Wednesday, May 31, 2006

FEMINIST FRIEND

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

Jonathan considered himself unique. He was the only male writer he knew who wrote one feminist article every week. What's more, he, unlike many other scribes around him, actually believed in what he said. So convinced was Jonathan about his ideological positioning that some called him the chairman of SCUM, a term coined by a writer whose name he remembered no longer. Since SCUM stood for the Society for Cutting Up Men, who else but Jonathan deserved to head it, considering he took men to the cleaners once every seven days in some newspaper or the other?

For this protagonist of ours, the last two days had been pathetic. He had been lying on the bed with a high fever all alone. Most of his time had been spent hoping that someone would bunk his or her work, and chat with him for a while. As he flipped through the pages of a glossy, a familar voice made him look up. "Hi Johnny," Betty yelled as she walked in, her face barely visible behind a huge pile of books. From the corner of his eyes, Jonathan saw two familiar surnames on the books' spines. Faludi, Steinem: Betty, who was as militant a feminist as he was, had come equipped for some stimulating discussion.

But, he had got it all wrong, since this is what Betty did. She kept the books on the top of an almirah, and murmured, "Today, I want to see There's Something About Mary."

"Betty, I am down with fever," he replied, "Besides, why do you want to see such a stupid comedy?"

"Once in a while, I find stupidity most acceptable," she grinned, "I will keep my brain outside before walking in. Also, I think you should also see a fun film without taxing yourself too much."

To show just how disgusted he was, Jonathan reached out for the thermometer. After shaking it a few times, he put it inside his mouth. Exactly one minute later, he brought out the thermometer and looked at it. "Oh God," he mumbled, as if to show that his temperature was one thousand degrees above normal.

"I am sure you don't have very high temperature now," Betty chirped, "Can you dress up quickly please?"

"You seem to be obsessed with the film, " Jonathan groaned, "Don't you know that I have a serious problem with any movie that commodifies women?" He paused awhile and added, "I thought you shared my feelings, but it seems I am wrong."

"Why do you need to intellectualise on anything and everything?" Betty sounded irritated, and that she was. "What is wrong with enjoying mindless stuff occasionally may I know?"

"There is nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all, " Jonathan stared at her metamorphosed avatar, "The only problem, apart from my fever, is that today is the first day and we won't get the tickets."

"Chill, man, "Betty seemed to have a solution for everything, "I got the tickets while coming here, knowing I will convince you to come along. I stood in the ladies queue, and got the tickets very easily."

"You stood in the ladies queue?"

"Yes," she said, adding conspiratorially, "Don't worry. None of our like-thinking buddies saw me. Now, shall we...?"

Leaving his bed, Jonathan stood up slowly. Then, he reached out for a shirt lying close by. A few feet away, his friend sat, eyeing the tickets she had bought. There was something about Betty, he thought to himself, and may be since she was a special feminist who knew when to make the most of a ladies queue.

(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

GARIB UNPLUGGED!

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

If Virus Locha had been a cricketing scoreboard, it would have read 32 all out. Indeed, such was the VJ's mental state that he had found himself grinning when he had woken up that day. After around ten immomentous TV shows in which he had spoken to big stars pretending to be good actors, he was thrilled at the prospect of interviewing Garib Shaan, India's solitary method actor.

In the studio sometime later, Virus stood daydreaming with his eyes half shut. But, the spell was interrupted by the brouhaha outside. "Uff, look at Garib...God, Garib...wow, there comes Garib...he still looks like a bachcha...." The VJ opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He heard a voice, "Hi Virus, I hope I am not late." Knowing how often he imagined inanities, he chose to ignore the voice, only to hear someone growl, "Virus...." The firm voice of his short lady producer stirred him into action, and he instinctively looked down. There was Garib, standing right next to the woman, smiling away. Virus squeaked a garbled apology, and ushered them in.

Inside, the crew was ready. Without wasting a second, Virus began his well-rehearsed speech. "Today, we have with us, the one and only Garib Shaan, the common man's favourite actor who played Bungle Pandey and, yes, even a Disc Jockey recently." Then, he turned around, looked at the actor, and said, "Can you tell us how you managed to play a student-Disc Jockey at 40 so brilliantly?"

"Tough," the actor replied, "Bungle Pandey, my character in my previous film, lived in 1857. To feel and act like he might have, I used to have a bath in a river at six in the morning every day. To make my character believable, I even visited a kotha to know how courtesans live." "A kotha?" "Yes," Garib affirmed, adding, "To impart authenticity, one has to apply one's self as well as one can."

"Turning into a Disc Jockey immediately thereafter must have been tough," Virus murmured, reminding Garib of the original question.

"You bet it was," Garib replied, sipping on Joke, his favourite drink. "I was living off wafers and soft drinks to get my attitude spot on. My wife and I had rows daily, but I managed to explain why that was necessary. You won't believe what I did later. I actually borrowed a toy gun, visited a radio station, and made sure that the jockey aired my songs."

"But your films have some great songs..."

"Huh, who is talking about my movies? I sang as many as six songs, and none of them was Mere liye thhanda la, my big ummusical hit. People must have been cursing the radio station," Garib laughed loudly, eyeing the bottle of Joke.

"What have you done for Fun Ah, your latest?"

"Sad ah, but I can't talk till you watch the film and frame questions. Can you act in a film without reading the script? Method, my friend, is what is important." Garib rolled his eyes, rose slightly from his seat, and shook Virus's hand abruptly.

Time to leave. That was the signal. Virus looked at the camera and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Garib Shaan, the actor whose never-ending search for perfection makes him perfect."

When Garib was getting inside his swanky car, he heard someone whisper, "Did Virus even realise that you did method acting for the first time in your life a little while ago?" Shaken up by what he had heard, the VJ looked in the direction of the voice and saw nobody. I must have imagined a voice, he thought to himself as he walked inside to see the recording of his most honest interviewee ever.

(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)

THINK OF THE DEVIL...

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

"No, no, no. I am not superstitious. I do not believe devils exist. I don't think ghosts are real. I am imagining noises, voices, sounds, pain...." Curled up on a bed in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital, I was endeavouring to exorcise the music assaulting my senses repeatedly. But the musicians - a motley crew consisting of a trained voice, a shehnai, a violin, and a tabla that grew loud and louder - had other intentions. They wanted me to stay awake, to hear what they had composed which, in this case, was a chhota khayal in Raga Puriya Dhanashri that went on and on for two consecutive days.

At a time when I was in considerable pain, I heard the first strains of a composition for the first time. The melody was impeccable, and the violinist seemed particularly skilled. Half asleep out of sheer faigue, I found the tune really soothing and started humming softly. The vocalist leading the pack was a wonderful singer, and he was challenging me to make the best use of my voice that had been lying dormant for so long. It must have been around four in the evening when I had started humming. This went on till my attendant walked in. I checked the clock. It was well past midnight.

"Can you hear the way these guys are practising outside? They are perfectionists to the core," I remember telling him in a tone filled with admiration.

"Which song? Who is practising? It is absolutely silent," the fellow shot back. I opened my eyes fully, and stared at him. His face had a blank look which suggested he did not know what I was talking about.

"Can't you hear the riyaz outside?," I asked most impatiently.

"There is absolute silence sir. You must be joking," he replied. He must have been wondering how I was able to crack such sick jokes so late in the night when I was, it was abundantly obvious, very sick.

I just kept mum. Outside, the musicians continued to indulge in practice. I tried to sleep, but the tabla player had other ideas. He played the drums so loudly that the sound buried the vocals. I placed a pillow across my ears, and tried to sleep. In what was the most uneasy night of my entire life, I stayed awake till the nurse walked in.

"Sister, can you hear good music?" I asked the lady while looking at my attendant who was fast asleep.

"It is six in the morning. Who will sing now?," she responded, twitching her eyebrows as if to tell me how horribly wrong I was.

That afternoon, my uncle came to town to meet me. I told him about the sound that was good music to the ears and yet, had the power to hurt me because it simply did not stop. After hearing me out, uncle brought out a small portrait of Goddess Kali, and asked me to put it under my pillow.

When I started feeling sleepy that night, I took out the portrait from under the pillow and touched it with my right hand. I tried to concentrate, and kept on praying. Slowly, slowly, the sound disappeared. The tabla seemed to become more remote with every passing second, and so did the voice and the other instruments. Not much later...God, I am not superstitious. I am not guided by beliefs that cannot be understood. I had been imagining music all through. Or, am I what I think I am not? Don't know any longer, although once I thought I did.

(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)