For want of a hold...

The land is craggly. The twisty swirls of the dunes make you want to travel on them. But tempting as they are, you know their true story. You know how they shiver like fireflies and will quench themselves on a desirous touch. They are traitorous. They make you want to want them. They test you. They only want to see your eyes when you step on them. They want to see the surprise in your eyes, better yet, they want to feel the drop of your heart when you step on them and they morph into vortexes.

You see, each dune is a vortex of its own opening up to worlds unknown. Yet you know that each of these worlds is wrapped in candy paper for lure and what is inside is this shaky mass of nothingness that leeches at the warmth in your heart. Whatever warmth is still left after it has turned cold on seeing the façade falter.

You know this because you have dreamt them. But as prophecies, you cannot escape them. You may think you will if you do this and that, but a sight of those living crawly dunes and your heart is stolen. Your hear the sibilant hisses as the sand creeps under your closed eyes but because you can stop a sword cut in your dreams, you think you can stop the sands by waking up. But what if you wake up to a world where matter is sand? Where the very air is sandy? Where there is no concept of oxygen, of optimism, of hope? Where all that is there is the susurration that erodes the base of your soul and drinks from your marrow of faith?

So you want to believe but believe me, belief is overrated. Everyone wants to believe because we are lazy to find out if what we believe can be touched or smelt or felt between the thumb and index finger. You think, you will believe and this selfless act will inspire the universe to act as per your belief. But you see, this is such a selfish belief and really, how then can it happen?

I am very question-y today. I am often like this. I do not want to be like this. But you see, those sands, those fang-y colourful sands continue to shift under my feet, they caress my in-step and I hold on to the quaint trills of my fading sanity but they are relentless, they probe, they pinch, they cajole, they whisper how they want me and need me in their world of lone sands and I feel my hold slip even though I think I am in my dream and even if the hold slips, so what, I will wake up. I will wake up and see that it was all a dream but then, there is that little question that reverberates across my eardrum – which part is the dream: the waking or the sleeping and the incessant push and pull of the answer is all that I can slowly hear as I devolve into a million little sands, slowly and sandfully…

Back on ground after a month-long flight :)

Hello Blog, I am deeply sorry for having neglected you for the past few months - but you see, there were some really strange things happening in my life.

I got married on September 6, 2009 and so August was my last month at work at plaNETsurfCreations, Bangalore. That meant hectic days of finalising the process of setting up teams for the Specials, Videos and Accenture projects as well as training the team members. It was a chaotic but fun endeavour - left the company with some really exciting people in place. They will be fine and I was happy to leave with some wonderful memories of a set of beautiful and great people there.

But it was time for me to move on, ya see. After 30 years of a lone existence (I will not call it lonely as I enjoy solitude and the peace to think soaringly) I was voluntarily going to share my life and days with another person. I would have loved to have just gone ahead with life as it is, but sometimes, one must pause to follow societal rituals and familial obligations. This pause was extremely boring for me as I was stuck in my native place of Kanichurangala, in Kerala for a good 2 weeks with no internet, no television and worst, no books to read. Though the last could have been amended if only, I was not too boringly lazy to open my packages.

The wedding ceremony went off well, the in-laws weren't allowed to get too bored for the two days that they were there and my dearest friend Daisy kept me completely and pleasantly sane. I hail a thank you for the dear girl.

From Kerala, we tripped off to Chennai to spend a few days with my new family. It was a fun few days of getting to know some close relatives and getting to know Chennai. The trip concluded with the quite successful Reception evening.

From Chennai, we went onward to Munnar for the honeyed moon sightings. Munnar is all that the tourist brouchers promised. Of course, as all other travellers, a bit of advice - Munnai aint the place if you want to do something, but it is absolutely divine as a place to just lie back, relax and charge yourself.

3 days of awe inspiring scenery and it was time to head to Mumbai for a more grounded existence.

And yeah, the air trip to Mumbai was my first flight and all pre-flight jitters turned out to be just that, fortunately. I would not have relished the idea of a 30-yr-old puking woman in the presence of waaay cooler infant travellers.

The view...oh the view. My first look at Mumbai was as stunning as Munnar's mountains. The myriad brilliant garlands and the vast blackness of the sea (it was 9pm). Mumbai had won me over at 30,000 ft. But of course, on the ground, Mumbai is still alien to me - I am aware this will require more than 2 weeks to be redressed.

Anyways, I am back on the ground but it will be sometime before even a semblance of status quo can be achieved. I am still going to be offline most of the time, but I am keen to sit down and begin jotting again.

Good night blog.

See ya back, Ciao!

El Cielo Dividido - A Review

I stumbled upon a little treasure this past week – and it has enthralled me, intrigued me and beguiled me by its quaint charm. El Cielo Dividido (Broken Sky) is Mexican director Julian Hernandez’s second feature film. You would not think so if you watched it.

It is a simple story at its core. A story of two young lovers, who meet each other at university, fall in first lust and love, cannot keep their hands and lips to themselves when with each other, have roaring sexual encounters and fall to temptation of new adventures and watch jealousy and regret corrode a relationship with potential.

So then what’s so special about this film if it boasts the same stale formula? Quite a few reasons, actually.

Significantly, the film treats the homosexuality of young lovers’ Gerardo and Jonas, students of University of Mexico, as a matter of fact. This is no coming of age story or a coming out story. At no time does the film show a third party reaction to the boys’ very demonstrative relationship. Except a little scene when the boys are kissing each other near the garage and the camera slowly pans to show a straight couple walking past holding hands. For me, what appealed is the film’s unapologetic treatment of gay love. Most often, filmmakers use internal and external conflict arising from the protagonist’s sexuality to culture angst; here, the angst arises from the natural foible of first love – the temptation of the what ifs – what if this new person I met in the disco is my spiritual half?

Secondly, there is minimal dialogue - The film is over two hours long and there are probably only about a couple of scores of lines.

What helps is Alejandro Canto's complicated, confusing and utterly captivating cinematography – Canto exploits his lens to reveal viewpoints, the and uses camera spins and pans to move across scenes and gently shows us the evocatively lingering glances that the leads share. Canto and Hernandez are so taken in by the beauty of their leads that they do not make any excuses for the way the lens’ caresses the lead actors – Admittedly, Miguel Angel Hoppe and Fernando Arroyo are delicious to look at but they are also equal to the demands asked of them.

Gerardo and Jonas share a deep passionate relationship and the film’s first third devotes itself to one of the most honest portrayals of simulated sex ever on film. Soon, Jonas strays and is attracted to Bruno (Ignacio Pereda), who he meets one night at the disco, but he is also reluctant to leave Gerardo. The affair ends with Bruno’s sudden disappearance but Jonas cannot shake Bruno from his mind; it is Bruno he thinks of when in a passionate cinch with Gerardo. Frustrated with Jonas’ continued disinterest in him physically, a broken Gerardo begins a series of flings before seeking solace in the arms of college custodian Sergio (Alejandro Rojo). The film stays true to the end with a very ambiguous conclusion.

Fernando Arroyo’s Jonas is dark and intriguing and a perfect foil for the pouty and wide-eyed Miguel Angel Hoppe. Hoppe, especially, conveys the awe and wonder of the first spring of love and later, his eyes eloquently express his heartbreak and frustration.

El Cielo Dividido is less an art film and more of a relentless ballet filled with choreographed moves, gestures and conversations through eyes. It is not easy to watch – you have to dig into your deepest reserves of patience to sit through this silent masterpiece. This is also its worst, perhaps only, flaw. Not many audiences are so kind to indulge the slow passage of thoughts, the careful body movements and the intense back and forth that the leads convey through their eyes. Also, the periodic sex scenes will not interest the straight audiences. There is also an irritating and presumptuous voiceover which talks about love and life – Hernandez could have got rid of this device and added a few more lines for his leads. Understandably, the film did not do well in the US while it was welcomed in Mexico and Europe.

I, for sure, am awaiting Hernandez’s third venture – Rabioso sol, rabioso cielo (Raging Sun, Raging Sky).

My First Friends

My earliest literary memories are of stories in Misha and Sputnik.

Long before I could read properly, these were my eyes to the distant world. I would gaze longingly at the images and the printed word, wondering at the mysteries locked in their fist. And every letter and word identified was a triumph.

Of course, these magazines also proved how well literary propaganda works - because as a 9-year-old when I first began reading comics, mostly about World War II, I would cheer every time a Yank got hit and I would be disappointed and confused because I loved the Japs and Jerrys, while also disliking them for initiating the war. I could only stand the Yanks in these comics because of the logical and resigned (and ‘rummy’) Brit. These American comics, while making a case for American values of freedom and bravery, also made a case for German and Japanese technical ingenuity as well as British patience and resilience - all traits that I admire among these nationalities even today.

(yeah, no Russians versus Americans in most of those comics - yet as I felt culturally closer to the Russians, I was distant with the Yanks irrespective of who they were up against – isn’t that some propaganda? But 15 years later as the Red bastion crumbled – the second-hand books no longer came from the Soviet Union but from the US and I watched my little neighbour spend two summer vacations mooning over my Marvel copy of how America finally conquered the moon.)

But Sputnik went where even Kennedy's dreamy eyes couldn't with me. The wonders of science and the possibilities of crossing space frontiers and the literal stars in my eyes as twilight closed in was all because of this little piece of sky in binding.

But if I am no closer today to anything that is remotely related to science - blame the politically incorrect Enid Blytons I gorged on in parallel. The fantastical stories were just one aspect of my envy - most of it was reserved for the writer's prolific genius. I once promised I would read every Blyton in my school library.

(Knowing something is great but the path to knowing is what flavours our ultimate knowledge and harvests the greatest thrill.)

In my school, we could borrow a book every alternate week. Most times, I would bribe the librarian to let me borrow 2 books. I would argue that I was a prolific reader, I brought back books all taped and repaired and that I would never tell anyone. I will never know which point swayed her for she would sit, head bent and scribbling in her books and as I stiffly stood wondering if she wasn't going to be moved this time, she would just extend her hand, note down whatever librarians note down and hand them over to me with a stern 'be careful with them.'

My modus operandi was simple: finish mine as soon as possible and then spend the next 7-10 days borrowing my friends' library offerings of the week. For some, the bribe was the awesome breakfasts mom packed for me, for others, it was help with notes while for some others, it was the chance to simply exchange books. I didn't grudge the first for loving my mom's cooking - clearly she is the awesomest and I couldn't grudge the second, because they inflated my ego. But I loved the last best of all.

Even with all these shenanigans, by the end of the year I realised the effort was futile. Also, childish considering all the Nancy Drews, Oliver Twist (adapted), Hardy Boys, Tinkles, Chandamamas, Tenali Ramans, Malory Towers, Tom Brown, Huckleberry Finn, Robert L Stevensons, Super Commando Dhruvs (ah yes, that lost genre of Hindi comics!), Jane Austens, Louisa Alcotts, Alexander Dumas’ and the list only increased every day.

Every story luring me further and further into the quicksand of lively imagination. And when there seemed no likely rescue for a pre-teen lolling in the easy world of indulgence and drama and quiet romance, along came Charles Dickens to shock and repel and disgust and fascinate and mesmerise with the romanticism of reality. Dickens, and what a stay he made in my head!
(More on Dickens, Premchand and their writings soon.)