From the Crow's Nest ...

J Alfred Prufrock writes to Joyeeta!

Dear Ashman Chowdhury Joyeeta,

‘Who do we look up to in times of distress?’ I often search myself by asking this question. I ask myself – ‘Is there a greater God somewhere up there?’ ‘Shall we look up to him?’ And then I realize, in times of distress, we should always look within.

Who would have thought that 5 years would be so memorable, so poignant! Looking within ourselves, we found love. And talking about love, yes, it has been one heck of a journey! We have had everything, well almost everything, to ourselves all this while. Our moments, our joys, our pains, our separation, our unison, it has been a journey of myriad hues!

Let’s not waste this journey searching for words! My favorite poem here for you... Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table... Let us just go and enjoy the journey. Let us not waste our effort in trying to define moments, define relations and replace the overwhelming silence with grim words. Having you here as a part of my life has been a blessing and I would not try to define that through words!

A lot has happened in these past 5 years. And if I quote you, we are now a conscious part of many correlated worlds. Our conscious decisions have created a perfect ambiance for us; we are in a space where there’s harmony and love in a co-existing fashion! And yet, I find it reassuring that even in such a peaceful time, I have your company too to cherish. I remember your eyes, your voice, your smile, your lips, all the conversations we shared, all the songs we reminisced and I realize what your constant companionship means.

Do we continue travelling together? Shall we be in touch forever? I don’t know! I don’t care! You are my Neera! You are Bonolota Sen! I don’t care what the future holds for me. This hand has touched you once; this hand has touched you forever.

Your voice brought back today many melancholic memories of a girl I know. Thank you for all the memories Love! Let this dance continue. Amen!

Sincerely,

Your good-for-nothing fellow!

image courtesy: http://julianpeterscomics.com/page-1-the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock-by-t-s-eliot/

In The Mirror

                      BOOK REVIEW : Mom and I Love a Terrotist by Leema Dhar

Starting from the year 2004 – the year when Indian paperback industry was finally out of the ICU holding the strong hands of Mr. Bhagat, it has long 8 years. And, the number of shelves at the bookstores containing Indian writing has been exponentially increasing. The curve showing the growth in sales is ticking up steeply. But, the ‘literary’ minds have been complaining since long. They complain about presence and absence of two very things in every new-era Indian writers. The presence is of ‘redundancy’ and absence is of ‘maturity’. And, the generalization went such an extent that a new Indian author book drove a sigh “one more IIM ?.. huh!!”

And, when the severity of the issue was gaining ground – a chunk of young authors came as saviors. If I am not too wrong, Leema is the youngest among all.

The story revolves around a girl and her single mom on the picturesque island of Andamans. The story peeps through the eerie juncture of teenage and maturity. The moment-of-truth when the peppy-flashy world crushes down to the harsh-grey reality.  The moment when a tender mind is bereft to depression by the gore realism.  And, the realism is symbolically presented in the black stranger. The extremity of darkness in real world can be compared to the throttling shock a delicate mind undergoes when it witnesses a stranger sharing her mom’s bed. And, then turning the pages of her dear mother’s uncanny past. The book is a journey through the nook and corner of a teenage psyche.

The author very sensibly staged the plot on the back-drop of a real massacre. The issue of extremist movement has been dealt with care and sensibility.  The struggle and the sacrifice for the proletariats are very loosely touched upon. Though, the main plot is miles away from this issue, the story through the eyes of her mother could have delved deep a bit more on this. It could have signified and justified her sacrifice and pride in a broader sense.

Mom and I love a Terrorist by Leema Dhar

The story has a sweet pace of its own. The characters evolve slowly through the plot in a definite manner. But the subplots seem to be blatant and dull compared to the main plot. The college friends of the protagonist are seen-them-before sort of. Which college movie missed a playboy hunk, a slutty expose-it-all girl or a possessive friend? – All of them have got it. And, the characters seem too loud and out of place for a matured plot like this.

The boat-maker for whom the protagonist fell for is introduced in a fantastic way. He was tall, dark, well-built with a mystic aura. But, on the course - he has been over-mystified. The character remained obscured for long. A letter to part-away is romantic in true sense. But, it was prevalent mostly in the black-and-white movies of the early 60s. And, this behavior from a matured guy – is like a stone to digest.  Though the author has endorsed platonic love throughout , the creation of bond between the protagonist and her lover remains half-baked.

The epilogue touching all lives in the story briefing their where-abouts is really fine. Finally, it is a brave attempt from the pen of a young writer. And, the maturity shown in unfolding the mystery keeping the thrill intact and touching upon romance of relationship and nature is done with sheer mastery and deserve kudos.

 Whatever, the show-stealer is the island of Andamans . The thrashing of cold-waves on the shore- the distant lights blinking in the sea – the cool breeze – is bound to fill your mind with utter tenderness and glee of teenage nostalgia.

The Baton gets exchanged.................

Dil Chahta Hai & Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara

It was a rainy day. The atmosphere was not ready for such a mind- boggling experience. Neither was our soul. All of us flocked to the nearby screens. Three queer faces were peeking out of posters. The I-have-seen-it-all Akash, the mom-i-am-so-confused Samir and Mr. cool-as-a-cucumber Sid. We, who had, braved the rain and gone gone to watch the big guns of Bollyworld, were taken by surprise. It wasn't them-  but the onscreen the trio who got the better of us. It was the other bunch of men who caught us by our nape-like a mother –cat holds her kittens and safely transfers them to a cozy, warm place – the debutant director, the music composers, the lyricist, the whole team took us to an old place, cozy and full of warmth. A place we had always known. A place we had always known. A place where we find our closest of friends. Friendship.

Years ago, when I was in school, I used to find an open sky in front of the radio. The walls of the idiot-box used to be claustrophobic to me. That was the time when I had heard on air that “parents introduce us to the world but friends who stay with us throughout the rest of the journey”. That rainy day made me realize the true essence of friendship. The first scene where the other two bursts into Sid’s house late night imagining an emergency to the scene where the three part ways – the roller – coaster to the ride has always been a treat to watch.

Dil Chahta Hai

My house had a pond years ago. Every day, I used to come back from school sit by the bank, just allowing every bit of the serenity seep into my blood. DCH and a nth review of the entire movie still gives the same smile, to that same angle, my lips curl in that same position, to that same angle, my eyes emote to that same pain, my breaths still paint the same paintings – every time, I click the “Play” button, I feel that same serenity. Feeling that I used to feel sitting at the pond bank. Such was the impact of the euphoric milieu that was born out of the trio.

DCH on 24^th July, 2011 completed its journey of a decade. A journey that has been a cult,  almost symbolic to the journey that the three embarked upon till the last scene. Awards, kudos, celebrations, cult status, stardom for the director. All-time high for the music directors. Another feather in the cap of the lyricist. A dizzying cinematography. A freshly –minted script.  

And, also the other side of the moon. The mythical fan-following. The Goa shooting spot revisited. The umpteen copies of that shadow-dance sequence. The fake fish-eating photo. The fun. The all-I-have-is- you-guys feeling.

The trio, over all these years, have swept away every friend who has seen this ode to friendship called DCH. And, while DCH gives to such a height and structure, I relived my DCH moments too.

DCH showed us how every frame can be precious in a man’s life. Months after Akash and gang had passed out of college, Akash could still see three of them sitting at the college stairs, giving away to their hearts’s content. We had ours too. We four.

Cycle rides to eternity, laughing away to glory, snatching less-fortunate one’s tiffin, fooling away forever- our list was long enough. Cycle was a catalyst to love, lust, pain, glory. Friendship found a new horizon, newer dimension.

Last bench catastrophes were cool. Calling one by his/ her father’s / mother’s name became a cool menace. Hanging out together was no longer a non-sense. The sudden, unplanned trip, out of the blues bike rides, cheap thrills, bunking, out-of-budget expenses, et al.

  And, the legacy continues. Till date. 10 years and still continuing. People still swear on DCH. The dialogues are still mint-fresh. And boys still dread a Priya-like girlfriend. Girls still die for those dreamy eyes of Sid. And resembles all that DCH is made of.

Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara 

But times change. Years pass. Buddies grow stronger, sharper too. (I have alittle doubt regarding the smarter  part though.) Anyways, DCH too had to grow up. And, what better way than to pass the baton to ZNMD?

What did you say? The word ‘baton’? Yes… you heard right… cause life is a relay race… every action has a consequence … every bit of our schedule gives rise to a chain reaction. Somewhere in life, school paves the way for college. Somewhere in nature, the seed grows into a tree. Somewhere in love, the words carry the seeds for the future.

And, in between all these cacophony called life, the baton gets exchanged. DCH gives ZNMD a gentle yet careful message. You can almost see the predecessor’s shadow. But, that’s it. ZNMD showcases how every ‘Bwoy’ in the team has grown up. Even that old man.

The first whiff of adolescence or feet-firmly-on-the-ground hits the nose when Imraan – Arjun – Kabir battle it out among themselves regarding Arjun’s ex-lover, Sonali. But, unlike DCH, they don’t cancel their trip midway nor break friendship, rather they move on. And, if that is the signal of intent, it gets confirmed at the end when we get to see Kabir ends up single, and at the end when Imraan and Nuria are still cool about being just a pair; unlike DCH where Sid meets this new girl on the beach and the round table dinner sequence, as if the film couldn't have ended with him single.

Also, the music director trio, they have achieved a whole new curve, the old man has come up with some absolute fantastic lines, the cinematographers look delicious frame-by-frame, and the director still has her head between her shoulders.

And, how I saw my bwoys grow up to a different height altogether. Some migrated to different latitudes and longitudes altogether. But the heart beat has remained the same. The pulse still races in the same fashion. The missed calls, SMSs, pokes convey the same message – my bwoys are still very close.

The madness in the heart, the Bedouin nature in the blood, the nomadic spirit yet a strong desire to get settled, we four have made quite a long journey in life.

And while we have traveled long, while we have far and out, we have found a Sid, an Akash, a Samir among us.

And inside us, we know, its a decade that has passed in realizing so.

(This post is an entry to the Reel-Life Bloggers contest organized by www.wogma.com and www.reviewgang.com )