Friday, December 11, 2009

My Papad date

Here is my shantaram moment...

Rajesh was one of the younger potters probably of 22/23 years old, who worked at the industrial estate, where potters were employed on a government job. Me and my friend had enlisted on a government programme, where we had to work along with traditional potters learning their crafts and at same time had to teach them of new modern designs, for which the government paid us a small stipend. It also meant they we had to stay with these potters live in their homes/huts eat their food and sleep on their damp floors. The food was basic watery rice dish called kanji, a small piece of fish and a leafy vegetable mostly picked from their backyard. Food was so insipid that I had lost oodles of weight in very first month of my stay. Sleeping on the damp floors would make my body cold and painful giving me feverish feel all day long. The task was very hard as potters had utter disdain for women artisan and that too bred in a city. Gaining confidence of older master potters was another daunting task for us.

Rajesh was more sympathetic towards us as he watched us everyday go through the humiliation meted by senior potters. On one hand he appreciated our determination and grit to go through this project on the other he argued that as city bred girls we would never understand the pains of a poor potter. So our efforts for him were kind of superficial attempt to understand their lives. Nevertheless he found our urban lifestyle more attractive and challenging because he himself wanted to get out of that orthodox life of a potter. He even tried to converse with us in broken English only to prove that he was more sophisticated and urban than others.

My friend did not like his ways and warned me to watch out." I think the guy is hitting on you" she said. "Me? No way! he says all nasty things to me. C'mmon girl you know how these potters hate us for being here. They want us out of their lives because they see us as threat. Love is last thing they have for us" I said dismissing her doubt. I believed Rajesh's admiration for us was a longing for the modern world. He wanted to step in to that modern world that had eluded him for being a potter. And we were that window to that world.

One day as my friend had taken ill, I was working alone with the master potters at the shed. ( They called industrial estate as shed) Rajesh seized this opportunity to talk with me. In a very challenging tone he said " In spite of all your big talks you will still hesitate to eat with a potter" "what do you mean Rajesh? " I retorted in a little irritable tone. I knew that he knew I shared the hut with his neighbors two blocks away, and ate the food they served me. " I challenge you, you will never have lunch with me because you will not like to be seen having lunch with a potter because that is below your dignity. You city people are always two faced" he said with air of righteousness. I was taken back by his accusations but I did not want to make this conversation in a bitter argument so I said in mocking tone" are you asking me for a date?" " Date? what is a date" he asked me confused. "when you invite a woman for a meal it is called a date according to European manners, I explained him thinking he would retreat back by such proposition.
I knew that in a remote village like this, inviting a young woman for a lunch in a hotel was asking for trouble from elders. I was certain Rajesh would not like to take such a chance.

Rajesh thought for a while and said " if it is called date than yes. I am asking you to come for lunch with me". I didn't expect this answer and did not know how to get out this situation. "Yes Rajesh we will go out for lunch one day" I said very patronizingly trying to shake off the topic and thinking that at later time when my friend is around we can negotiate the situation much better way. "Now" he said "Now?" I asked in a genuine shock and fear which was very palpable in my voice. "yes why? are you scarred?" He asked noticing my pale face." No. why should I be scarred ? " - I faltered as I uttered these words realizing it was too late to get out this situation. "Lets go then" he said. I cursed myself for putting myself in the situation slowly walking out of the shed.

On the way I was trying to put a brave face making conversation to suggest as if everything is normal. In five minutes we reached his home, which was like any other hut in the town. Mud walls, dry palm leaves thatched roof, and a small courtyard outside . The room inside was dark, dingy and damp. He called his mother moment we entered his home. He announced he has brought a guest with him for lunch. His mom walked out to see me. She was certainly not happy to see a young city girl brought by his son. But she nodded without smiling.
We sat on the floor for lunch. Rajesh laid some newspapers to make me more comfortable. His mom served us watery rice kanji and some fish in a clay plate . There was no vegetable. Rajesh was unusually animated. He was talking constantly, his work at the shed etc. he was trying to impress me by talking how much he knows about the world outside that small potters village. But I could not concentrate on his words. I was more aware of his mother who was standing in corner watching us two eat..She wore worried looks. Was she worried about the food that would get over for feeding an unexpected guest, or was she worried that the unexpected guest was a city woman that her son had taken a liking.

I looked into her dark eyes and then turned to listen to Rajesh. "Food is not that tasty no? Rajesh was asking me " I will get a papad to make it tasty" he said. He dug some coins from his shirt and called a boy who was hiding behind the wall and peeping at us from inside room. " Run, get one papad quickly. He ordered " You like papad too . Get one for you" His mother intervened. "No I don't need it today" Rajesh said . I knew he just had 50p in his pocket and only one papad could be bought by that money.

I looked into Rajesh's eyes. He was looking at me . He was very happy . He was having his first date. He had finally had tryst with modernity.
I took a bite of the papad that his mother had fried and put it in my plate. And I could not hold back my tears... I said " This food is too hot my taste." "See. I told you" Rajesh said triumphantly" you city girls will never know what potter's life is...blablablabla" His voice faded.
"you are right" I nodded


I had tried reading Shantaram - a novel many times. But the sheer size of the book used to put me off. Simply because I could not lug it around. I generally read books, especially novels on my daily train commutes. So carrying this huge book was too much of an effort. I had resigned to the thought that I may never read this book. Till I found this e-book system and vola!!! and the whole joy of reading is back!
Back to Shantaram... I won't get into the matter weather it is fiction or fact. I never concern myself with that. what matters to me in any work of art if it is written /painted /sung/sculpted with spirit/love/infinity whatever you may want to call. One of my friend prefers to call is as honest moment.
This reminds me of the book written by Carlos Castaneda(CC) called The Active side of Infinity.
Don Juan , CC's Yaqui Indian teacher had asked him to maintain a diary of events where he felt the "infinity" had touched his life. He said every apprentice should maintain such a diary to acknowledge the presence of 'Spirit' or 'infinity' that crosses every one's path- he called it as diary of memorable events . I beleive a work like Shantaram is a book of 'memorable events' where author Gregory David Roberts pens his experiences of ' infinity' in life. I would like to call these events Shantaram momets, rather than 'active side of infinity' or 'diary of memorable events' which sounds too abstract and so heavy.
I have had many of my Shantaram moments....

Friday, December 4, 2009

Whoes identity maters most?

Recently a friend of mine wrote on my FB profile..."You can do better than Barbra Cruger-esque work" My immediate reaction to his comment was why Cruger and not Munch? The work in question was take on Munch's work The Cry rendered in Cruger-esque style. But he still chose to pin me on Cruger and not Munch.

I had referred to two artists in western art history whose works I admired... one whose work i had appropriated and second whose style i copied... The work in question neither belonged to Cruger nor Munch... but depicted my own predicament of life. There were three identities at play in the same work. Munch , Cruger and mine. So whose identity mattered most?

Appropriation of old masters work is a given art historical practice. That was the least of the issue in this argument. So it was between Cruger and me. It is really interesting to know how some people chose to react to this same work depending on the 'identity' they chose to see.
while some chose to see Cruger's identity over mine like my esteemed friend belonging to art fraternity and therefore disappointed by the work, while others saw mine over Cruger's stylistic approach and wondered what I was trying to convey.

So how does one define one's identity through a work of art? Is it the stylistic approach or the artistic content? Can multiple identities exist in the same work of art? Can an artist not have his or her own stylistic identity and still make a relevant contribution. Is artistic style a critical issue or commercial one? does style really matter today? or artistic style is passe and single artist can have multiple stylistic approaches... who cares who you are?

Finally in a globalized world what identity really means? Is it your personal/religious/national/or global persona that will define who you are? Or none of it really maters any more. Like Chuck Close said in one his interviews.... "I don't care for the integrity of the artist... all I ask is the work relevant to me...."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


"How do you remember 26/11?" - a journalist was asking for a quote for next day's edition. What a ******* question I just said to myself. Can any sane Mumbaite forget the day? Every Mumbaiker remembers this day even if they do not want to.

Ask any one in Mumbai a peon, clerk, a banker, hotelier, a mathadi kamagar, a beggar, a politician, a film star....... and there is a story.... hidden deep down the bosom ... never meant to tell.. never meant to be remembered..

My husband returned early from a wedding function without waiting for the dinner party. I was very tired and went off to sleep early. As I opened the door half asleep.... he announced "I think there is a bomb blast in the city again. Go off to sleep." I was very sleepy and said " oh no! not again and crashed on the bed. I was assured that my loved one was back home. But I was not aware the city was bleeding profusely once again. By early morning my friends and family had begun to call frantically to check if we were fine . I started television set to check out whats going on...and watched for next 3 days without blinking....

Next 60 hours I watched carnage... as if I was watching a game being played... I saw people being shot at... helicopter being flown in and commandos marching in . It was all game .. It was all in the game. "Don't watch this..... this will only hurt you more "... my husband would scream in between but I was too numb to listen to him. I thought I was watching a game being played ... narrated in the fashion of ball to ball commentary... making it a exciting watch. And I was waiting to see the sign "GAME OVER"

And finally it got over. 60 hours later. Many people had died... People whom I knew. and whom I never knew. Everything had quietened... fires had been doused and bullets had fallen silent. Now the pain began... with those flashing images of baby Moshe.. CST carnage... Metro bullet showers... people ducking, crying running, and falling.... things seemed real...

I watched, heard and listened.
Storied of shame, stories of blame, and stories of games people play.
Next day I just went back to my routine.
Library, college, studio, grocery shop, bank ...
I talked nothing, said nothing and spoke nothing.
Just looked around and saw people moving like any other day. Everything looked normal. everything appeared normal. There was no sign of pain anywhere. There were no whispers of pain or shame. Nothing! Only television channels talked about tragedy.. but no one seemed to know or understand what they are talking...

Mumbai was back to business and television jounos applauded the spirit of Mumbai.
what a city? I said to myself
This city knows how to hide pain. Hide it so well that no one knows the word pain. as if this word has been deleted from the Mumbai's vocabulary.
So when someone asks me do you remember 26/11? I just smile and say whats that?
Because I know not what is pain ..

Monday, October 19, 2009

In the beginning

This is my first day of blogging!!
To blog or not to blog is still a question.
Still don't know why I want to do this and to whom I want to to talk to.
Right now I have no idea what I am going to write.
So lets hope I can connect.
In the beginning.....