Unforgettable Readings

Today at noon as I dawdled in the living room, a toothbrush in my mouth, half-asleep, my mom had a wide smile on her face. “I have a treat for you!” I assumed that it was probably mangoes as I dug into the cloth bag she was pointing towards. It wasn’t mangoes. It was an issue of Champak.

A recent issue of Champak

A treat. That is exactly what Champak was for me during my childhood. It’s a bi-monthly magazine for kids which feature mostly animal stories. The stories are generally all the same. They find plot in Champakvan forest where there is a naughty monkey, a dumb ass(a stupid donkey)or a scamming fox. There is always some kind of moral of the story, that doesn’t differ much either. Other kinds of stories are informative, barely more than a conversation where one animal imparts knowledge to another. But with the funny names of the animals, the smart illustrations and colorful pages, Champak was an indulgent delight.

Our home had no TV. Our Radio had no signal. Our town had no bookstore. I had to entertain myself with the few books that we had in our house. Correction, the few English books we had. My mother and father both were avid readers and there was quite a store of Marathi books at our house. The only time I could get new books was when I visited the city. My Baba would buy an armful of books then but alas, I would gulp them up in no time. So I would resort to reading Champak, the only kids magazine available in Roha. Everytime I accompanied my mother to the market, I would rush into the little newspaper stall, run by Mr. Kulkarni. Mr. Kulkarni didn’t like disappointing me, so he would keep aside an English Champak from me.

It was similar with the postlady. I never knew her name. Her only identity was her big glasses, her grizzly hair and the khakhi saaree she wore. She would drop mail at our house at lunchtime generally and I would run to the door, pushing away my plate to see if the kind postlady had brought me my Newshouse. Newshouse was a weekly newsletter for kids that my mother had subscribed for my sister. I would find Newshouse boring and would only read the comic strips in it. Other stuff, like Tinkle, Chandamama, Magic Pot, Chacha Chowdhary and Archie Comics, I got to read only during railway journeys and those were few.

A Logo Of NewsHouse

The first book I read

The first book I read was Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven. We had a famous five at home, but it was old and yellow and I didn’t feel like picking it up. My cousin Sukanti had gifted me the secret seven for my birthday and she was adamant about finishing reading it herself during that stay. I was more interested in playing with her, but she was the boss, so I would quietly sit beside her looking over her shoulder into the book as she read. That is how I read my first book. But Sukanti was a little cruel to me, for she would read like lightning, turning the page when I hadn’t even finished half. So after she had left, I picked up the book myself, obviously interested in the book now. And once I was done with it, I found the treasure of many other Enid Blyton in my own house and began ravishing them like anything.

By the time I had read the first few books, I had only one aim in life now- to finish reading all 21 books! My cousins, Sukanti and Nikhil proved to be a real boon for they would exchange their books with me(it wasn't possible to buy all the books of course!). A family friend of ours, Mr. Karnik was kind enough to lend me his son’s Famous Fives. While I haven’t had any sort of contact with Mr. Karnik or his family for the past three years(pity!), some of his famous fives that I failed to return still lie in my bookstand, and I am ever grateful to him for those.

The quite old cover of the Famous Five

Hardy Boys

I had spent four years on Enid Blyton, reading almost everything she had wrote and even conjuring stories of my own(they were essentially Enid Blyton- a bunch of kids and a dog, solving mysteries) until my parents decided I had to move on. That came from our primary school principal, who gave me her daughter’s Hardy Boys and Nancy Drews over the summer, and a far off relative who gave away all his teen books, that he must have owned as a kid himself. 
And then of course, came one of the greatest things I know in my life- Aksharbaug. Aksharbaug was little library for kids started in our little town by two extra-ordinary ladies- Samruddhi Kaku and Nutan Kaku. It consisted of a single cupboard with two overflowing compartments of English books. So many families donated their old books and even a community of young readers was almost founded in the town. Something of a bookworm, I can boast of having read every book in those compartments.

As I grew up, my attachment to the books reduced. I found the wonders of hanging out with friends, watching TV. I moved to the city and I began watching more movies and plays. Books could now be flipkarted and crossworded. The immense need to own books disappeared with the struggle behind it. While I still read, I don’t read so much that I can write about it.

Today as I held the Champak, I found myself becoming that little kid again. I sat down to read it even before picking up the newspaper. It’s not the same Champak of course. The quality of pictures, paper everything has changed. The stories are still the same but the readers have changed too. As I have grown up, Champak has grown up too.

Diverse Individuals

On a journey, Pune-to-Mumbai I completed reading my newly bought book- ‘The Day I Stopped Drinking Milk’. It’s a fresh release, another collection of experiences by Sudha Murthy. It’s her memoir, about everything but herself. ‘Wise and Otherwise’, ‘How I Taught My Grandmother To Read’-I was introduced to Sudha Murthy’s writings by my parent, long ago. I was still a child, and till I picked up the books, I had little idea who Sudha Murthy was. I assumed that she was just another writer. In reality she is something of a great woman, wife to the Infosys genius Narayan Murthy, philanthropist, among India’s first woman computer engineers and the wisest of Indian women, a model of forwardness, independence and intelligence.

Front Cover - The Day I Stopped Drinking Milk

There’s another Indian woman whose I writing I am keen on reading. Model, socialite, columnist, writer and a mother, Shobha Dé. She can be termed as one of the most high-profile writers in India. Her life has been highly dramatic and also somewhat controversial. Though hailing from a middle-class family (something she doesn’t fail to boast of in her works) she has been a little looked-down upon by women of the same class. Her walking out of a marriage, and then walking into another has never went down well with the likes of my mother. Introduced to me with her book ‘Speedpost’ (a collection of letters to her kids), she was further discovered through her columns and then her autobiography.

Front cover- Selective Memory (Autobiography)

Both these woman can be compared and can be found to be similar yet completely different. To begin with, both of them hail from Maharashtrian families. Shobha Dé was born Shobha Rajadhyaksha while Sudha Murthy’s maiden name is Sudha Kulkarni. Though both had non-maharashtrian wedlocks, I have immense love for Marathi people like them who have made it large. Sachin Tendulkar, Lata Mangeshkar, Sunil Gavaskar, Madhuri Dixit, Asha Bhonsale, Madhur Bhandarkar or the recent achievers Ajay-Atul, Shalmali Kholgade, Ajinkya Rahane all are recipients of such love and respect, more because they are Marathi, less because of their achievements.

It is not rather fair to make comparisons between the two. Both have completely different lifestyles. Both have achieved completely different kinds of success. But as a human I am judgmental and complicated as well, so I do tend to compare. Shobha Dé  I find a little self-involved; Sudha Murthy on the other hand appears completely detached to her own self. Personally, I prefer self-involved. 

We can clearly see these qualities in their writing. Shobha Dé heavily writes about herself while Murthy writes about everyone but herself. We can see how attached Dé is to her kids (there are six of them) while we barely see a mention of Murthy’s children, probably once or twice in reference to somebody else. Shobha Dé's writing is far better in terms of language and vocabulary. But in terms of matter?

Shobha Dé at an event*

There is a lot to learn from Murthy’s stories. They speak of honesty, truthfulness, and gratefulness. Shobha Dé writes spicy, juicy. Murthy is a woman who has taken very correct decisions in life, Dé is somebody who has taken right decisions, but her own…

Sudha Murthy*

Sudha Murthy’s penning has given me lessons in selflessness.  What I have read in Shobha Dé articles is that it is okay to be a little selfish. 
Both the women are highly learned, well-read, quite well-off and charitable as well. But it’s the life they have chosen, the decisions they have made and the thinking they have adapted that has made them so different. 
And it is this difference that I respect so much.

*No Copyright Infringement Intended.

Letting Go

I recently completed watching the seasons of Ugly Betty on the Indian reruns. The final episode left me awestruck. For four seasons and about a 100 episodes, we expect something to happen between Betty and Daniel. The last two episodes strongly hint such too. The last scene however leaves us hanging. Daniel tells Betty that he will take her to dinner. Does he or does he not ask her out? There is no Airport ending, no Daniel running to stop her Ross-like. Instead, Betty simply moves to London and Daniel lets go of her.

Somehow I found myself relating this to Ted of How I Met Your Mother. I have been a huge follower of the series and have always connected to Ted’s thinking. After all, it’s not hard to see Cobie Smulders across the room and fall for her immediately. Just like it’s easy as it is to fall in love with Robin. While it was quite clear from the first episode that Robin Scherbatsky would not be “the mother”, I have still pinned for Ted-Robin for 8 seasons. And the eighth season finale, where Ted still can’t get over Robin 56 hours before her wedding, broke my heart.

Ted's Song....: 

No Copyright Infringement Intended.

I hate that you’re not with me,

That you’re marrying off this way

And I know it’s wrong to feel like that

About your best friend’s fiancé

I know the fault is mine

I know that I should’ve moved on

But I just stood there waiting for you

Even after you were gone

I pass the ring, hand over the vows

I’ll watch you walk down the aisle

I’ll suit up and stand best man

And do it all with a smile

And then I am gonna do something

I wish I had done long ago

I’m gonna leave, I’ll go away

I’ll be moving to Chicago

Remember I made it rain for you

And now here we are in the rain

And while raindrops wash away the tears

They still leave back a stain

I was the one to reassure you that day

I behave like everything’s fine

But now I am taking an exit from that act

Because I still wish you were mine…

***

Daniel's Song...:

No Copyright Infringement Intended.

You are the one I would drunk dial

You are the one I would call dry

You covered up all my mistakes

You reprimanded me for every lie

You were my confidant for four years

How could I let you resign?

How could I let you decide for your life

When it was so much affected mine?

I thought I couldn’t do without you,

All my work would falter.

I did not realize even then,

It was more than work that would alter.

I knew you small, I saw you big;

I knew you ugly, I saw you divine;

I saw you growing up even more

And I knew when I saw you resign.

I knew I couldn’t live without you,

I saw how much you mattered.

But I understood I had to let you go

Even as my perfect world shattered.

You left and I didn't see you then,

I didn't even say good-bye.

And now you are the more successful one

And me nothing; but for shy...

***

Thanks for reading.

Productive Involvements

“Chutiye, tera kuch involvement hi nahi dikh raha hai!” 
Exactly one month ago, the director of our play, Amatya had fired at me. His allegations weren’t wrong. We were performing a one-act play for a youth theatre competition (called Bhausaheb). Those days, I would be in a sucky mood. Our team members had a lot of issues with one another and unfortunately I was on bad terms with a few too. Hence I would prefer to be left alone, would sit by myself reading some book while others were practicing. My role in the play was small, listed as ‘extra’, so I didn’t have much to practice. I would do odd-jobs helping to make the set, run over to bring some items but I hadn’t made a single worthy contribution to the play.

One month later, we got the opportunity to perform the same one-act once more, commercially. We had won the youth theatre competition and everybody was super-confident. We practiced for only four days with no real seriousness at all. Most of the time would pass in kidding around and bouts of laughter. Nevertheless, it was fun. This time around, while the issues were still there, my own equation with everybody was mended, as a result my mood was good. Amatya’s firing last month which was still ringing in my ears had made me wary of being un-involved too. 
Our victory at the competition had gotten our lead actress a big break in commercial theater. Our set-designer had a big fashion show coming up, the director was very busy at his job, and since this was a commercial show, there was no winning or losing. Hence, even though I was enthusiastic, we practiced for just a few hours and I wondered how I could possibly be more involved in the play in such conditions.

Male lead Karan Bhanushali practicing with the 10 Modaz (set)

It was the day before our big show. Our set, consisting of only 10 square stools (modaz) needed finishing. The set-designer Ishita wasn’t coming, so the responsibility was on us kids. I needed to buy florescent paper sheets for the modaz, so I decided to make a trip to Dadar, under the assumption that the sheets would be cheaper there. With an old school friend for company, I hunted for the affordable sheets for a while but in vain. I called up Ishita, telling her the price.
“Can you go to Marine Lines?” she asked me. “You will get much cheaper sheets there.” It was already sun down. Going to Marine Lines and then back home would mean an average two hours.

“You will need to spare at least an hour” Ishita warned me echoing my thoughts.

I considered for a moment. Being the summer holidays of Junior College, I was completely jobless so sparing an hour wasn’t a big deal. On the other hand I was tired after the day’s practice and going down another 5 stations seemed like huge labour. “You lazy ass” I said to myself and then to her- “Yes sure, it’s no big deal.” Considering what a huge chance Amatya had given us kids of working on stage commercially, I could surely walk a few miles to save him some bucks. Co-incidentally, my problems with my team friends had also ended because of Amatya’s wise words. I owed.“Yeah tell me the address.”
“No!” my friend groaned. “I’m not coming all the way to Marine Drive!”

I dragged him along all the same. I had already forgotten the directions Ishita had given me. As fate would have it, her phone couldn't be reached either. Losing my way quite a few times, I walked round and round in the Bazaar for almost an hour. I thankfully found the landmarks she had described before my friend lost his patience and then I found the particular shop too. After some bargaining, the shopkeeper sold me finally sold me the sheets in half the market price! Victory!!!

Karan Bhanushali with Director Amatya Goradia

But it was too soon to call victory. I called Amatya to ask him if I needed to buy radium. “Achha sunn” he spoke over the phone. “You might have to make the body parts again tomorrow.” For a particular sequence in the play, we had made separate fake body parts of a human being. Apparently, those body parts had been lost after the show.

“I’ll look for them in my garage. But be ready in case I don’t find them. Call Smit, Saarth.” Amatya said. Shit! That meant a lot of work!!

I reached home at ten. After a hurried dinner, I called up Smit and Drashti, two other team members who had also helped in production last time. They showed immediate readiness to work.“So the complete responsibility of that work is on you. Tu puri jimmedaari lega?” Smit asked. I hesitated. Full responsibility? What if I failed? But I couldn't possibly say no. We decided that we would meet up at Smit’s place.

Now there was high pressure on me. Amatya would inform me whether he got the parts the next morning. But I restlessly started working on it that night itself. The body parts had to be made from scrap, literally. I collected used water bottles and newspapers. I made a list of all the things we needed. I still had to make my own props for the next day. Then realizing that the day would be a long one, I decided that I needed some sleep.

Come morning, Amatya gave the confirmation of having brilliantly lost the box of fake body parts. So indeed we had to make all of them again. Drashti, who lived close by and I immediately started working, starting by going on a shopping spree. Brushes, tape, paints, glue, twine strings, scissors, masks, paper cups, papers, hand gloves and in fact every stationary item available in the bazaars of Vile Parle made its way into our shopping. After an hour-long travel to Ghatkopar with all the items and modaz, we finally sat down to work.

The original genius masks made by Ishita

Smit and his mother played the role of a host wonderfully. We enjoyed a wonderful lunch, coffee, snacks in between. Drashti actually completed most of the finishing of the modaz all by herself with assistance from Deepesh and Smit. Saarth helped me form the skeleton of the limbs and other body parts. There was still a lot to do. The body parts had to be covered with newspapers, painted, finished and dried off.

The body parts finally!

My friend Aahan help me a lot in finishing off the work. Funny enough, a month ago during Bhausaheb, Aahan and I practically hated each other. Today however, he was sitting with me finishing off the body parts. I completed work of the masks. It was 9:00 already. The show was supposed to start at 9. Our play was at 11. I still had to get ready. I still had to eat.

I was stressed. In front of me, sat Jessica. She had a big role in the play and was stressed out enough as well. However, she was calmly sitting, headphones on, swaying to the music. Something about it made me laugh. She must have noticed because she looked up, catching my eye and began swinging more enthusiastically. Without thinking at all, I started swaying my head too, without any idea of what the music was and we both laughed. I did know this looked stupid, but it gave me a sense of relief, pushing away the tension. One month ago, Jessica and I weren't talking either. I got the feeling that everything had become better now, with me, with the team and there was no reason to be stressed.

The team of our play (Bhausaheb Victory)

There were some great moments that day. Aahan, Jessica, finally completing all the work, being praised by everyone for doing this fine, a thumbs-up from Amatya that he was satisfied with the set and the props; Ishita, who finally came at night, giving me a small nod of approval that meant the world for me at that moment; somebody telling Ishita that I was the one who would carry her baton forward and actually performing the play. But none of these were the highlight of the day. On stage, Amatya credited my name to “Nepathya” and it was a high moment for me. But that wasn't the highlight of the day either. The highlight occurred after the pack-up, when we were standing below the auditorium.

We were standing in a big circle and Amatya was giving a few pointers, praises, instructions and applauds. In that, he said something simple like “Kalpak, today your work showed your real involvement.” 
He then moved on to compliment somebody else, but I clung to the small sentence, a big smile plastered on my face. And quite immodestly, I felt really, really proud of myself...