinding love can be binding,
but it was neither blinding nor binding.

longing...
to succumb to the urge,
to fold into the foetal posture,
to cuddle up, to snuggle,
to envelop and be enveloped.

The water froze into cubes,
The cube melted in the warmth,
The cold lurking behind the warmth.
I too wanted to freeze, and melt,
become water again and flow.
I did freeze, melt, flow,
alternating between different states.
I evolved into a person I cannot identify with.
I am dazed, perhaps its just a phase.
I tread the path,alone;
I wander, alone; I explore, alone;
I experience the bouts of gregariousness, alone.

Where am I?
Give me back to 'me',
Please don't hold me there any more;
for I am not sure;
Is it right to question things? why not?
It is my right to seek the answers,
but whose duty is it to provide them?

Dark Room

The cobwebs of last night
linger on threateningly
While the dusty memories
refuse to budge
You wait for
the godforsaken light
The only welcome you get
is the cold, glaring sight
A frozen dew
keeps you company
In the midst of skeletons
you look for a sign of life
It disappoints you, yet again
with sinister delight
A wail, a scream
and you are back to reality
The blood-churling dream
was a far-off realm

Copyright©RiddhiManiar

For my Guru

Words fall short to describe the One
He who stops the wind
with the will of a storm
The One who serves Him
gets a taste of Heaven
In the chaos of life
he makes things right
I wonder how He entered
my mortal frame
He became the balm
to soothe my pain
The thorns were thrown
out of my path
He gently erased
my difficult past
He taught me
the Art of Living
I cherished it
so as to last
Even when I left his abode
I realized he had shared
with me a secret so precious
I sealed it in my
newly blossomed heart
As I carry it each day
with gratitude
a sincere wish arises
A wish to share it
with the rest
But something stalls
It is not meant to be
He has chosen me
for a purpose unknown
Time alone will tell
what I have to do
Till then, I keep basking
in the glow of his Divine Grace

Copyright©RiddhiManiar

The River Sutunga

Photography: Nairit Dey

The town where I grew up, is called, Mathabhanga. It is very small peaceful idyllic town, where life is slow, people are lazy and kids are happy since there is nothing to worry about except study.

Old people like this town very much, young people want a better education system and children play and watch television to be influenced by the popular culture. Sometimes their parents remind them that television is an entrainment box and if the kid wants to get into the box, they need to hone their skills like the prime time anchors, singers and 'stars' since they are doing it as professionals. So there is no other choice but to study. So here one studies and takes everything else as entertainment. Again while doing and growing up so some kids go frustrated and leave study for earning money. Some of them end up in becoming a driver, some open up small pan shops, some take care of their family businesses, some go to Kolkata for a better education and return hopeless to open a cybercafe, a bunch of them even go to South India after finishing the education in Kolkata for getting a better job and another bunch returns again to be school teachers, both primary and high school. And a very few aspires to be a state administrator, or a teacher in a college or university or to enter the IIT, Indian Institute of Technology and thus move abroad.


Many of these highly educated bunch call this idyllic place a backwater, which is true to many extents, for having a free and educated life of high thinking. But they never forget there is one river, Sutunga, which surrounds the whole town, always flows despite the lazy life of this town. She flows irrespective of whether a group of young boys take the first puff of cigarette by her bank, whether a young couple kisses each other hiding themselves in the catkin bush on her sandy stretch, whether an old teacher breathes fresh air during her evening walk along the riverside road, whether a bunch of people gossips regarding the latest political trends looking at floating and tied-up wooden boats on the babbling water, whether the hot film stars heat up a gossiping session of young fresh breezing chaps, who stop suddenly for a while when a young perfume passes by on a Lady Bird cycle without knowing the fact that the lady bird comes to the river bank to breathe more freedom everyday and whisper it out to someone. But hardly any one can hear. Only the river current never makes a mistake to listen to that whisper - 'freedom like babbling water' -of that lady bird and to carry it forward to the vast free bay of Bengal through Koch Bihar and Bangladesh.

P.S. Mathabhanga is a small town, on the top north Bangladesh border , in the district of Koch Bihar and the state of West Bengal, India.

Copyright©SaibalRay

Excerpt from a soul

“When the night is awake, I often wonder – what is happiness all about...
...Is it defined by your qualification, wealth, power, health and fame?
Or is the “so-called worthless things” that make life worth living – things like unexpected love, innocent smiles and noble gestures?

I wouldn’t know.

Life happens to us without our will
Coming from nothingness and melting into nothingness.
Then who makes the rules that place us in a certain category in society?
Who decides what is right and what is not?
What’s the correct way to live life?
And what the hell is idealism?

Well, I wouldn’t know.

Do we need to have a purpose in life?
A timetable planned by our limited hands to
keep us going against the tide.
And are we ever satisfied?

I couldn’t care less.”

Copyright©RiddhiManiar

I ran and I ran , I was looking for me...

I ran and I ran I was looking for me...

I came across a tree, 
I wondered how tall it could be,
A tall man standing underneath the tree, the sky, the clouds and the sun.
The sun and its rays, with which the iron blazed,
and a tiny plant raised for its feed.

I am blazed...I need my feed,
I hear a voice that haunts me,
another one that taunts me,
Waves go through the untouched, unrippled mind,
waking me up with a jolt.
Its just words, just words...
were they just words which touched me so deeply?
but there was more which went to the core and its still here, 
there is more, more than just words which caresses me so profoundly, 
but somewhere its just a brush, which leaves me craving for more;
I hog onto it, then I slog to put it away,
but it returns in full bloom with a new charm.

The screen appears and the tree disappears,
The tree flashes...with the beat of my eye lashes.
The eyes relax and in the darkness, the silver leaves of the tree come back, 
the closed eyes search for more,
there is something lurking behind that door...
Open the door...Open!...the voice says,
Its open now, its virtual now.
The tree is gone and the screen is on and I move on...
Blurred by exploration, doubting my courage and conviction,
I wonder shall I leave the door open?
I see a glimpse of the world from the creaks in the door,
but am I ready for more?

Drenched in sweat, after a dance with zest,
I lay down on the floor and stare at the moving fan , 
the evaporating sweat feels cool...but then a chill runs through me and tells me - I wanna be free...

The sounds, the voices, the words, the touch, the spark, the glow and the afterglow, soaks me in...
I am drowned, I am deep there, but then I surface and get a taste of reality...bitter, sweet,bitter...
The two states coalesce, blesses me with a solidifying grace;
Now the tree and screen are one.
The darkness falls in the blues, among the white...appears a thought loose;
Am I 'one'? Am I free? Am I 'me'?

I ran and I ran and I am still running....(to be free...to be 'me')

(P.S - my second attempt at poetry, the first was shared with one or two individuals only...this one was written in a trance like state, 2 lines...I slept for 5 min...another few lines another 5 min sleep...it was weird and this is what I came up with)

Cops and corpses

Of late, Top 5 lists have been a hit on Facebook. Catching the virus from friends, I too tried to come up with my list of Top 5 films that I would "watch over and over again". It is true that lists make me nervous, but I can assure you that that had nothing to do with the fact that there was just one Hindi film in my Top 5. And that film was "Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro".

I am not a child of the Bollywood generation. Thankfully. Perhaps it is a good thing that I grew up at a time — the Eighties and very Early Nineties... and then I think I stopped growing — when Bollywood churned out its lowest and most forgettable crop of films. Had I been a teenager in the late Nineties and early years of the new millennium, would I have thought very highly of "Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro"? Unlikely. I wonder if I would even have "discovered" it. A lot of young boys and girls I know haven't. They don't even know that it is possible to attempt social satire in films. It is either the Prakash Jha or Nana Patekar brand of "corruption-politics-moral bankruptcy" films, or the Johnny Lever brand of slapstick humour. To mangle a phrase from Dante's "Divine Comedy", the middle way has been well and truly lost, and we are in a very dark wood, methinks.

While I pause to thank Eighties Bollywood for all that it did (such as making me love "Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro") by not doing anything, I must also tell you that the rant you've just been through is only a preamble to more thoughts on "Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro" that I wrote for "The Telegraph" on the year of the film's silver jubilee in 2008.

So brace yourselves, I'm not quite done yet!

**********

When we were in school, and Doordarshan was our sole window to entertainment, there was a primetime programme called Eno Show Theme. It was a cluster of film clips, really, strung around a theme, let’s say, brothers-in-law, or police-chase. One evening at my grandparents’ house — my parents had decided that not buying a TV would be their contribution to my intellectual advancement — I caught an episode of Eno Show Theme. And in it I saw the Mahabharat sequence of Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro for the first time.

This was 1988, if I remember correctly — a good five years after Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro released. Come to think of it, I don’t know anyone who watched Jaane Bhi Do (this is what I shall call the film hereon, because it seems a sacrilege to call it JBDY in the way one says KANK or OSO these days) in the theatres when it had released in 1983.

The first film of Kundan Shah, even though it was full of raring-to-go young men and women, got a very modest response. I would like to think that it would have been different had I been old enough to go to theatres.

I saw the film a year or so after I saw the Mahabharat sequence, again on DD, and again at my grandparents’. I remember being disappointed, because the Show Theme clip hadn’t prepared me at all for the film’s dark underbelly. Neither could I catch the fun of the digs at people (Bhakti Barve’s Shobha Sen referring to glam-editor Shobha Dé), tributes to masters (Antonioni Park, where the murder of municipal commissioner DeMello is chanced upon, à la Blow Up), and the crazy ping-pong with names (cast and crew members (Vidhu) Vinod Chopra, Sudhir Mishra, Kundan Shah lending names to characters, Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyon Ata Hai becoming a secret code, and so on).

The larger part of the first viewing was spent waiting for Naseeruddin Shah (forcing himself on to the stage as Duhshasan) to say, “Draupadi jaisi sati nari ko dekh kar maine cheer-haran ka idea drop kar diya.”

The most slapstick scenes — Naseeruddin and Satish Kaushik talking to each other on the phone inside the same room, Om Puri entreating the dead-as-a-dodo Satish Shah to push his stranded car, or the entire cast running up and down the stairs of the guest house looking for DeMello’s body — gave the greatest delight. And I was convinced that the dead body which had such a strong will of its own would definitely come alive in the end and expose the dirty dealings of Tarneja, Ahuja, Srivastav & Co. (By the way, does anybody hold a candle to Satish Shah in playing dead on Indian screen? And has any Indian film toyed with the revolutionary idea of cross-dressing a dead body?).

Jaane Bhi Do as a political satire revealed itself much later, over subsequent viewings. The appeal of the physical comedy waned a bit, the power game became more apparent in the amorous exchanges between Bhakti Barve and Naseeruddin Shah, the women seemed too few and too negative, and the refrain of Hum honge kamyaab became an anthem for the naïve and sentimental Indian.

By the mid-Nineties, Jaane Bhi Do had already become distant by lightyears. The reason was not so much the years in between as the changes brought about by the opening up of the economy. Cynicism was replaced by feel-good. Small budgets meant an inability to think big. Investigative journalism in newspapers gave way to sting operations in the electronic media, but nobody remembered to thank the film which had shown the way.

In the sleek, polished world of Hindi cinema today, the street theatre feel and Eighties look of Jaane Bhi Do is a misfit. It is not as if we have left behind unscrupulous builders, corrupt public servants or opportunistic editors. It is just that our cinema chooses to hit out at them differently now. It summons Nana Patekar.

Jaane Bhi Do turns 25 this year. Not too old for Kundan Shah (the closest he came to Jaane Bhi Do was the DD serial Nukkad) to think of getting its cast and crew together again. And the group does have some of the best actors and technicians that Indian cinema has produced.

But do I want to see a sequel to Jaane Bhi Do? Thanks, but no thanks. For the same reason that I would not ask Maradona to take the field today and expect the 1986 magic.

Random Thoughts

I am sitting in the sprawling campus of the Art of Living Headquarters in Bangalore and am

pondering about life: about the many ways of living it. How black and how white is every life! Or

is it full of grays?A beggar who awaits the generous hand at every signal, whose priority in life is to make Rs. 40 a day and sleep peacefully at night, if the cops permit. The one, who smiles more genuinely than any being in the urban jungle and doesn’t have to think twice before doing the full Monty while dancing on the street.A businesswoman; who takes her luxuries for granted, plans her entire day only to mess up the schedule and take back home a parcel from Pizzeria and a Gucci, bagful of worries.A student who delves in books and believes that all the mugging up is going to help him make a mark in life and deal with the situations thrown at him. An apprentice, who is picking the ropes of the corporate world, gradually moving from idealism to reality. He, who blows away his smart-earned money, clubbing and making it the truth of his existence. A mother, whose sole goal is to watch the soaps on TV and add some melodrama to her mundane routine.A pair of Siamese twins, getting separated without their will. A Tibetan monk, who has devoted his entire life to the cause of peace.A clerk, whose most ambitious dreams include owning a two-wheeler.A politician in the midst of a controversy… an author who is striving to create a niche… a prostitute who lives by the nights… a divorcee in need of a spouse… an unemployed man looking for a lead… a chef rolled up in his dishes… a social worker living for the rest… a fanatic giving vent to his faith…Numerous lives; innumerable outlooks. Who is to say which one is right and wrong? Who cares whether you waste it or spend it wisely? Is there free-will or just destiny? Is your reality an illusion for someone else? Is the creator just pulling the strings of your puppet-like mortal form?I left my thoughts dangling in mid-air and continued walking towards the truth of my time.

Copyright©RiddhiManiar

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