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Saturday, June 30, 2018

Lust Stories


Just watched the new Netflix original Lust Stories made by the same quartet of directors who had done Bombay Talkies, and which I had enjoyed. This too is a four in one, and touted to be, if you go by the review in The Telegraph of Kolkata, about lust from the woman’s perspective, and what is more important, does not shame her but makes her feel more liberated, more powerful.

I found the first story delightful in a cynical way. The young woman says she is wary about men with whom she has one-night stands, because they get attached and emotional too easily, and start stalking her and attempting to control her life and making a nuisance of themselves in every possible way: they apparently lack the maturity to ‘take it and leave it’ as every smart, modern, liberated person should. Then she turns  around and behaves in exactly the way she says she despises in men as soon as she has bedded a very young man – who happens to be one of her students in college – she haunts him, follows him around, rings him up incessantly, screams at him at every imagined slight, tries her utmost to break up his other relationship because she cannot bear to see him with another female, even at a restaurant, and yet, when he, embarrassed and shocked and guilty for no real fault of his own, offers to make her his permanent one and only, snaps at him without  a trace of self-consciousness ‘Are you mad? I am a married woman!’ I do hope that the writer/director has been trying to tell us precisely what I have been saying all my adult life: there is nothing universally good about women, many of them can be just as crazy and unpleasant as the worst of men. And I wonder whether it was a deliberate stroke of artistry to show that highly unstable and immature characters like that can become teachers these days... one last thing that this mini-movie brought to mind is something that I have been alternately laughing and grimacing over for quite some time now – the way people all over the world have gone stark, raving mad about ensuring whether or not the sex was consensual, the time is not far off when all men who know what is good for them will get audio recorded- (or better still, written and signed) statements from their about-to-be partners in bed that it was just so, even their own wives, preferably every time they are thinking of doing it, and file the growing mass of paper away in a burglar-proof safe for the day when they will be called for in court.  Watch the movie to find out which scene I am talking about (and one very personal take: Radhika Apte is ageing fast and not gracefully, unless the makeup man was told to present her that way).

The second story is very real, very common, and very sad. The domestic help pleasures her employer in bed and hopes that something like a good and lasting relationship might come of it, only to see a match being fixed up for him right before her eyes, and he going around as if she has ceased to exist, entirely insouciant and unapologetic. I know just how she feels, as did Tagore – in more than one poignant story (The Postmaster and The Castaway spring immediately to mind) he has shown how the slighted party feels, how it can happen to either gender and regardless of age, and how there is no help for it; the victim has to grin and bear it. Which is exactly what Sudha does when she bites into the mithai and smiles resignedly if a trifle ruefully to herself before deciding to move on. The sex bit is actually irrelevant unless you are a prurient teen regardless of your physical age. Which is of course actually a very common type of adult in India still (you should see the prudish and ignorant mother in the fourth movie who came to yell at the schoolteachers for not scolding her daughter for chatting on Facebook and giving her ‘bad books’ – Lolita – to read), but that is neither the director’s fault nor mine.

The third story is about a failing marriage and the woman finding solace in the arms of her husband’s lifelong best friend. The husband, though overtly more assertive and domineering, is actually much the weaker character (haven’t I seen far too many!), and the woman, as portrayed by Monisha Koirala, is not a very sympathetic character either. I doubt very strongly whether this can actually be called one of the ‘lust’ stories, because the lovers seem neither to get much pleasure out of the sex nor to be too eager about it; I would have said they are in it because they have found true companionship, but the man is not keen on making new, deep commitments which conflict with an old one, to wit the friendship, and in any case the curtain drops over ambiguity, because the woman tells the lover that her husband has ordered ‘this must end’ and goes back with and to him... the reviewer in The Telegraph called this one the ‘most mature’ story, but I think I am much older than she and have seen much more of the world, and to me it remained very unclear what the whole point was, unless it was simply to show that lots of people are caught up in nasty relational tangles and have no real idea how to get out of them, though they might thrash around like landed fish for a while. Yes, indeed, such is life, whether you are filthy rich or not.

The last one is the most hilarious, though one cannot miss the sadness. But at least there is hope here. The young husband cannot sufficiently satisfy his new bride, and she finds a better substitute for him in a vibrator (the woman from whom she had filched it had called it her real husband: this one character at least was in-your-face about not wanting much out of marriage beyond sex), but unfortunately drops a bomb in the household while doing it, and it nearly comes to a divorce, were it not that the husband wants to see if the marriage can be made to work, still, because he has apparently fallen in love. What a pity that so many marriages remain loveless and unfulfilling in this country for reasons like this, simply because ‘nice people’ prefer not to talk about ‘such things’ if they can help it, whereas a little bit of honesty and candour would quickly bring a happy resolution via the doctor’s prescription or a shrink’s counsel. I wonder whether the juxtaposition of sharply contrary women’s views was inadvertent or not, but it is good to see that we are beginning to acknowledge in a forum as public as the cinema that while many women still think that having children is the be all and end all of a woman’s life, there are many others who think it’s all about sex and nothing else. I have never been able to decide which is the more pathetic, the more revolting attitude.

Nice though not unforgettable cinema, slickly made, provoking thoughts that I had and shared thirty and more years ago. But I wonder about that reviewer’s opinion. It is good if this sort of thing does not shame women any more – I have never really believed that shyness (lojja) is woman’s ornament, and have seen that in practice this lojja comes out as coyness and prudishness and opportunism, which most men find both mildly disgusting and very difficult to handle. But, how do these situations make women feel ‘more liberated and powerful’? That could at best be said about the woman in the last movie: watch and judge for yourself. And if behaving like the cantankerous female in the first one is what smart urban Indian women think does make them liberated and powerful, I will have difficulty stifling yawns when it comes to dealing with women who claim they are grown up. I have known women of a bygone age who were far stronger, deeper, more interesting specimens of humanity, you see – women who did worthwhile things and whom you could have intelligent conversations with. Alas, I have hardly met half a dozen like that in the 25 to 60 age-group in the last thirty odd years, in person or over the net, though I have dealt with thousands. I wonder if the directors could make a movie based on what I have had the misfortune to see?

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

While it rains


It pleases me greatly to see that The worship of the wealthy has crept into the most-read posts list. This is an issue that has been close to my heart all my thinking life, which would be nearly fifty years now; my views were set in stone early, and all I have seen of the world over a lifetime has convinced me that I am right. Great private wealth, like great poverty, is a great crime, a very large blot on civilization. If we have not been able to design a world where we can all live reasonably well without having to tolerate a tiny handful of plutocrats and billions who salivate over them and mimic them strenuously, we are not only in a bad way but hastening our collective doom. If I through my writing can manage to persuade a hundred decent and sensible men about it, I will not have lived in vain. But I don’t believe in bloody revolutions to change the world – they achieve nothing much over the long run at very great cost – so Chesterton’s way is the best: kill off the vermin with ridicule.

It has occurred to me that though I have tried my hand at poetry and short stories, I was meant to be first and foremost an essayist. And many of my best essays have found a place in this blog over the years. A blog attended to by thousands (I guess) is fine, but I like to think that someday someone will cull the hundred best essays from it and make a book.

It is early afternoon, but the sky is overcast, so it is dark inside my room as I write. The monsoon has set in in right earnest, and it is drizzling off and on all day and night. The temperature has fallen so fast that whereas only three or four days ago the a/c was working ten hours a day, the tap water is distinctly chilly right now. As the poet wrote,

নীল নবঘনে আষাঢ় গগনে তিল ঠাঁই আর নাহি রে,
ওরে আজ তোরা যাসনে ঘরের বাহিরে। 

I love this season, I am grateful to God that I don’t have to travel in this weather to make a living, I have P.G. Wodehouse at my elbow and lively children to fill up my house with chatter and laughter every day, and I am happy. Maybe I’ll write a bit more here later, but let me put this much up on the blog for now...

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Words from the dimly remembered past

মানুষ আজও ছাই এত লেখে কেন? কোন অদ্ভুত নেশার টানে, কি উদ্দাম অভিপ্রায়ের বশে এই অন্তহীন অপকর্ম চলতেই থাকে? মানুষের মনের মধ্যে যত বোধ, অনুভূতি, যত আশা আকাঙ্ক্ষা সুখ-দুঃখ ভয়-ভীতির পাকচক্র, এসবের সমুদ্রমন্থন তো বাস্তবিক সেই কবে শেষ হয়ে গেছে! যদি শুধু প্রকাশভঙ্গির প্রকারভেদই সাহিত্যকে চালনা করত, তবেও তো একথা মানতেই হয় যে বিগত দুই-তিন সহস্র বছরে সংখ্যাহীন রথী-মহারথীরা মিলে নান্দনিক চরমোৎকর্ষের সকল নিদর্শন সৃষ্টি করে রেখেই গেছেন: আজকের মানুষ তো কেবল পাঠক হওয়ার যোগ্যতাই রাখে, গ্রন্থাগারে গিয়ে দান্তে কি শেক্সপীয়ার, কালিদাস কি রবীন্দ্রনাথের পাতা ওল্টালেই হয়, নতুন কথা বলবার, চিরপুরাতন কথা নতুন করে বলবার আর বাকি আছে কি? - আরেক ধরণের লেখা অবশ্য হয়, রাজনীতি-অর্থনীতি-বিজ্ঞান-দর্শন-সমাজতত্ত্বের জগতে "যুগান্তকারী" যেসব লেখা, যেমনটা এককালে অ্যারিস্টট্ল-নিউটন-ডারউইন-মার্কস-ফ্রয়েডদের মতো সাহেবসুবোরা লিখে পৃথিবী কাঁপিয়ে থাকতেন। এই বিংশ শতাব্দীর শেষভাগে এসে দাঁড়িয়ে যেন দেখি, তেমন তেমন লেখা আজ বহুদিন আর বিশেষ লেখাও হয়না। অথবা হয়তো ছাপাশব্দের অধুনাকালীন বাঁধভাঙা বন্যায়, অত্যুচ্চ প্রযুক্তির জগতে দৈনন্দিন বৈপ্লবিক পরিবর্তনের যুগে বুঝি বা মনুষ্যজাতি সেভাবে কোনো লেখা বা লেখকের দ্বারা প্রভাবিত হওয়ার ক্ষমতাটাই হারিয়ে ফেলেছে!

সে যাই হোক, যাদের সেরকম লেখা লেখবার ক্ষমতা বা প্রবৃত্তি কোনটাই নেই, তারা আজও লিখতে চেয়ে, লিখতে যায় কোন সাহসে? থাক, পরের কথা তুলে কাজ নেই, এক্ষুনি বিশ্বের অর্ধেক মহাবোদ্ধা শিঙ নেড়ে তেড়ে আসবেন এমনতরো আকাটের জ্ঞানচক্ষু অনতিবিলম্বে উন্মিলিত করে দেওয়ার সদুদ্দেশ্য নিয়ে; শৈল্পিক সৃষ্টিতত্ত্বের শতশত ভিন্ন ভিন্ন দুরূহ ব্যাখ্যার তোড়ে বেচারা একেবারে ভেসে যাবে। বিশ্বের তাবড় সাহিত্যিক নিজ নিজ আদর্শ-দায়িত্ব- উদ্দেশ্য বুঝে নিয়ে ব্যস্ত থাকুন, আমি এ-প্রশ্নটা শুধু নিজেকেই করি। 

আমি কেন লিখব? কোন দুর্লভ জ্ঞান আমার আছে, এমন কোন শিল্পবোধ আমার হয়েছে, জগতের কাছে যেনতেনপ্রকারেন আত্মপ্রকাশ করার জন্যেই বা প্রাণটা আজ আমার এমন কি আকুল হয়ে উঠল যে না লিখলে আর চলে না? কি জানি। আজ থেকে অনে-ক  দিন আগে একটা বিশেষ বয়সে আমারও একদা মনে হয়েছিল বৈকি...

কত কথা আছে, কত গান আছে, কত প্রাণ আছে মোর 
কত সুখ আছে, কত সাধ আছে, প্রাণ হয়ে আছে ভোর। 

আজ আর তার কী-ই  বা বাকি রইল? এখনো কি সত্যি আমার অনেক কথা বলার আছে, না তা লেখায় ধরে রাখার তেমন আগ্রহ রয়েছে মনের ভিতর? যদি বা তাও থাকে, সে লেখা লেখবার ভীষণ দরকার কি আছে আজও? কে বলে দেবে আমায়? 

তবু লিখব; লিখতে লিখতেই হয়তো সে প্রাণ, সে সাধ, সে গানের পুরোনো রেশ, পিছনে ফেলে আসা আবেশের খানিকটা ফিরে আসবে, তখন আবার নতুন উদ্যম, নতুন উদ্দেশ্য নিয়ে হাল ধরা যাবে। ততদিন পর্যন্ত আমার এই মাঝিহারা শব্দের নৌকা অস্ফুট অসংহত লক্ষ অনুভূতির এলোমেলো হাওয়ার ঠেলায় উত্তাল চিন্তানদী বেয়ে ভেসে চলুক।

I wrote the above essaylet back in mid-1989. Imagine! How much I have written since then, including My Master's Word, the essay on women, the Tagore translations, the five-hundred odd posts on this blog so far over the last twelve years, and over and above everything else, To My Daughter!

Monday, June 04, 2018

Delhi and Kasauli

[Some photos are here. Sorry for being late!]

That Air India flight in an Airbus A319 was a dream (the 319, which I flew for the first time, seems to be an upgraded version of the old workhorse the Boeing 737 – quieter, if nothing else). The staff at the tiny Kazi Nazrul Islam airport, which is less than a half-hour drive from my house, was friendly and helpful in an easygoing way. It felt unreal that I was at home in Delhi less than six hours since I left Durgapur.

‘Home’ is somewhere in south Delhi, near a very posh housing enclave not far from the IIT and JNU campuses – more details I shall fill in later. I found Delhi – all of 19 million souls now, and slated according to some estimates to become the world’s largest city within a decade – far more green and orderly and pretty this time round than most other big Indian cities I have seen or heard in great detail about, and that is saying a lot, considering how much I hate metros without exception. Believe it or not, there’s a lot of verdure just behind the house, and I can hear the cuckoos and crickets even in the daytime, despite the not-too-distant roar of traffic. The flat is small but clean, quiet and almost swank, and I kept the airconditioner working virtually all day, so I was comfortable notwithstanding the searing heat. The first two days I mostly slept and went for walks, besides reading up my old boy Sayan Bhattacharya’s latest little opus, Ancient Cities of India (you can download it from here). Memories crowded in, and it felt blissful, given the way my youth was spent, that I can afford this kind of ease and luxury on my own terms these days…

Then Pupu flew over from Kolkata (first time I received her at an airport!), and next morning we made a seven hour drive to Kasauli in Himachal Pradesh through the blazing heat of the Punjab (Bernier wrote in the 17th century that not even the Arabian desert in summer had prepared him for this experience, and you had better believe it). We could breathe only after we had climbed several thousand feet. We stopped at a tiny hamlet (which nevertheless boasts of a Café Coffee Day outlet, and where dhabas supply chilled beer) called Sukhi Johari just before Dharampur, and checked into a lovely resort called the Whispering Winds Villa – it truly lives up to its name, and well worth the tariff, despite a few little shortcomings. The Kalka-Shimla toy train chugged along musically just below us, clearly visible through the pine forest; it brought back memories of 2004. The first day we arrived so tired that we went to sleep immediately after a cool bath, and the airconditioner was turned off only at night. The view from the terrace was mesmerizing. I spent part of the time reading out a story by a favourite Bengali author to Pupu and Shilpi before turning in. Talk about beauty sleep…

Next morning we made a four-hour sightseeing trip to Kasauli, passing the famous Lawrence School, Sanawar on the way. Kasauli at 6,000 feet is basically a military cantonment, with both army and air force bases, and so both very clean and very heavily patrolled and guarded. We gave the long trudge up several hundred stairs to the Hanuman temple a miss, having seen high-altitude views galore and not being fond of being assaulted by thieving monkeys and excited ‘devotees’. Walked around the pretty little town instead, church and Mall Road and club house and Khushwant Singh’s old house (what an unpretentious man he was! Just his name on the gate pillar, and nothing else). Afterwards we took another walk through the pine forest in the afternoon, and lazed on the soft turf for a bit. Everything went dark and a terrific storm came up from nowhere when we were still in bed late in the afternoon, accompanied by torrential rain – the last time this happened to us was on May 16, 2007 in Nainital – by the time it quite stopped an hour and a half later, the temperature had dropped so much that we briefly wrapped ourselves up in blankets, creeping down the slippery goat track later on to Giani da Dhaba for hot poori-sabzi. The night was crystal clear once again, all the hills around twinkling with lights, and so quiet, so quiet.

A late departure next morning, and we were back in Delhi by five p.m. The return drive was much quicker and smoother, with far fewer stops for paying tolls and road taxes, heaven knows why. We made a meal of little cheese sandwiches, sausages, salad and beer and went to sleep before it was eight (when there was still light in the sky), woke up briefly at around 10:30, fell asleep again, got up at 2:30, and were at IGI airport Terminal 3 shortly before 4. The same Air India flight, and we were back home by 8:45. God bless the service: may it survive and prosper. And yes, I am looking forward to many more such trips in the near future.

P.S.: Here is what Pupu wrote on her blog about the same trip. She has noted details far more lovingly and carefully.

P.P.S.: On a different note, here's what I think of people who drive luxury cars these days.