Few days back, I read of some fan that had gone to the limit of hunger strike to meet Kangana Ranaut, the silver screen babe. Such news is very common in India where the tinsel town is the world of gods to many and film projectors could be considered ‘deux ex machine.’ Cricketers too join the list.

The numerous fans associations and clubs and the subsequent successful conversion of many a film stars and cricketers into politicians shows their influence on the common public. Numerous examples could be cited of temples built for these demigods. There is one for Amitabh Bacchan in West Bengal.  The sex siren of the south, Namita too has a temple credited to her. Down south, the list of film stars-turned-politicians is immense. It is also on a steady hike across the history of Indian cinema.

When I was in my teens, I remember the days following the death of the beautiful actor, Divya Bharati. Every other day, newspapers showed the increasing suicides of fans, following the hero(ine)’s demise.

The cinema has attained a status that no other art form could, until date. The influence on the viewer, especially children, leads at times to the verge of distraction and perversion. The numerous fans association, especially comprised of unemployed youth, could as well pop up to be heavy problems in the near future. The symptoms of the opening of this Pandora’s Box are quite clearly visible.

I am not against any sort of admiration towards the stars. The fact to be noted is that precaution needs be taken from the admiration being turned out to become hysteric in nature. In fact, there have been few films depicting and correcting the blind admiration towards the hero. The film Guddi remains a Classic in this sense.

The caliber of the actors and cricketers, and the many needs be admired by keeping an aesthetic distance from ourselves. The point under consideration is if this is not expanding into an entirely different dimension than appreciation. A thought needs be taken about this heavy run towards heroes and hero worship.

The short story, “An Incident at Owl’s Creek Bridge,” also known as “An Occurrence at Owls Creek Bridge” by Ambrose Bierce, published in 1891 in the collection Tales of Soldiers and Civilians was adapted into French film by Robert Eurico in 1962. The film adds to the beauty of the short story, though it had dropped out the sequence from the story that describes details of the protagonist. Noted for its unusual time sequence and twisted ending, the short story and the film, stand aesthetically unmatched.

“An Incident at Owl’s Creek Bridge” is a wonderful film in the sense that it makes the audience feel the tension and trauma of the character sentenced to death. It is an elaboration upon a man’s hope against hope even at the final moment of his execution.

His illusion of escaping the execution is shown in such a manner that it appears to be as if in a dream. The violent beating of drums beat upon the viewer’s mind. Thus, the tension is made felt to them. His escape from the ties, under the water seems miraculous. His suffocation and the final gasp of relief are equally made felt to the viewers.

The tireless swimming and running shows how intense his desire for life is. The intermingling of the slow and fast camera movements, his fictitious escape, his gasping, the amalgam of fear and hope in his eyes, his inexhaustible energy that helps him run, all combine to give stature to these shots that makes it worth calling surreal. The viewers are made to hope with him and fear with him. His joy at reaching a land and the way he adores the beauty of the tiniest of flowers shows the relived man.

The introduction of his wife and children provides a backdrop of fantasy. It shows the preoccupation of the man’s mind – his hope, his sole preoccupation. Eventually, when he is shown as meeting his wife, the setting is purely “more than real” with the slow-paced scenes, close-ups, a gasp of contention – all forming a dream-like sequence. The validity of which is knocked upon with the sudden shift of scene. The background music suddenly stops and a deadly silence is established. This brings the audience back to reality and makes it clear that all the preceding events were the illusions of a mind yearning to live more than fearing death.

The view of the audience is directed towards the criminal who is hanged and the tensions in his mind. Thus, the audience is made aware of the fact that “drowning is not so pitiful as the attempts made to rise.”(Emily Dickinson) It is his mental attempt at a vain escape, which deepens his sorrow. The last scene leaves the audience very disturbed, while the whole world is shown unaffected: the guards resuming their duty.

The film makes the audience empathise with the tensions of a man when he has to stand face to face with death. For everyone else, it is just insignificant. The film is notable for its cathartic effect. In terms of filmic vocabulary, the film remains a Classic.

Unlike other food practices the sadya is started preparing the night before and is finished before 10am. Moreover, it follows a serving procedure, another highlight of this cuisine.

Sadya, the traditional meal is served in plantain leaf with the tip of the leaf towards the left of the person eating the Kerala multi-flavoured lunch.  All the items are served in small quantities. The serving begins with banana chips and jaggery-coated banana lumps. Pachadi (mango, pineapple or cucumber in curd) is served first, followed by thoran (sauteed vegetable preparation with coconut), Aviyal (Mixed vegetable with gravy), Olan (gourd) and Theeyal (mixed vegetable with lose gravy and fried coconut made into paste).  The traditional Kerala mango and lemon pickles followed by ginger curry are served after this. A banana and a papad are also served.

After the curry layout is set, boiled rice (unpolished variety) is served, into which parippu curry (thick lentil dish with coconut) is poured. Heated ghee is poured as a topping. The papad is crushed upon this to make a mixture, to be taken with the curries. After Parippu, sambar is taken with rice.

The next step is the Ada Pradhaman, a special sweet dish cooked with rice flakes in jaggery and coconut milk. It is taken my mashing plantain into it. This is followed by a sweet milk dish, Paal paayasam, made of condensed milk in either rice or vermicelli.  After the sweets, small quantity of rice is served to be had with Pulisseri, a cooked variety of buttermilk, with coconut. After this,  the plain buttermilk and rasam (pepper water with tomato and spices) which are supposed to be had with cupped palms. The last three items help in digesting this sumptuous cuisine.

With variations in regions, the sadya too varies. Overall, the traditional sadya will be more or less the same. To get the feel of sadya it has to be taken in the traditional form, with a final licking on the fingers. J

Note:  Strict cutlery practitioners, please excuse.

Once upon a time( Pardon me for the clichéd beginning, but the Indian scenario, middle class to be specific, leaves me no option) the weapons and armour used by girls/women against the physical teasing in public places had been pins – safety pins, bell pins, hair pins – the list goes on.

As a teenager I had been advised by many classmates and friends to attach an additional safety pin on to my skirt, so that it could be put to use while travelling in tightly packed buses, as a preventive against the ever present danger from guys near whom you might have to stand for the journey and whose tactics of pinching and scratching and rubbing and pressing are the commonest of incidents in such situations. What you have to do is simply to stick the pin into the fleshy part of the guy’s body with a deadpan face, taking care not even to look into that direction. The point to be noted is that practice makes one perfect.  This method involves pinning them literally down.

I can personally vouch for the efficacy of this method.  I scored the best while in a cinema theatre, at the age of fifteen. My father always opted out of taking us to the movies. The reason that he cites is the lack of ventilation there, which he considers very unhygienic. The real reason, if there is any, I have never been able to fathom. It happened once that there was this film starring the two superstars together. My father had to succumb to our pleading to take us for the movie. He got us seated at a place where he thought it would be ‘safe’ for his teenaged daughter and niece.

The film was just fine. Something else that was distracting me was the scratching that I could feel at my back. I moved an inch forward fearing a permanent ban to the theatres, lest my father knows it. However, the guy won’t leave me alone. I turned to my rather shy cousin just to find her face in full agony. I could feel a whole gang at my back. I was wondering if my mother too was there with us in the group of the victims! Gathering all my courage, I took out my armor – the pin, and carefully stuck it into the guy’s protruding hands. After I was convinced of the success of my job, I handed it over to my cousin. Seeking courage from me, she grabbed it. I could hear something like a squeak of a mouse, behind me. My cousin proved the saying, ‘Beware the fury of a patient man.’ Too ferocious, I suppose!

Another great tactic that I think deserves credit for having done much research on is making the perfect use of the stilettos and the other varieties of footwear available in the market. This trick depends on the efficacy of the user. The guy next to you is apparently experiencing a surge of testosterone pumping through his body and seems to have sprouted an extra pair of arms. Here arises the need for a fitting reaction. Make sure that you spot his feet. Select a foot, preferably the one nearer to you. Now carefully put your heels (remember the HEELS)   on his foot and without losing a second, balance your whole body on that single heel, holding on to the rod/strap above, with both your hands. You could try a small           sidewise swing for an added effect. Believe me you; it is sure to work wonders.  A deliberate casual look in the guy’s direction will reveal blood rushing to his face. Howzatt?

Though all this armour and equipment are well and good, I could come up with another, hitherto seldom used device that works wonders. Though it lacks the element of sadism, which is an integral part of the previous methods, it scores better because it works on the principle of ‘prevention is better than cure.’ Serendipity is the hallmark of all great inventions and this is no exception to the rule. Another advantage of the backpack is that it comes in handy, right from the moment when you are standing in a queue to buy a ticket.  Position your backpack carefully so that the person right behind you cannot ‘accidentally’ press his body into yours. In addition, for those by your side, again, an ‘accidental’ bumping into them would do.  As it happens so often, the train is crowded and you cannot find a seat, the backpack serves to keep predatory males at bay.

Mondays are rather crowded at the railway stations, with hostellers (including me) going back, after the weekend at home.  There was this guy who would be there invariably at my back, while boarding the train and alighting – though I don’t have an unusually inviting figure. Only God knows how he could make it every time. The worst part of it is that he would not give me a chance to react. Even to give him an angry look I need to have ‘proof,’ you know! (It happens only in India.) Next time, I had the armour of mine tucked at my back. As per custom, he was at my back (possibly to give a try.) Poor chap!  Just as I entered the train, I turned back and smiled at him. Did I see smoke gushing out from his ears? That was real fun – victory without a war. From that day onwards, no one would ever spot me at the railway station, without my backpack ON. Nor have I been able to spot him.

The backpack would aid you in averting ugly scenes that invariably result when you request someone to desist from invading your personal space. It is the best of all armour, putting to naught their futile attempts to a get the ‘touching and groping’ feel.

Better, carry a backpack even when you really don’t need one. Even if it involves a little extra effort on your part, it would pay rich dividends in myriad unexpected ways. For instance, you could steal a backward glance and rejoice in the frustrated look on the face of the Lothario on the make, behind you.  Turn a deaf ear to all those complains and carping about your protruding backpack. All this armour has to be put to use until the advent of pepper spray in India.

Time and again have I

stumbled upon these rocks.

Lying upon them

have been burned by the

metal-thawing heat.

At the distance of a breath,

there, I see flowers laden

for me. I can see

the velvet mattresses and

think of the soft and sweet breeze.

I can just look at it,

standing still, succumbing

to the heat and pain.

I know, all the sweetness is for me,

but to move, I cannot make

even a slight attempt.

No one is holding me back,

but I am restricted.

In great hope,

I stand up. Again to

fall upon these rocks and

get my wounds anew.

Now have I abandoned

the notion of standing up.

Lying upon this heat,

thanking I am to God

to have made me lay astill.

atleast to be saved from

fresher wounds.

Until late, visiting a hospital for taking an injection had been a nightmare for me. A hyperactive person from my childhood days, it was almost mandatory for me to get big wounds or scratches on my body. Then the death bell rings for me. Oh! No – the visit to the hospital to take the Tetanus Toxoid injection. I would gladly endure the pain from the wound but never the prick of the syringe.

My fear towards this “deadly device” developed when I was in third standard at a Kendriya Vidyalaya in Trivandrum. It happened once that we had a competition of long jump (with a difference) among friends from my neighbourhood. The task was jumping over my brother’s baby cycle.  We had allotted three attempts for each participant, in turns. Having excelled everyone is the first two rounds I was overjoyed. With confidence brimming in me, I jumped over the cycle while smiling to my friends. I had no clue if I had jumped over the bicycle or it had jumped over me.  My confidence and pride gifted me bruises all over my body and a deep cut on my left leg. Now, it was time to visit the MH (military hospital). I tried crying, coaxing and cajoling my father against this idea of his, for no use.

At the MH, we were directed to the dressing room, where when I entered the sight that caught my glance was a nurse dressed in white, sucking blood from an old man’s veins. “Is she a witch in an angel’s apparel?” I thought. No, I will not let her do the same to me. The second she called out my name, I clutched on to my father’s arms. He pushed me towards her. “You too Papa!” I felt like yelling out. “Run Samyukta, run.” Someone deep within me was asking me to fly off from the place. I ran helter-shelter in the big hall and then out of it into the large corridors, with my father and the nurse running behind me (I was into sports at school, you know.) Eventually the authorities were convinced to drop the idea of TT and prescribed me some medicine. I was saved from the syringe, though not from my father’s scolding.  Later on, at many occasions I had to undergo the trauma of the syringe, as my father had grown more careful with me, leaving me no chance to run off.

The next I created a huge tamasha was when I was in Lucknow. I was in my sixth standard. It was a pleasant evening, which turned out to the contrary later on.  It was a weekend and I was in the park, with friends. Some dispute occurred between my friends and one pushed the swing at the other, which he reverted very carefully just to hit upon my face. Yet another wound, though for no fault of mine. Again, Papa was standing tall near me with his scolding and an eventual TT solution.  Now time for hospital visit and all the dread and pain.

However prepared I go to the hospital (smaller than the Trivandrum one); I treble at the sight of the syringe. The names of all the gods ran to my mind as if I were standing face to face with death. The nurse was ready with the syringe to tuck it into my flesh. “How cruel!” When you are in real pain, you would cry in your mother tongue and I proved it. “Ayyooooooo!” I cried out, “Someone please help me.”  Few youngsters, on their way to some outing for the weekend, were passing in front of the hospital. Among them were some Keralites who were taken aback by the cries of a girl in Malayalam. They ran into the hospital, possibly thinking of some real danger to some Malayalee girl, who might not know Hindi.

Just as they entered the dressing room, they saw me held tightly by two nurses and my own dear father, with another nurse holding the syringe upright in her hands. I seemed like some film heroine held by the villains’ team. “Poor me.” The people burst into laughter, leaving out a deep sigh of relief. I felt very sad. Taking this opportunity, the nurse inserted the medicine into my body. I cried again. The guys opened out into laughter, once more. I felt sadder. The whole day, back from the hospital I kept on weeping. Nothing could console me. Much more than the pain of the syringe, it was the mocking that I could not stand.

After the incident, whenever I had to visit the hospital for a TT injection. I would try remembering the incident and gather my whole courage. It seemed like I was preparing myself for the battlefront. After reaching home I would cry sympathizing myself, but not in the public after that.

Now when I go to the hospital for any sort of injections, I would be all smiles, thinking of my adventures with this device in my childhood. J

Probing into the personal relationships between the colonizer and the colonized, with a humane perspective, has never been an easy task, especially when it is during the colonial phase with revolts arising against the rule. E M Forster was one such writer to study the relationships between Indians and the British. This effort resulted in a masterpiece – A Passage to India, published in 1924 and filmed into a poetic passage in 1984 by David Lean.

          Forster, very beautifully, explores the obstacle in the way of sympathetic communication between the English and the natives in British India. It is often commented on this novel that Forster had perhaps planned to discuss on friendship and religion and ended up writing a story.

          The two main, of a myriad possible, themes could be that of value and friendship between Aziz and Fielding and the attempts of two British women – Adela and Mrs. Moore to have a “passage to India.” The relation between Indians and Anglo-Indians form a vital element in projecting the social image of India.

The subject of the novel is raised in the beginning itself when at the dinner party of Hamidullah a question is raised whether friendship is possible with an Englishman or not? The conclusion ends in a negative tone. One of the important relationships in the novel begins when Dr Aziz meets Mrs. Moore in the mosque. This makes Aziz feels hopeful towards the possibility of such a relation. However, by the end of the novel, Aziz’s reply to Fielding that their relation cannot be continued reveals the fact that conquered and the conqueror could not be friends.

Throughout the novel, the bond between the Indian and the Englishman is continuously threatened because of failure in understanding. The snobbery on the part of the English colonials towards Indians themselves prevent any real mingling of the races and Indians and The English are no closer to unity at the end of the novel than at the beginning. Fielding, the one character who temporarily belonged to both the groups understands the futility of his liberalism and departs from India altogether.

Great races with different heritage and history, with no desire to understand them and with one of them always in the wrong place – that is the story of the relationship between the two. Fielding is set with Anglo-Indian and Aziz with Indian nationalism and thus, they are unable to continue their friendship.  However, their friendships point to the attempts, though futile, in trying to understand one another.

          Forster points out separation of race from race, sex from sex, culture from culture, even of man from himself to be reasons that underlies every failed relation. The concluding pages of the novel depicts the pain of the rupture of two diametrically opposite worlds, brought together by force,  in poetic terms that lies unmatched to in literature. Relations remain unknown and unexplored  in the novel, as the incident at the Marabar caves.

          David Lean, in his brilliant attempt to picture the poetic words of Forster, produced a visual magic. The background score in the film takes the viewer into the world of perplexed human relations. Nothing to match the words and the scenes of A Passage to India.

The place of an individual in a society has been a matter of constant interrogation.  There are imposed certain limiting factors for an individual and those who do not conform to these parameters have always been stamped as outcasts. It is this curbing and limiting of an individual in a larger canvas that forms the theme of Ken Kesey’s novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, in a smaller canvas of a mental asylum.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is narrated by a schizophrenic inmate Chief Bromden and it pictures the story of an energetic con man, Randle Patrick Mac Murphy, who seeks institutionalization as a means of escaping the rigours of the prison work farm. Mac Murphy, in order to reduce the sexual and emotional impotence of the inmates, challenges the authority, only to be doomed. He strives and suffers for the salvation of others. In fact, it is the story of the Chief’s progress towards sanity.

The novel has a well-built structure which gets tallied with the plot development with twenty nine chapters in four parts.  Parts I, II and IV are set inside the hospital premises itself and Part III is set on a boat. Part I begins with Bromden describing the entry of Mac Murphy and his subsequent winning of the inmates to his side, much for Nurse Ratched’s trouble. Nurse Ratched is the real authority and terror among the inmates. In part II Mac Murphy surrenders, but on realizing the dependence of others upon him he sets on revolt. In the third part, the patients are in their fullest self and highest confidence. Mac Murphy takes them for a fishing trip, which seems very useful.  In part IV, Nurse Ratched tries to “divide and rule,” but fails and lands Mac Murphy in the shock room. Billy’s suicide gets him lobotomized by the Nurse and finally the Chief gives him “mercy-killing.” Then he escapes, which makes the greatest victory over the Big Nurse.

The modern chaotic atmosphere of aimlessness, struggle and disunity are captured in the title, adapted from a toungue-twisting nursery rhyme:

Vinterym MIntery, Cutery, Corn

Apple seed and apple thorn;

Wire, Briar, limber lock,

Three geese in a flock

One flew east,

One flew west,

And one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.

Those who fly east and west are diametrically opposed to each other and represent the two combatants in the novel. The one that flies over the cuckoo’s nest(mental hospital) is the giant Chief Bromden who finally escapes.

The narration is often magical and incoherent. Kesey’s choice of Bromden as his narrator helps in the technical excellence. The novel also contains certain flashbacks that area effectively incorporated and developed. The mood of the book is gloomy with an undercurrent of fear and constraint and this keeps pace with the setting.

Societal repression and hostility are diagnosed in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest under the mask of insanity and matriarchy.  Basically the novel is a story of the journey of Chief Bromden towards sanity and the friendship and love among the inmates, especially between the White Irish Mac Murphy and the Black Chief. It is natural and universal for two people under the same unfavourable disastrous conditions to feel a spiritual kinship and that is what is shown in this novel. Kesey’s novel transcends the mental institution and has successfully taken apart a system which we may feel we are inmates of.

This novel has been adapted for stage by Dale Wasserman and also filmed by Milos Forman. The film version won great acclaim and also won five Oscars. Both the novel and the adaptations remain Classics.

Physics was the first hour. In a class with pin drop silence, the lecturer was all set with Optics.  After revising the theory taken in the previous class, we were given problems for solving. The class was on the wrestling when a sound banged in the huge class. “May I come in, Sir?”  Ria was standing at the door with a perplexed face. The eyes brows of the lecturer sharpened to see the late comer. “I won’t repeat it Sir,” It was a reflexive response. Smiles flashed across the classroom.

Finally, she convinced the lecturer and got in. I adjusted my bag for her to sit comfortably.  I stole a glance and smiled.  The necessity to overcome the boredom of the heavy classes led us into devising methods for clear communication, practiced and perfected across generations of students. Talking without lip movements, writing slips, gestures, etcetera were some very common methods. Thus began our communication.

I handed over a slip of paper to Ria. The bit read thus, “Where were you for the past two days?”

Her reply came, “I had an adventure.”

“What?”

“I committed suicide.”

I was taken aback. For a second, I was sitting liked a dunce with my mouth wide open. I kept staring at her.

“No she won’t pass such a joke to me,” I thought.

“Samyukta, have you solved the problem?” The coarse and heavy voice of the lecturer echoed in the large classroom.

“Aahm! No Sir.”

I got back at Ria.

“What?” I enquired, looking at Ria.

“Last day when I was going home from the college, I found that the */+%*# rascal, Vipin was cheating upon me.”

Vipin was her boyfriend. Therefore, he ditched her.

“Shhhh…” I tried to pacify her roaring anger. “Now do you mean to say that you went straight and committed, I mean, attempted, suicide?”

With her head down, she nodded a ‘yes.’

I stamped on her foot. She controlled the pain.

“You stupid, after all, for some guy, you were up to ending your own life? This is the limit.”

“Please don’t get out at me. Listen what happened next.”

“Oh now you want me to hear your nuisance which you would term an adventure? So, am I talking to some ghost or what?”

“No, I am alive. In perfect condition.”

“What stupid thing did you do?”

“I took rat poison.”

“Yuck! Was it tasty?”

“Sam….!” (she used to call me so)

“Okay, okay. Go ahead with your adventure.”

“At night I took rat poison. You some know something…”

“Sorry, I haven’t tasted rat poison.”

She made a face from which I felt that she would cry.  I said, “Okay. I will not pull your legs anymore. Continue.”

“After I took it, I went to Ashu’s room.”(Ashu is her brother.) “He was fast asleep. I thought of all the moments of fun that we used to have and I wept. Papa was out on official tour. Amma too was asleep. I touched her legs, asking for pardon.”

I could not control my laughter. However, I had to.

Ria continued. “Then I went to my room, sat down and wrote a suicide note. As I lay down waiting for death, I was weeping at Vipin’s infidelity. Suddenly I felt some movements in my bowels. Therefore, it was time for me to leave, I thought, though it was an odd feel. I was preparing myself for death. However, the irritation felt more like that of dysentery. I ran to the toilet. For the last two days, I was spending time in my toilet.Never again in my life am I gonna think of this stupidity. Ufff…”

I burst out in laughter. I forgot the situation and laughed to my full, when I saw the lecturer staring at me.

The next thing I remember is both of us standing at the blackboard, as punishment.

Ria said, “Such a shame standing here, with the whole class laughing at us!”

“What about a suicide?” I asked and we looked into each other’s face with a smile that we were trying to hide.

Once when I was home for a weekend, my brother called me aloud. He was watching the television and wanted to show me an interesting advertisement. Yes, I did enjoy it. Getting back to my work, I realized how much we look ahead to these ads for the entertainment they provide. At college and at work, I have found television advertisements being talked about with much deep-rooted interest. Yes, they do influence us too.

The establishment and flourishing of the visual media industry and the growth of a consumerist state, advertisements have gained the status of the prominent marketing strategy. Today, ads have grown much beyond the dimensions of marketing, flowering into a full-fledged popular culture.

Advertisements are being viewed for the entertainment value that they offer. It is the entertainment part of the ads that appeals to a larger group of viewers, especially youngsters. They prefer the jingles and the entertainment to information.  (Reference to the study conducted by Dr V Mukunda Das of ‘Hindu’). This differs with groups.

A viewer of television ads will not miss recognizing them as INFOTAINMENTS. These, at times, cease to exist as entertainments alone. The creative elements of ads hold the attention of the viewers. The ads of virgin mobile, mentos, surf excel, happy dent white are just a few to name.

Upon the entertainment factor, the models in these ads are becoming popular with a group of advertisement celebrities emerging in the vicinity. Of course, the obvious appearance of celebrities from fields of cinema and sports.

The language, dresses, hairstyles, music, lifestyle, etc promoted by these ads come to be recognised as the status quo. The phrases, music, dialogues, mannerisms and concepts employed and propagated by the ads could be seen reflecting in the day-to-day life of an average Indian. References of these television ads in movies, stage shows and even real life talks, show the continuum. Upon this, the greatest impact that these ads are making upon the viewers is the effect on their very life style.

In most of the cases, the shopping sensibility is guided more by the credibility of the ads rather than the products. It is the value or signification associated to the products by the T.V ads that sells the product. Social respect, discrimination, health, beauty, success, power, and other attributes are bought with the object.

The television ads promote an entirely novel visual popular culture, which very effectively succeeds in rendering the consumerist principles across the viewer community. These ads have very successfully drawn out a parallel culture.

Advertisements are emerging as a popular art form, thereby influencing the marketing strategies and promoting consumerism. Next time you sit in front of the television, just check how much time you devote for advertisements and how much you enjoy it. J

I breathed to be lived by you.

I moved to be traversed by you.

I smiled to be joyed by you

I throbbed to be felt by you.

I have been me to be you.

You left to be yourself.

Less did u know

that you were living me.

The me, not mine.

The me you had made yours.

The me without me.

Without me I am not myself.

On way from you to yourself to me to myself,

I lost me.

Myself became you.

Though I can’t be you,

I made you, me.

You live me.

In you I refuge.

Where else would I go!

With slow and steady steps,
With soft, caring hands,
I had built a dream
- a cottage of glass.
I could see in and out of it,
crystal clear.
It reflected back on the sun
with so intense a glory,
the sun sunk in its brightness.

It was white,
It was green,
It was azure.
The rainbow faded in its hues.

I walked tip – toe,
I ran frantically,
I danced in the rain of my joy.
I lived in fantasy,
I slept my waken hours.

It was my love.
It was my life.
In my sleep,
I lived my dream.
My waken hours
yearned for my niche.

My eyes spur blood.
It hurts.
Pieces of broken glass
pierce my eyes.
The brittle dream
that had rested on my delicate eyelashes
is lashing me.
My dream,
the cottage of glass,
is broken.

To cite an instance, one fair morning, the friend of mine was coming out of the library, with all the collected data under work in his brain – the workhouse. Accidentally, he bumped into somebody and abruptly, asked for pardon. “I am sorry,” he said and continued. He was heading to the cafeteria. Not late, he realized that that he had stamped on somebody(‘s foot) and turned back pronouncing a big SORRY. His senses banged on him and was taken aback to find a dog trying to move away from him. For a second, he stood still and then turned his glance around. Much to his dismay, he found people bursting into laughter. POOR CHAP!

Therefore, it occurred one day that I was waiting, with a friend of mine, at the railway station. The “Genius” friend of mine was in the train I was waiting for and had messaged me the compartment in which he was traveling. The train, as usual, came late. The compartment we had to board was at a distance. We had to run, lest the train should move. The next thing I could sense was I lying on the platform. I did not want to turn around or to acknowledge the pain pressing hard through my knees. Somehow, we got into the train.

After we sat near him, I thought of checking my knees, in case they were bleeding. I walked to the toilet in our compartment. I found it unclean and walked across the vestibule to the other compartment and got into the toilet there.             Thank god. My knees were neither bleeding, nor had bruises. I was happy, though it was aching.

I came out of the toilet very much relieved, just to find the “Genius” friend standing outside the first toilet that I had got into. His face had gone red and tension was dripping from his face as droplets of sweat. He was looking at the toilet door, at intervals. I could not help feeling nervous. “What might have gone wrong?” This question, along with all possible weird ideas, was popping within me. I went near him, not knowing what to do.

“You?” His question surprised me. He seemed like he was not expecting me there. I asked, “Whaaaat?”

“How come you are here?” He seemed like stuck with some sort of memory loss.

“Oh God! Such is the fate of great wits. Do not ever make me an intelligentsia, par average.” These words passed through my mind.

“Where did you come from?” He asked.

“God! Now this is the limit. Don’t you remember me going to the toilet?”

“Yes. But I saw you getting into this one.” He said pointing to the toilet I got into first.

“Oh! I found it dirty, so got into the other one. But, excuse me; what do you have to do with it?” I was irritated.

“Thank God!” He looked much relieved.

“What’s wrong with you?” I was curious.

“I saw you getting into this toilet. After a while, I saw another person getting into the same toilet and did not see him getting out, so… I thought… he might be… I mean… you…” I felt sorry for having misunderstood him. However, later, I could not hold my laughter. Poor Chap! (Now this has gone more-or-less like a synonym with his name) The other friend went around narrating this incident to others, as part of the “blunder stories” of this “Genius” friend. Though this incident adds among his “blunder” stories, I thank him for being caring.

The still sad face of Deepa seemed to resist the various sounds of the railway station.  She was not even attending the calls that were coming on her mobile, kept on the beep mode.

“Why do you have to leave?” One of the ladies sitting on the floor responded ferociously to something.

Deepa looked her with a startled face, as if she received a blow.

She saw the lady continuing her talk.

“If you are going to leave now, they will be under the impression that you got scared. Hey! Let them say whatever they feel like. What have you got to be afraid of when you know that you have been doing your duty, without any flaws?”

The other lady, “But how long should I suffer?”

Sudha, “Why do you have to suffer? Were you living under their mercy?”

The ladies continued their talk.

Deepa realized that the doors of the train were opened after the cleaning. The announcement was recurring. Deepa, very lazily, put her mobile into her handbag. She held her handbag close to her, as if scared of something. But the very next moment, she stood up in a determined mood and walked out of the waiting room with her both her bags.

Sudha roared, suddenly, at few college girls who were entering the room, “These girls won’t heed me ever.”

Deepa turned her back with a start.

Sudha, “Can’t you rub your shoes against the mat? How could you make a place dirty, though it’s public? Only I know the effort it takes to get the place cleaned.”

Deepa walked ahead, involuntarily.  Sudha words – Why do you have to leave? -  kept resonating in her ears. She stood still and keept her travel bag on the floor. She took her mobile phone out of her handbag to find sixteen missed calls on it.

Another beep sound announced the arrival of a call. The screen of the mobile showed – Hari calling.

With a bold look, Deepa attended the call. “Hello.” After a pause, she continues, “Just tell me the time and I will be ready.” After another pause, she gave a confident response, “I .. am.. ready. See you tomorrow. I will be there at ten. Bye.” She disconnected the call.

Deepa turned back and smiled at Sudha who was getting out at someone, inside the waiting room. Taking out the train ticket from her bag, Deepa, tore it to pieces and with the sense of a winner, droped it into the wastebasket, nearby. A confident Deepa moved out of the railway station through the EXIT door.

In spite of the heavily crowded roads, the footpaths remain untrodden. This is not because of any curfew or ban. This occurs mostly due to the fact that while the ‘use and pay’ lavatories provided in various parts remain closed to the benefit of spiders, rats and reptiles, footpaths have gone a long way, evolving into urinals. These footpaths remain damp and stinking, leaving the pedestrians no other option than taking to the roads. The converting of roads into footpaths has got its own problems – accidents and traffic block, to name a few.

The footpaths near the major bus stations, railway stations, theatres, etc are usually the designated urinals in almost any city in India. These, the footpaths turned urinals, invite spitting by the passers by, thereby putting the region permanently out of bounds for pedestrians.

Dusk fall highlights the innate attraction of anti-social elements towards this detesting odour. It seems like these areas have been demarcated by them, as it happens in some species of animals that demarcate their territory by urinating around the region. Such regions have been granted by the common public for such purposes.

To make matters worse, the remaining space is occupied by cobblers and vendors of cheap goods. If any space remains, it is occupied by various groups registering their protests against, God knows what. Again there is this group of product demonstrators, who haunt the footpaths.

In short, the idea of footpaths as a utility to be used by pedestrians is fading into oblivion. Thus the evolution of the saga of vanishing footpaths.

‘Mother India’ – a landmark film in the history of Indian cinema, has played an integral role in deciphering our nation as our mother.  The film deserves the credit of the first Indian film, nominated for the Oscars.        This film, by Mehboob Khan, based itself on the fundamental nuances of rural India, thereby associating the spirit of the nation to the rural traditions and values.

Released in 1957, ‘Mother India’ is a remake of ‘Aurat’ by Mehboob Khan himself. The film could instill the spirit of nationalism at a time when India was entering a phase of independence. The plot line of the film revolves around the character, Radha, who has to suffer the agonies of poverty and has to struggle, amidst the breaking away of all possible supports to her.

The role of Radha(Nargis), in the film was to safeguard the interests of the nation, even at the cost of the family and all possible hardships to be faced, during the course.

The film that begins with an optimistic rendering, narrates on the flashback technique. The opening scene of the film shows Radha as an elderly woman opening an irrigation canal for the villagers. The remaining film is a recollection of past memories of Radha.

Radha, a newly married woman, stands bold at the face of unexpected situations. Her family lies under the burden of the money borrowed from Sukhilal, the moneylender (Kanhaiyalal). Her husband absconds due to amputated arms. This follows the death of her mother-in-law.  One of her three children dies of hunger. All these result in utter poverty, in midst of a destroying storm.

Amidst these challenges, Radha successfully brings up her two children Ramu(Rajendra Kumar) and Birju(Nargis’ real-life husband, Sunil Dutt.) Birju, eventually turns out to be a bandit and as a revenge against Sukhilal, tries to kidnap his daughter on the day of her marriage. After her unsuccessful attempts at trying to convince Birju against the kidnapping, Radha kills her younger son, in order to save the girl. Birju dies in the arms of his mother, Radha.

The film stands peculiar not only in its theme but also in its cast. Nargis Dutt displayed acting, par excellence in the film. This film, which took three years for completion, bagged many prestigious awards, including the best actor award for Nargis.

‘Mother India’  narrates the tragedies of agrarian society in India and the sacrifices a woman needs to make in the Indian context. Radha, in ‘Mother India,’ portrays ‘Mother’ Earth and ‘Mother’ Goddess. The idealized image of a woman in India is visible in the film ‘Mother India,’ which had been imitated throughout the history of Indian cinema. In this film, the woman emerges as the epicenter of the family, as well as that of the nation. Across time, ‘Mother India’ has sustained as a true Classic.

The Smile

Treacherous, these waves,
a hug they do the shore.
After arousing sweet passions,
retreat as a stranger,
just to fool the shore.
She waits and waits
again to be fooled by the same.

Dark was my mind
and i saw images of cheat,
despair and treachery
jazz around me.

Insanity was engulfing me.
Not late, a light flashed upon me.
Oh! it was a smile,
a very sweet smile.
A boy selling shells.
Now, the fresh breeze blew,
a new sky glittered.
He asked me for a shell.
I gave him twice its worth.
I learned to smile
and turned to leave.
A roar I heard.
At my back I saw
the gushing wave.
It held the shore
and promised
again to come.