Our House.

I don’t remember much of the early years in Mumbai. I’m supposed to, since I was born there, but I don’t. I remember a dusty, hot as hellfire ride in my grandpa’s fiat to Pune. I remember getting lost the first night we went out for dinner,driving around on unlit roads without a soul in sight who we could question.

We navigated our way home by the silhouettes of three hills. Dr. Grant’s on the main road, and the hill near Mount Carmel and the last one, which housed the main Parsi well of Silence. A plot of land at the base of that hill later became the site for the house my grandpa built.

For me it was a palace that was waiting to be lived in. I used to trudge down to it, every single day while it was being built and sit in the middle of the dirt, the cement and bricks and watch the bricklayers build walls in fascination for hours on end. Plastering was another favorite bit of mine,I loved the detailing involved.

The fencing came last. Actually, it came a year later, I guess, because my grandpa was broke and couldn’t get the fence up along with the house. So, it kind of followed after a year, when part of the house was rented out. Later, with the rent we received and the extra hands, immigrants from Iran who were students in Pune, the fence was put up.

I remember getting my palms scratched and causing more hassle then help, but,it was all worth it for the food that followed and the even more blissful siesta.

The first time I entered the house, after it was built was at sundown.

I wasn’t alone, a snake entered the underbrush alongwith me and left me blithering in fear. Ditto feeling the next morning when I was hypnotized by the chameleon grasping the wall,as I was about to leave for school. It changed so many colors in the ten minutes I waited for it to leave, I was convinced it was magical and would morph into something huge and devor me, if I went too close. But, the scariest were the vultures who waited outside the house. Neatly in a row. They’d be lined up by the base of the hill waiting for the next corpse to come to the well of silence. Then, the entire hillside would be littered with bones, craniums, teeth, jawbones…and the kites circling in the sky.

In all this, was my beloved house, that was surrounded by trees. And that truly made it special to me. The coconut, the chickoo tree, the pomegranate tree, the non fruit bearing litchi tree, the flower bearing Bakul tree, the gardenias, the red and white guava tree, the mango tree, the banana tree, the champaka tree, the mogras, the jasminum, and the drumstick tree. To top it all off, there were the wild roses, pink, heady, and so delicate, the petals fell off, if you inhaled too hard or deep.

I remember working like a farm hand over those plants and trees. I remember helping my grandpa climb up the drumstick tree, holding on to the ladder and praying he would not fall, which he invariably did, without breaking a bone. I wondered why we didn’t have help to do all that, but I guess at that age watching your grandpa fall off a ladder is also quite an interesting sight, so it must have overshadowed all other thought.

Every year, our house would be inundated by sheep, which traveling nomads brought along with their carts. They would park themselves at the fringes of the mountain and get their sheep out to graze. I thought it was the Wild West and pretty much behaved as if I was protecting my homestead against them.

I brought home at least four puppies till the fifth one miraculously was allowed to stay. That’s when I truly appreciated a house with a yard. I could play hide and seek with my dog, I could bring his baby sister, who lived in the neighbor’s house over and later when my dog needed nightouts with other dogs, he could always get in and out through a hole in the fence.

I don’t think I ever wondered, thought, or imagined what it took my grandparents and the adults to run our house in terms of maintainence, money and so on and so forth. That was not stuff I thought about. I just remember it being solace, a place to get to and flop down, read, moon about, listen to music, watch spectacular sunsets, and equally

fierce rainstorms. I wanted to get married there, but somehow got talked out of it. Though, I do believe the house had it in it to host a wedding.

Years later, my daughter went to Pune with my mom. A first, to celebrate a first. By then the house had gone from being my grandparents’ abode to being a piece of real estate, a property and a bone of contention. The stuff I really cared about, the people I really cared about were no longer there. My grandpa’s edition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula was missing, my grandma’s paintings were untraceable and my mutt was long dead.

Today evening, one of my lovely friends from school called me to tell me, that she had bought a house built on the plot of land at the base of the former Parsi Well of Silence. And all at once, I was happy that my former home would be inhabited once again.

The Daksh Effect.

I feel for Daksh, really I do.
I mean, all he was doing was just being who he was.
He was nestled in this mountain kingdom, enjoying all the bounties and nature, feeding his megalomania, that he somehow was responsible for it all. More a man to take credit, less a custodian, he was oblivious to certain things.
First off, he seemed unaware of the fact, that even if you actually give birth to a kid, you can’t claim any credit for anything that they do, or say or think or feel. Of course, you do get promptly blamed for any crap that hits the proverbial ceiling and that comes with the territory.
Now in case, the divine authorities or birth registry has ordained, that you are going to find your offspring during a symbolic ploughing of the earth, that pretty much indicates, convention has gone out of the window.
Anyway, let’s give him that one. He was a first time dad, after all. Perhaps, he didn’t realize that parenting isn’t just about birthing, or unearthing a child, as in his case. He never imagined I suppose, that his daughter would have a mind of her own and the capacity to use it. I am sure, the naysayers would counter that with a long list of texts and ancient scriptures that he had learnt by rote, committed to memory and could quote at the right moment, to impress others and himself. However, he didn’t have the benefit of being shown by countless pediatricians, parents, and children, that each child is different and deserves the respect of being treated likewise.
So, ignoring all the signs of her individuality and intelligence, when she chooses the Mahadev as her mate, he is shocked beyond belief. Mortified, actually. How can the Lord of destruction possibly aspire to being his daughter’s husband? For Daksh, that was all he was. Not the lord and master of chaos, dance, arts, androgyny, a man so cool, he would be dubbed Mahadude by Bachi Karkaria, no less and be associated with the universal act of lighting up (And I don’t mean a cigarette).

Since this is a story based on hearsay, and from many sources, I won’t go any further. Most people know as much as I do, if not more. There is a takeaway, though. Ignore what your kid wants, needs and asks for and you will rue it.
Often by losing your child and reputation, like Daksh did.
Often by the everlasting feeling that one has been totally negligient and would do anything to have that beloved child back.

For Uno.

Dreamz.

The dream was recurrent. And always the same. She was  sitting on a mountaintop.  There were mountains all around her. A huge wall of them,  like sentinels.  They were mighty, and made her feel minor and humble in comparison. What scared her, was that in the past few weeks she had been looking forward to seeing the dream. Feeling the peace and isolation of the mountains, and wishing herself away from city life.

Wishing away the ring that glinted on her finger and reminded her, that she had promised someone the rest of her life. And passion, and sympathy, and interest.  And her true involvement, in life and its associated functions.

Though  her functions as a human being didn’t suffer, she knew that somewhere, her mind had moved into auto pilot mode. Things were happening, jobs being done, without her really getting into the nitty gritties.  Nor were feelings being expended…. No problem… till she saw a shadow of hurt in his eyes.

Maybe, that was what  had prompted her to make a few calls.  And wait in an Irani restaurant , with a cup of too sweet tea before her.  She was waiting for some answers, and a man. When he came through the door,  she had to make an effort to quell the uneasiness that rose within her.  Coming face to face with the past is always tough. In this case, since it wasn’t her own past,  she was aware of the fine line she was treading.

He sat down facing her.  He would always be Uncle to her. She greeted him using that word, never wondering about the lack of a formal relationship. He seemed older, paunchier, and yet his smile was as open as it used to be, his handshake, as heartening, as she remembered.

Her memories, of him were of a man who tended the land. He’d been an army man who never seemed at home in army garb. Somehow, his linen shirts and khaki trousers, that he favoured in his farming seemed more natural. It had seemed natural, that along with growing food and exotic crops, he would grow a plot of sunflowers and roses.  Just for the colour and smell. She wished, she could narrow it down to that, smell, touch, colour, taste….and yet, so much of her life was artificial, and the needs that she professed were her own.

“ How’re things with you?” He asked, really curious, and a bit uneasy too. It had been a long time, since they had met.

Things had not been too good with her the past year. Her mother had passed away and her father was showing every sign of his inherited Alzheimer’s.

“ Fine, I’m getting married”. She smiled, automatically, as she accepted his congratulations  which she knew were heartfelt. With him, one could be sure, he had no hidden agendas, or facades. Something she had always loved, but now, it irritated her. She pulled out the packet from her purse. It was a wedding invitation. He opened it. The design reminded him of the cards that were designed back in his day. The words inside, hit him hard.

“ This is  unfair,” he said.

“ I know, but I had no alternative. “  She picked  up her mobile,  not wanting to look  him.

But he would have none of it. He insisted on looking into her eyes and telling her what she dreaded, the truth. Some truths, are for oneselves, they help  make one better, stronger. Some truths are better left unsaid, and then there  is the category, which needs confirmation. As it seems so unbelievable, unacceptable…totally foreign to one’s thoughts and feelings.

She didn’t need to know the truth about her parents ever, she had seen it and lived with them. They were happy enough, with flashes of real love.  She did wonder, what would have happened, if the words on the invitation card had come true and her mother had married this gentle voiced man. Or was it a truth, that she didn’t need to know?

“You should know, that she was a lovely person. And I always wished the best for her.”

That she’d known, as a child. He’d been  a part of their lives. Helped at parties, been the guiding force of vacations, at his farm. He’d taught them  to do things that no one teaches a  city kid, but which someone nourish the soul . Even much later.

“I still remember how much fun it was, growing those seed melons”. She  hesitated, because now, was the difficult part .  Could she tell him of her dream?

“ I’ve been thinking of going back to nature,  myself” He looked at  her quizzically. She was the one, who cribbed most as a child for city comforts, and wanted her favourite meals, while her siblings snacked on organic, homegrown stuff.  Besides, she always chose the lightest tasks, so she wouldn’t get calloused hands.

He lit a cigarette. She looked at his hands, strong, capable, and wondered why he had never cradled his own children in them.

“Didn’t you  ever want to get married? I mean, later…” She faltered, at his level look. It wasn’t any of her business, but she could recall the feeling of aloneness in the dream. It had seemed so comforting, not having to worry about another  person,  or thing. It had seemed almost selfish, that kind of solitude.

“No “. He didn’t elaborate, and she had the feeling that was as far as he would indulge her.  Still , she had to try.

“Don’t you feel, you should have married, passed on your fine qualities, you know, kept a bit of yourself, forever?”

“Nothing lasts forever, not even our memories. Besides, I don’t mind being forgotten. I wanted to live a particular way, and it didn’t seem fair to force that on another.”   He took the next few drags in silence.

“I’m sorry, I’ve had this misplaced feeling, that you could have been my father, so I wanted to…” She waited, for his response.

“ I’m not your father.  But I do know why we are having this conversation.  So tell me.”

She had hoped to ask him questions. Turned out, that she had all the answers.

The dream was recurrent. And always the same. She was sitting on a mountaintop. There were mountains all around her.   A huge wall of them, like sentinels. They were mighty and made her feel safe, like  a welcome respite, once in a while.

Something special .

                  She sat apart from the other children, in the class. I noticed that and wondered why the school administrator had not told me anything.  I was volunteering at my daughter’s school and had received two sets of instructions.

From the school  administrator it was words of experience, telling me to take it easy on myself, and the kids. Get  to know them , and find a space where they would be willing to listen to me.

From my daughter, there was more practical advice. She told me exactly where and how the date should be written on the blackboard. She also said that I should see which kid responds  during the roll call. Apparently, the fear of the teacher knowing one’s name can work wonders for class discipline!

So, when I called out Divya’s name, I looked up and found her seated in  a corner, at her own table. The other children were sitting together at  a single table, in the center.

I was about to ask why, when I saw the brace wrapped  around her leg. The leg itself was skinny and did not seem capable of much. I started with the lesson plan. I tried not to be extra attentive to her, since the other children seemed to accept her presence, without much fanfare.

During the recess, Divya was escorted by one of her  friends to the play area. That’s when I saw her in action. Playing tag, with a friend holding on to her. Somehow, there was always someone to help. Then moving on to carrom, and playing well enough to make me envious….and finally, settling down to the boring task of eating her tiffin.

Over the next few days,  I made the acquaintance of the rest of the class. I met Raghav, who wears a discreet hearing aid, and speaks in a kind of blurred voice. His meaning is clear from his expression. In addition to his studies, he attends speech therapy sessions in the school. The other children know exactly what he means, and if they don’t understand, they never stared at him blankly.

I met Protima, who is borderline autistic, and passes for normal, except for the fact that she prefers her solitary rapelling classes to being with others . Again, she is accepted and given her own space.

I sometimes wonder about parents who have children with special needs. Or schools which cater to those special needs. How does it all work out?

Seeing someone special up close leads to understanding , empathy and removing most of the misconceptions that one has.

Divya, Raghav and Protima  learn how to live in a regular world. Their teachers are their classmates, who help them to aspire to higher goals, without self pity. Conversely, their classmates learn the  virtues of patience, reaching out and  empathy.

By the end of my stint in the school, I learnt the true meaning of intergrated education . I came away with the feeling that I had witnessed something special.

A look at love.

Does it get any easier, if the two people in love belong to the same sex? Apparently not.
For in Brokeback Mountain,two cowboys played by Heath Ledger and James Gyllenhal
struggle through the heart aches, the joys and the sorrow of being in love , that any couple would experience.

Ang Lee who has earlier been credited with elegant masterpieces like Pride and Prejudice
and Sense and Sensibility, shifts to the beautiful though wild terrain of Montana. His movie is a dramatic, and sensitive screen rendition of a short story by Annie Proulx.

Two cowboys meet and spend an idyllic summer together. They part, to get on with life, marriage and kids. Only to find that some things don’t submit to duty and the dictates of society and that the heart, is one such thing.

Four years down the line, they rekindle a flame which never really died out. One of them (Gyllenhal) accepts, his love and inclinations , while the other chooses to ignore them ( Ledger). The resultis a life half lived and the
sinking feeling, by the end of the movie, that life is’t kind, if one doesn’t follow through on the chances it casts our way.

Although the protagonists are two men, in love, the fact is the issues are those which arise in almost every relationship. When Ledger is accused of being uncommunicative, when he distances himself emotionally from any relationship that threatens to touch him, it gave me a sense of deja vu. The same words, the same feelings exist wherever there is an involvement.

Hollywood stereotypes gay characters. I guess Indian filmmakers can heave a sigh oif relief over that. But this movie, looks at the question of sexual identity and makes the characters appear,real, live and anguished by the choice that their orientation makes them take.

The cinematography is excellent. The initial part of the movie is shot in the scenic beauty of Montana
which appears untamed and provides the perfect backdrop for a pair of lovers to discover each other.
The city is portrayed bleakly, and it’s no wonder, that the cowboys resort to fishing trips to catch up
with each other.

Heath Ledger is excellent as the “guy” of the twosome. He’s brusque, sets the tone of the
relationship and won’t bide by any impulsive behaviour.
James Gyllenhal shines through as the emotional, more accpeting, “easier on himself” partner.
His performance is truly poignant and strikes a chord.

Middle Of The Road.

If you want to keep something unchanged, don’t use it, too much.

It’s true, at least where crockery is concerned. But she was human and thought that the change would add to her character. She was a bit weird that way.

So, as her life progressed, she put it thru as many changes as she could think of. Some momentous, others she wished she could forget. But of course she didn’t. She remembered them all, until they were a part of her and seen as wrinkles or smile lines on her face.

When her fortieth birthday slid firmly into place, she was surprised by her reaction to this change. Why didn’t it seem welcome?

Why did this change make her nostalgic and teary eyed? The nostalgia was flattering, but not accurate. She gave that up for her usual, brisk stance. She got on with the dull job of making the new change a part of her life.

She no longer could take her figure for granted, or her charm. All she had and could bank upon was her brain and mind.

And somehow, at forty, those things seemed a bit measly.

In the time honored tradition of people who are given changes, rather than making them, on their own, she grudged this one. She was squirming, internally, aching to do something to thumb her nose at this change that had come forcing it’s way into her life.

The opportunity came in the guise of a young man, who joined on as an apprentice at her ad agency. At first glance he seemed nice enough, not too threatening, or macho in the old world way. Not comfortable like her husband, who after years of being taken  care of by women, was being nurturing towards his wife and daughters.

In fact, the young man seemed like he could do with a change, which would send him from an ordinary young intern, into ad executive mood.

She felt that she could be that change. And it began.

Through the years, her style  of being  woman had changed. In her early teens, she had been an innocent. Her twenties saw her as a busy woman, brisk, and focused, if a bit abrupt at times. In her early thirties, she became the woman, she really was inside.

Efficient, with a light, deft touch. Compassionate with loads of humor. And …an incorrigible flirt.

In no time, the young man was dazzled. Of course, by her ability and her attitude and the fact  that her smile made him want to smile right back. Besides,  he wasn’t a fool and if she was offering , he wasn’t going to say no to the boss.

Things had definitely changed since the last time she went out with a man, and with this one, it was all very quick.

Her first date with the young man was also going to be her weekend away with him.

Was that too much for someone like her? She wondered as she drove down to their designated meeting place. She didn’t want to drive down with him , it was too close to her family outings. It had to be isolated, a moment in itself, with no resemblance to any other.

She came over a steep rise on the road, and was greeted by a spectacular sunset over the sea. Great performance, she thought, a bit detached from it all. Surf surging in, and the waves meeting the shore. The sky was the most shamelessly blue color, not held back by pollutants or other stuff.

She pulled in to an old colonial house, which was almost deserted. Was this a hotel?

She mentally chided herself for leaving accomodations up to him.

He was a young man, and comforts away from home wouldn’t matter that much to him.

But she was a woman , had been one, for that matter a long time, and she knew what she wanted, needed to do this right. Music, clean sheets, good food, ….

He stepped out on to the verandah, and she was struck by the fact that he seemed so much at home here. A wave of tenderness welled up and she walked up to him and hugged him

A real hug, holding tight and feeling the bones and muscles under his clothes, feeling his scent, and facing the fact, that he would never understand what prompted this contact…

He looked at her, a bit quizzical, and asked her if she wanted something to eat.

Come to think of it, he had done a great job, providing a meal, wine, and music.

All cooked by an old crone who ran this place. He chose it for privacy, and she suspected, to keep some sense of magic about it all. And that reassured her.

Later they visited a fort, in the sea, under the moonlight. She listened as he spoke to the boat man , happy to be silent. Maybe it was a habit from years of being married, but it seemed to appeal to this young man too. She smiled a bit, thinking of the early years of her marriage when she was full of things to say and how much it had exasperated her husband.

Only later, she learned how to say what she wanted in one-liners, which of course helped her career too.

They stopped at a massive stone in the middle of the sea. The sailboat was moored and the young man leapt ashore, turning to give her a hand. Somehow, that seemed too intimate. She had not been vulnerable or taken anyone’s help in a long time.

She didn’t miss the wry glance he gave her when she clambered ashore on her own.

The door of the fort was hewn into the rock. There was an African lion etched into the rock. She stared at the image, stirred for some reason. He stood next to her, and they both looked at the silvery light the moon had bathed the door with. There was a natural opening in the roof of the doorway, and the moonlight streamed in. She teared up.

“I shall never forget this moment, being here, seeing this with you”.

He looked at her, a gentle look on his face, as if he had slept well. He didn’t smile much, she had wondered about that. But, he didn’t let her ask the question and took her arm.

They walked into the fort and were met by a man who was the government appointed guide.

She walked away as the young man chatted and smoked with the guide. There were turrets which looked out at the sea. They were huge, and the floor was covered by sand. Three sides of the turret had huge openings out to the sea.

“The king who lived here monitored the sea, thru these turrets”. The young man came and sat down beside her.

She liked that he had an attention to detail. Even if his heart got broken, he would appreciate the finer points of it all, the pain and the heightened feelings.

He slid an arm around her, and the way he did so, startled her. it was self assured

As if he could and should. She looked at him intently. Is one man so different from another? She’d be as vulnerable to him as she was to her husband, and she didn’t know how her now old heart would deal with it.

He would see her as she was now , without having seen her grow into her now slightly voluptuous, no longer elastic as velvet body.

Some of that must have shown in her face. He bent down and nuzzled her cheek.

“It’s okay, we’ll both be okay. It’s all good”.

They sat and listened to the sound of the sea pounding against the rocky shore. The whooshing of the waves rushing was mesmerizing and the sound of land meeting sea

was almost erotic. She lay back on the sand, and let go, of the last of her thoughts and

anything else that would stop her in that moment.

She woke up, with sand in her hair and him putting her clothes right. She watched as he tenderly smoothed down her kurta and helped her up. Incongruously, she missed having a son at that point.

She wished later, that she had not insisted on calling her husband, as soon as she got to the room. But she needed to hear his voice. It was strange, to her, but he dialed the number on his mobile, as easy as you please and offered it to her.

Afterwards, she tried to apologise. But he wouldn’t let her, it seemed he knew what she wanted to tell him. He realized that this wasn’t personal, neither was it meaningless, but she knew who she was, as he did.

There wasn’t a dramatic end to the story. They didn’t have a love that was given up, they didn’t get all dewy eyed over each other. But they saved each others numbers, and whenever he had to go somewhere and needed to be woken up early, he asked her to call him.

Some things never change. Friendships are one of them.

Flamboyant and familiar.

 

                     As  a young girl in Pune, I used to learn Hindustani  music. My  guruji  had lost his vision  years ago and learnt to cope in a world of sound, touch and smell. I still  remember him listening to me intently as I sang the des raag or  played the raag bhupali. He did not accept a false note and was quick to correct a less than genuine effort. He knew which raag was my favourite, and when I played it, would settle back to enjoy .

The taal was always a bit of  a problem. I wondered how he would test me on them. Simple. He told me to play the taal on his palm. He felt and heard the beats. To him, my biggest strength was that I could catch on to the beat of the tabla, and play harmoniously. He was an awesome teacher.

A few months ago, I thought the same thing, as I sat in a theatre  slapping my  fingertips against the base of my palm . I was producing a treble beat , for a flamenco performance. The artist was a lady  called Rosanna Maya. According to her introduction, she was no longer a dancer,  since she taught dance. The audience was being taught the difference between the bass and treble beats and she was dancing to them. If we did not do a great job, her performance suffered.

So the entire auditorium performed the function of the palmeros ( people who produce the beat  in flamenco). The movements of flamenco and the jota ( pronounced hota)  are fluid, honey hipped, the female versions at least.  They reminded me of my mother as she practiced kathak. The stomping of the feet in flamenco  is quite like the footwork in kathak, and follows the beat rather than melody. The hands move gracefully, lightly, yet radiating energy , telling a story without words thru actions and expression. The story of the flamenco and the jota is one of rebellion, a call from the human spirit against oppression. Spain, the birth place of the flamenco was under the Turks, for a long time. The people of Spain performed the dance in defiance of a foreign rule. Like all good art, it was about daring to evoke  words, that can be understood by those who have a similar point of view. And again like good art , it was about self expression, not popularity. That it became popular is a testament to it’s undiluted sincerity and the beliefs of its followers.

The image that the flamenco evokes is that of the horse. Proud, self willed…so the head movements mimic the tossing of the mane. The feet are stomped  to produce the clopping of the hoofs. The chest is held up and straight, to recreate the noble arch of the horse’s neck. Wild horses cannot be held prisoner against their will, neither can people, particularly, those who forget their differences and come together.

Rosanna is a South African, who travels the world teaching the flamenco. She  learnt it as a young dance student in Spain. In her characteristic   gently humourous  style she called a few people on the floor and told them to follow the beats and her. She praised , cajoled and told them to feel the essence of the dance- believe that one is amazing and use that strength to perform, not for applause but for oneself.                                                                                           I guess, teachers  the world over are the same, they teach by inspiration and tapping the enormous potential we all have within.  They strike a chord  that is both  flamboyant and familiar.

The One.

Okay. So,a quick nod to tradition.
He always comes first, you know.
Whatever you’re making a debut at,
he’s the one who gives more power to your elbow and keeps you at the grind.
He’s got the unique right of being master of ceremonies,
no matter what the ceremony.
And no matter what the occasion,
he gives it a sense of ceremony.
Not that it was all fun and games.
Well, not always.
Neither was he of what you might call immaculate parentage.
Cloned. A product of his mother’s imagination.
A mamma’s boy, if ever there was one.
And yet he was gutsy enough to challenge his mom’s husband to a fight.
And get his head knocked off for his trouble.
Only to re-emerge as the king of mutants, when his dad
(yes, he came around in characteristic impulsive style)
replaced his lost head with the head of an elephant.
All those with troubled childhoods will sympathise, empathise and see a reflection in him.
They will also see that hardship need not make you hard.
You could be resilient, compassionate and make things happen for others, as he does.
I could continue to gush, but I guess, I will stop now,
By saying he comes first, and continues to aid efforts which bring truth, beauty and freedom to life.
You know who you are.
Pratham Tula Vandito.

Simply Seminal.

The  Original Thought.

                 A visit to a convent’s graveyard , the sight of centuries old bones piled up in a corner and the legend of a twelve year old saint, with  hair as long as a bridal train……..these were the things that proved to be the origin of the book “ Of love and Other Demons” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The author was stirred by  them and voila, his brain, imagination, intuition kicked in to create a small but perfectly  formed book, with characters that are real, fatalistic and universal.

What defines a classic piece of work? Or an original one? Many things, a lot of them to do with major amount of work on the part of the creator. But what makes a piece of work so special, that people turn to it time and again, age no bar, sex no bar and generation …who cares? For some works of art, literature, music, cinema and poetry can fulfill a void, or speak the unspoken words of anybody, anywhere in the world.  They are examples of an original thought at work.

If the work is personal, coming from a really deep and true place, it can strike a universal chord. Or if it is about a real emotion, which one can’t obfuscate or talk around.

The original thought exists in every mind. Except that most of us don’t get around to it. Many reasons, most of them concerned with  convenience . So, the instinct to be true to oneself gets dulled, no practice. Mediocrity follows, as a matter of course.

“Trikaal “ was made by Shyam Benegal, in the early eighties. It was a brilliant movie, on the Goan freedom struggle. Goa  was a Portuguese territory and the transfer of power to India came in a manner that was bloody and uncertain . The film depicts the life of a Goan family, and its dependents, friends in such a  climate. The tone that Mr. Benegal struck with this movie was rare, like a poignant Portuguese “fada” ( ballad). It was an original in terms of treatment, with the narrative going back and forth in time. It was also unrepentantly human in it’s approach and did not create a pretty reality. Did Mr. Benegal look at box office success?…..Somehow, I doubt it. He had a story to tell, and he did so, in his own, unique way.

Playing to the gallery is not a concern of original thought. The only concern is expression. You have something to say, you say it. Nothing else matters.  By virtue of sacrificing  the need for an audience , original thought  remains free and true.

Popularity can be heady. A label can be comfortable. A reputation has it’s own rewards. But what if something original and amazing also has a new flavour? Or is difficult to categorize? Categories are convenient. You need to have them to classify books, people, jobs, ….. the list goes on. Then, there is a singer like Mary Chapin Carpenter, who is difficult to categorize. She sings songs about the moon, lost loves, dance halls, 9/11, unemployment, Halley’s commet….in a variety of musical styles. She is neither country western nor Bluegrass. She’s a bit of rhythm and blues, a bit of country, but minus the self pity. She is an original, and tough to place in music store shelves.  But she has a loyal core of listeners, who visit her music and the place it takes them to, regularly.

Original thought has  admirers, many of  whom may not be in total agreement , but understand the spirit of needing to be true  to something. I remember a line in the movie “ Breakfast  at Tiffany’s” . It goes, “ She is a phony, but a real phony”.  The other kind of admirer, who agrees totally, may use the original thought, as an inspiration and take off from  there. So, you have a Quentin  Tarrantino creating a Kill Bill, from the Shaolin movies. Or a Pedro Almodvar who  creates a movie about mothers,  based on characters he has seen the actress Gena Rowlands play. Or the graphic novels of Frank Miller may inspire a movie by Roberto Rodriguez. In all cases, the acknowledgements are sincere and unabashed.

Thoughts which are not bound by “ shoulds” have a good chance of making it to the original post. People who work on their original thoughts have a good chance of reaching self awareness. In the  process, they leave markers for others to follow, or reject. The process doesn’t get hampered by  lack of acceptance, or get bogged down by the demands of a consumer.

The Last Temptation Of Christ .

This is a strange movie for an Italian to make. That was my first thought. But thru this movie, Martin Scorsese, has spoken of the faith that is the building block of religion, and those who profess  faith. God may have created the world, but people created religion.

Jesus was one of the people, who lived life tormented by his own peculiar demon, the voice of God. It drove him from home, despite his fears, to face his weakness and renounce it. Mary Magdalene, the dream of a family, love, are all cast aside . Universal love takes their place.

Sermons  on being kind, nonviolent and pacifist follow, much to the disdain of Judas. He is a hands on guy, and would prefer some consistency in his friend who now doubles as his master. In the manner of the true believer, he is strong, and unswerving. Often, his faith is the only anchor that Jesus will have, in his job description as Messiah to the people. Judas sees a method, where others see only ranting and madness.

Spirituality does seem like madness at times. For why would anyone shun the material world to seek something that is intangible, uncertain in origin and of no material value? Jesus has to answer this question often, during his travels. His motivation  is questioned , as are his goals. Invariably , his answer is a poignant ” I don’t know”.

Luckily, God knows the answers. His voice has guided Jesus thru spreading the word of love, to forcefully cutting out evil from the world, to entering places of worship and denouncing them as markets. It now   tells Jesus, that the next step is martyrdom.

If being a Messiah is a difficult job, being a martyr is worse. For while a  Messiah  believes his message will change lives, a martyr has to  believe that his death will  effect a change in the world order. The death,  however would be a humiliation, as it would be accepted with open arms not fought against.

Jesus does fight against the inner voice, which is that of a tyrannical father, and tolerates no dissension. He is tempted by the prospect of being a man . The thought of leaving his mark behind in the form of his children, is a soothing dream. Jesus succumbs to the respite, only to discover that his memory in the collective conscious has endured.

So has Judas, and his accusing  words bring Jesus back to  the righteous path. The spirit wins.

A chronicler  sets down material , in a non provocative, neutral, easy to understand manner. A writer has the uneasy task of interpreting reality, and putting it down, to be read and agreed with, or banned. The story of Jesus Christ, as chronicled in the Bible, is the story of a powerful entity, a miracle worker, a son of God. The  reality of Jesus as interpreted by Nikos Kazantzakis, is that of a mild mannered carpenter, who stumbled thru obscurity and struggled to keep up with the demands of deification. Martin Scorsese gives the words images,  the  landscape of the mind is sketched, and the phenomenon of being human is brought to celluloid.