Just a book

Whenever I go to a bookshop, why do I always want to buy a copy of To Kill A Mocking Bird?
Yesterday, after lunch, we walked into a bookshop. Apparently, it is one of the most famous bookshops in Delhi, tucked away in one corner of the Outer Circle, currently under repair. Well, like all bookshops, it also looked rather inviting or rather I want to feel that way. We feel, what we want to feel, isn't it?A couple of days ago, I read an article on this bookshop. It has been graced by names that matter, including the prime minister, to get their share of newspapers and magazines, when they were yet to reach the pinnacle of fame. Notwithstanding, I started browsing the shelves and like meeting old friends, I came across titles to whom, I said, "Hey, how are you? Haven't seen you for a long time."And then I met Atticus Finch. It had a black cover with a sketch of a bird in white and wrapped up in transparent cellophane paper. I took it in my hands and caressed it as if I had met an old friend in a dank apartment after a long time, on a birthday. The rush of emotions was felt along with the questions of where I had been all this time, why didn't I come to meet earlier, it wasn't fair on my part and such sort--that bundle of inexpressible words that go through in that moment of embrace that tries to delete the absence that had been. Both know that the meeting will be fleeting. It will be over in a matter of minutes. One had waited for a long time for the moment and another had travelled a long, long way for the moment to happen. There was nothing surprising about the meeting. No mystery at all. But that existential urge and the carnal craving to make the moment eternal is something worth revisiting a thousand times. Is it the gait of Gregory Peck, a widower, a father of two, a lawyer and an idealist residing in Maycombe country during the years of Depression? Or is it how Jem and Scout was growing up? Or is it just about some fondness or affection? Difficult to explain as emotions, silly emotions, always are. There can be no apparent reason to buy another copy of the book. As it is, we tend to possess two copies of most of the books we possess. Perhaps, it is about liking something so desperately, that one loves to go back to it at the slightest opportunity. There can be no rhyme or reason to it. One should not try to find one too. Else, why should Rick open a salon in Casablanca, where he came because he thought there was water. He was misinformed, he said. He wanted to be misinformed. He liked it that way. Wish I could buy another copy of the book.

SONGS OF EXPERIENCE

Sleep used to be my faithful friend. Whenever I wanted, I could reach out and find that person is waiting for me with open arms. But my fickleness, I guess, has had a contagious effect on this friend of mine. She doesn't take me on as eagerly as she did till some time ago.
Last night was one of those when I was desperately looking for sleep and she was eluding me, well desperately.
The television was on and on one music channel they were playing those good old Kishore Kumar songs. Suddenly it was the song from Blackmail, a movie I never got to see nor have missed it, started playing. "Pal pal dil ke paas tum rehti ho."
I suddenly went back a couple of decades and wondered isn't this one that hooked me to Kishore Kumar and opened up the whole vista of popular music? It actually was.
Those were the days of cassette players and I got one Kishore Kumar cassette and this song was the first one on the list. Well, the exact and year and date have been lost in oblivion but I was in school then.

What followed were afternoons and nights of backbreaking work. Writing down the lyrics in English alphabets and learning them by heart. And of course, humming them in hours of loneliness when words started to take tangible shapes. And before I could realise, the voice of the man became my voice. People have told me I am tone deaf and I believe them. I was not born to sing like most people in the world. But how can I deny myself the love for the Kishore Kumar songs.
"Har shyam ankhon par tera anchal lehraaye/ Har raat yadoon ki baraat le aaye"--these simple but beautiful lines, when they took shape in my mind, they formed a world of their own.

And last night all those images born out of those words were revisited. As Rakhi was going through a bunch of letters, I flew far away in time. Those afternoons when I was alone at home listening to songs, writing them down and memorising them. Well these were just a part of initiation. The involvement grew with days, weeks, months and years.
Songs, if they are beautiful, always have an association with pain. And words give shape and body to that pain: Tum yunhi jalaate rehana, aa aa kar khwabo mein"...
The song that followed was : Tere bina zindagi se koi shikwa, to nehi, shikwa nehi...with Sanjeev Kumar and Suchitra Sen walking among the ruins. Ruins of life perhaps.
"Ji mein aata hain tere daamon mein sir chupaake hum/ roote raheein roote raheein"--well, how will sleep be my friend if words like these keep haunting me. It's not my fault that I can't sleep night after night. I have stopped listening to music but what will I do with those that I have already heard. It's not the melodies that keep haunting, keep coming back. It's the words in their shapes that I gave them come visiting me often when its all dark. "Jab mein raaton ko taare geenta hun/ Aur tere kadmoon ki aahat sunta hun/ laage mujhe haar taara, teera darpan..."
Is it possible to unpluck Kishore Kumar from the soul. Even though Macbeth pleaded to the doctor to unpluck the unkindness from his wife's bosom, it wasn't possible. Some things are done for good, irrevocable and inscrutable.
Like Rick will always have Paris!

Mark, my Antony

Suddenly revisited Antony. It was some years ago, or shall I say light years ago, that this character had me in a vice-like grip and caused a lot of emotional damage. I am talking about Mark Antony of ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. I remember Sisir babu's lectures on this play. Well Antony was the quintessential hero, hurtling towards inevitability with a sweet nonchalance.
What is so adorable about Antony? After all these years, sitting in a New Delhi office on a listless Saturday, Antony is the last thing that I should have gone back to.
The world today is mourning MJ, the king of pop. A friend texted me the news yesterday morning. In the evening while talking, he refreshed my memories about how some of us practised the steps of MJ in our garage. A wry smile stretched my lips. I could almost see that friend, in a sleeveless vest, furiously trying to match MJ's steps in pouring rain and we were egging him on. Life was so simple and so full of life. Now even a smile feels like a herculean task.
But Habu isn't like that. He reminded me how the three Ms — Maradona, MJ and Madonna — ruled our lives during those years. When he said, that I started recalling those days. Most of the images have gone hazy though a few are still very bright. Of course, Diego gave us the greatest pleasure but then I wasn't really happy. Because I was a Brazil fan. I remember how horrible I felt when Brazil lost to France that year.
It has always been like this. When the rest of my gang was going for it, I chose to walk some other street. When they were practising moonwalking, I spent sleepless nights because somewhere Lenin's statue was being pulled down. The separation from the surroundings has been too deep-rooted. It started too early.
That's the reason why Antony appealed to me. How easly he could say "Let Rome in Tiber melt and the wide rch of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.." even though serious state affairs awaited his attention.
Never really he cared for the kingdom or fame. He preferred to stay in his own world, the world of Cleopatra though he was desperate to break free of the Egyptian fetters. Contradiction? Yes. Confusion? No.
Not that he didn't know about Cleopatra's frailties or pretentions. He was aware of them. But he lived with his own understanding of the Egyptian queen and died by it too. No amount of critisim could sway him from his love. He tried to reason even when Cleopatra, furious with the news of his impending depature says,
"Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
Bliss in our brows' bent; none our parts so poor,
But was a race of heaven: they are so still,
Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
Art turn'd the greatest liar."
But his honourable love always stood on trial. The Queen was too insatiable to satisfy. Antony tried his best and gave his life. "Unarm Eros, the long days task is done." That too after chasing a lie. Like a bridegroom he ran to death as if going into a lover's bed.
All for a lie or a life full of beautiful lies? Ask Antony, if you can.

Amma among stars

Don't really remember whether it was the first poem of Kheya, but the song deener sheshe ghumer deshe is suddenly making all the way into my realm. Especially those lines, "ghore jara jabar taara kokhon geche ghor paane, paare jara jabar geche paare/ghoreo nahi paareo nahi, jejon aache maajhkhane, sondhebelay ke deke ney taare."
I have been listening to this song since how long I don't really remember. I heard it ma singing. Well she wasn't much of a singer, but she used to sing. Then it was Hemanta. His rendition of the song had a feeling of John Denver's 'Anne's song'--you fill up my senses.
With Hemanta singing the song, its like filling up one's senses. Just as Sam's Time Goes By filled up the senses of two individuals. One forced Sam to play it once more. And another barged out from the other end of the bar with a tremendous sense of rapproach and anger in his voice, "Sam, I thought I told you never to play..." and stops short. He never could finish the sentence and never could ask Sam not to play it again. Never.
These days, the evenings in Delhi are beautifully spread out against the sky. Sky, one may ask?It is the same sky that Tagore wrote "ghomta pora oi chaya". It is the same sky that Elliot spread out for Prufrock. Yes, the sky that Rick looked up and saw the plane towards Lisbon.
One can look up and see the quiet bedspread change colour throughout the day, through the seasons, through the year. Once evening tip toes in, like the sound of dew drops, the sky takes its favourite colour. It stays like that for quite a long while so that all the Ricks in the world can wait for all the 'Kids' to walk into their jin joints or walk into the darkness in search of a beautiful friendship.
Don't really remember when I heard it first. Maybe from my amma. She said when people die, they became stars in the sky. "So when I will die," --and I started crying instantly--she said with her fingers in my hair--"you just look up and you will be able to see me." Well, as life is, she died one day. And I tried looking up and saw just stars. It's too late but I realised she lied to me to keep me happy. Just as Rick lied to send Ilsa away to America. As captain Renault said, "She went, but she knew you were lying."
But when I realised that I will not be able to see amma when I look up, it was too late. Some lies just are forever.

In search of destiny

Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.'
The gap is still unbridgeabale. The gap between what seems and what is, is yet to be bridged. The shadow still falls between the idea and reality. But it is the shadow I am interested in, not the idea and definitely not in the reality.
When Sam pleaded to Him to go for as long drive and get drunk, He refused. He remained seated to his cross, smoking and drinking, and feeling the pain. There were options and ways for him to move on, to relieve himself of the wrenching inside, but He stayed put. For more pain.
Pain has a nice but dangerous quality. It makes one addicted to it. One misses it, when one doesn't feel it. What is it that makes pain so attractive, so alluring?
Isn't it for the pain that Hamlet returned to Denmark? To savour it more and more and even more till everything gets over?
Else, how could he be so resigned. "A little more than kin, and less than kind," were his first words, pithy, simmering with caustic sarcasm. Life held nothing interesting for him anymore. Nothing to look forward to. Just going through the motions, till a sword made a hole in his heart.
Was Hamlet really alive when he reached Denmark? Or was it his shadow, his apparition. Wasn't he already dead? Isn't the death of all hopes and desires, the actual death. The body was living but the soul was long dead. "But I have that within which passeth show."
What is within that passeth show? Even in Biday Abhishap (Tagore), Kach said, "aar jaha bohe bokkhomajhe roktomoy, bahire ta kemone prokashibo." (something in these lines).
Isnt it exactly the same erosion of life that these guys are talking about? It is. still they carried on till destiny snuffed the movement out of their limbs. Knowing that death ends all, they still went forward to it, to embrace it as if, death is their best friend.
Well, Rick was an exception. He didn't really had to embrace death. He walked away to anonymity.
To Brazzaville or some god-forsaken place. In search of what else but death.

Memories, nothing but memories

Why did Rick forsake the world after Paris? He is the kind of person who ran guns in Ethiopia and fought on the loyalist side, and came to Casablanca because he thought it had water. In fact, Captain Renault read him the best—as a rank sentimentalist. Don’t the dilemma in his character and actions make him more adorable? Don't we all have such contrasts in our characters and actions? When the heart starts playing a role in one's life, emotions swing from one extreme to another. It is either heaven or absolute hell, nothing in between. And, there is little point in living in between either. Passion must give one a feel of heaven and the lack of it must throw one in the dungeons of hell. Let’s pity those who don't live a life of passion, for they live life without tasting either heaven or hell. For that matter, they have tasted nothing. It is a life lived on the periphery and died long before others have actually performed the last rites. It is in the heart of a woman that a man lives, and the other way round. It is just the two who realise how life changes once a nest is built. The word nest has been so appropriately and aptly used by Tennessee Williams in the Night of the Iguana. Remember Deborah Kerr's parting shot after Richard Burton proposed her. And Ava Gardner, irresistible as Maxine, stormed away: "You don't even know that you have built a nest." We all build nests mostly unknowingly, and at times, waste our lives in the hope that we will stay there. Though Lawrence Shannon built it unknowingly, Rick had nurtured it in his full senses. It was a twist of fate, another very common occurrence, which left him waiting in the platform, with rain pouring down. He kept waiting in Casablanca till she arrived...as he says, "she walks into mine."
Rick's guts spilled out for the world to see a second time. But Rick had had the taste of heaven by then. He was blessed, which gave him the strength to wait and face the world he hated every minute. His strength came from the memories… La Belle Aurore...the Germans wore grey, you wore blue...As time goes by....

Laughter and forgetting

A colleague of mine, last night, or you may call it evening, showed us a mail written by a columnist blasting sub-editors for deleting an article, an unstressed one, from his copy.Going through his vitriolic diatribe was fun.Maybe, a few of us together was and that togetherness was fun. Was it the thing that we were reading or that we were together that made me laugh a bit?Even after twenty-four hours have, I haven't been able to figure out. What is laughing all about? Is it a group activity or one can laugh while alone?Well people usually laugh in togetherness.
When alone, they usually brood.
When alone, they usually are 'not in the mood.
'When alone, they usually are sad.
When alone, they usually are morose.
It is one state that at times is very alluring. The state of lonely morbidity has its own charm Well, charm may not be the right word for it. Charm has too much of femininity about it. But there is something, for which one likes to be lonely.It doesn't mean one has to banish all human company. It is like being in a crowd and not seeing them or listening to any of the talk or noise around you.Just the body is there. The rest of it, maybe, is flying with Jonathan Livingston Seagull or sharing a drink with Mirza Asadullah in a dingy by-lane as the ignorant armies clashed at the North Ridge or having a passionate discussion with a blessed soul about so many nothings, or walking down the beach with the sun behind you letting the colour of the sea make you feel blue.Isn't it lovely to be lonely
...Like that song...
But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes i do.
Victor Lazlow knew how it was to be lonely