BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
She is a friend. A very dear friend. She called me up the other day and said,"I am low."
"Why?" I asked.
"My hubby is going away on Valentine's Day. This is the first time we will not be together in years," she said.
Is my friend a young girl? If 35 is young, yes. But I can understand why she feels so. She and her hubby share a beautiful relationship, and it seems that they have been married only yesterday when you see how many beautiful moments they share, just talking and smiling away.
So, she was sad. What did she plan to do, I asked her. "What will I do?," she thought for a while and added, "I guess I will dedicate an hour to him and sulk." Then, she started giggling away like a teenager. She sounded happy at the thought which I found quite mad, and nice.
When I see such relationships, I learn just one thing. And that is what I told her. "Whenever you speak to him daily, it is a Valentine moment. That is because you guys are in love. Isn't it so much better than being in a sick relationship in which, even if you go out on Valentine's Day, you do so to mourn because the occasion exists and that formalities need to be fulfilled to carry on with life?"
That was a long unpunctuated one. Wordsworth might have said that it was a "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." Only, unlike the great Romantic, I did not wish to recollect them in tranquility.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
ANOTHER BLOGGER'S BOOKLIST
Just decided to do some excavation and turned out to be a favourite with another blogger.
http://spaces.msn.com/Rosefari/Blog/cns!1pqBmmVlGwuPBohLnKbm_i4w!125.entry
Wow!
http://spaces.msn.com/Rosefari/Blog/cns!1pqBmmVlGwuPBohLnKbm_i4w!125.entry
Wow!
Monday, February 06, 2006
THE NIGHT MISS SERENITY BECAME HER HIGHNESS
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Uncle, uncle, I want to watch Narnia once again," my 11-year-old buddy Miss Serenity told me excitedly over the phone, adding, "I have been dreaming about the film all night." Serenity and I have been good friends for about a year, but this was the first time she had asked for something on her own. Because of the way she spoke, I sensed that she could run up to me at that very moment and drag me to the theatre if I could spare a couple of hours on a working day. For a while, I wanted to make that possible. But when I looked at all I had to do, I knew that dreaming of such a possibility was the closest I could get to watching The Chronicles of Narnia that day.
Watching children's films with children is a very special experience. For they have thoughts and ideas which we, as adults, can never have. Their understanding of films made for them exceeds ours, although they may not express themselves with the kind of clarity or cold logic (discussions on cinematography, quality of special effects) that we can. They get transported to the make-believe worlds much faster than we do. Once there, they become permanent residents of that unreal place till the film ends and they walk out, eyeing the soft drinks stall, hoping their adult friend will buy them another packet of popcorn. The smart ones don't ask for it. They just look at you and smile from ear to ear, hoping you will get the signal. The odd dumb one looks at you and says, "Uncle, one more popcorn please." No matter what happens, they help me enjoy a complete cinematic experience, which should include a popcorn of course.
But Serenity is different. She and I had gone out a few times, but she had never asked for a popcorn ever. She did not even look at a soft drinks stall, as a result of which I always had to ask her what she wanted. Shyly, she answered. Almost uncomfortably. So why was she requesting for a second visit to the theatre for the same film? The reason is the wardrobe, I think. In the film, four kids get transported to a new world by walking into, and out of, a wardrobe. Peter, Susan, Edmund, and the oh-so adorable Lucy: they set their feet in a world that they are destined to emancipate from a witch's vicious clutches. I thought of Serenity, and wondered why she had been thinking of that film.
In her dreams, I think she walked towards the wardrobe, and entered it quietly after checking out that her parents were fast asleep. She stepped out of it, and found the gang of four sitting near Aslan, the majestic lion. She grinned at Lucy who smiled back with that innocent radiance of hers. Edmund looked at her with scepticism, understandable since he was feeling guilty after giving out some important details to the witch. Peter had a bit of attitude, but he was okay with her presence. Susan did not say anything, but she seemed fine with her, as was Aslan.
Suddenly, a male beaver trudged up to Serenity and told her, "His Highness the Lion King was expecting you. The five of you had to come together to eliminate the witch." The beaver's wife joined in, and even offered Serenity a hot drink. The child needed it, since Narnia was freezing and she had left her fur coat back in her bungalow. Suddenly, she noticed a faun who walked up to her with a jacket in hand. It had been made out of some strange material that seemed like a mixture of wool and jute. He gave it to her, and she accepted it happily.
After countless adventures, the witch was finally eliminated. Aslan, the father figure, declared that Narnia would be divided into five equal parts that would be ruled by the five youngsters. Serenity sat right next to Lucy and, when she was crowned the queen, she just could not resist smiling away.
All through the night, Serenity must have been grinning in her sleep till morning dawned. While adults would have taken pride in exchanging information like Liam Neeson lent the voice for Aslan's character, Serenity must have been upset to find that she was not in Narnia but Pune. She must have explored every wardrobe in her house, and even entered a couple of them to see if there was a passage to Narnia somewhere. Once she realised that she had been dreaming, Serenity did the best she could have. She spoke to me about seeing the film again so that she could return to a world that doesn't exist.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald )
Uncle, uncle, I want to watch Narnia once again," my 11-year-old buddy Miss Serenity told me excitedly over the phone, adding, "I have been dreaming about the film all night." Serenity and I have been good friends for about a year, but this was the first time she had asked for something on her own. Because of the way she spoke, I sensed that she could run up to me at that very moment and drag me to the theatre if I could spare a couple of hours on a working day. For a while, I wanted to make that possible. But when I looked at all I had to do, I knew that dreaming of such a possibility was the closest I could get to watching The Chronicles of Narnia that day.
Watching children's films with children is a very special experience. For they have thoughts and ideas which we, as adults, can never have. Their understanding of films made for them exceeds ours, although they may not express themselves with the kind of clarity or cold logic (discussions on cinematography, quality of special effects) that we can. They get transported to the make-believe worlds much faster than we do. Once there, they become permanent residents of that unreal place till the film ends and they walk out, eyeing the soft drinks stall, hoping their adult friend will buy them another packet of popcorn. The smart ones don't ask for it. They just look at you and smile from ear to ear, hoping you will get the signal. The odd dumb one looks at you and says, "Uncle, one more popcorn please." No matter what happens, they help me enjoy a complete cinematic experience, which should include a popcorn of course.
But Serenity is different. She and I had gone out a few times, but she had never asked for a popcorn ever. She did not even look at a soft drinks stall, as a result of which I always had to ask her what she wanted. Shyly, she answered. Almost uncomfortably. So why was she requesting for a second visit to the theatre for the same film? The reason is the wardrobe, I think. In the film, four kids get transported to a new world by walking into, and out of, a wardrobe. Peter, Susan, Edmund, and the oh-so adorable Lucy: they set their feet in a world that they are destined to emancipate from a witch's vicious clutches. I thought of Serenity, and wondered why she had been thinking of that film.
In her dreams, I think she walked towards the wardrobe, and entered it quietly after checking out that her parents were fast asleep. She stepped out of it, and found the gang of four sitting near Aslan, the majestic lion. She grinned at Lucy who smiled back with that innocent radiance of hers. Edmund looked at her with scepticism, understandable since he was feeling guilty after giving out some important details to the witch. Peter had a bit of attitude, but he was okay with her presence. Susan did not say anything, but she seemed fine with her, as was Aslan.
Suddenly, a male beaver trudged up to Serenity and told her, "His Highness the Lion King was expecting you. The five of you had to come together to eliminate the witch." The beaver's wife joined in, and even offered Serenity a hot drink. The child needed it, since Narnia was freezing and she had left her fur coat back in her bungalow. Suddenly, she noticed a faun who walked up to her with a jacket in hand. It had been made out of some strange material that seemed like a mixture of wool and jute. He gave it to her, and she accepted it happily.
After countless adventures, the witch was finally eliminated. Aslan, the father figure, declared that Narnia would be divided into five equal parts that would be ruled by the five youngsters. Serenity sat right next to Lucy and, when she was crowned the queen, she just could not resist smiling away.
All through the night, Serenity must have been grinning in her sleep till morning dawned. While adults would have taken pride in exchanging information like Liam Neeson lent the voice for Aslan's character, Serenity must have been upset to find that she was not in Narnia but Pune. She must have explored every wardrobe in her house, and even entered a couple of them to see if there was a passage to Narnia somewhere. Once she realised that she had been dreaming, Serenity did the best she could have. She spoke to me about seeing the film again so that she could return to a world that doesn't exist.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald )
Thursday, February 02, 2006
WHEN CRITICISM BECOMES A HATCHET JOB
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
Criticise since you must. Criticise if you should. The line of demarcation between the two is so very thin that it becomes impossible to segregate them. I am, of course, talking about the media’s analysis of films, music and literature. Our quintessential critic tends to forget that a creative artiste is human too. Humanness being a reality common to all, it is understandable that one might err while working on a product, be it a film, a music album or a novel. The critic’s task is to say what the flaw is and this, I believe, should be done in a tone of soft understatement. But what most do, and I wonder why, is that they murder the creative product with sustained malice. That’s inexplicable. They are doing their jobs, they might affirm in unison. That they are finishing off sincere people with great potential and pertinacity is the way I see it.
There is this film critic I really admire, for instance. Why I do so is not because of his reviews, since I believe that he fills his quill with a viper’s venom before his day begins. What I admire is the way he uses the language: his choice of words, his sentence structures and, most importantly, his fabulous command over punctuation marks, which make his reviews very readable. Not that his knowledge about films is any less admirable. He has been studying world cinema for years now, and that explains why he can identify acts of plagiarism like few others.
But what I do not understand is why he indulges in destructive criticism when a little bit of magnanimity can help a sincerely made product. For, when the average reader approaches a review, there are occasions during which he gets influenced by what the reviewer has to say. And when the reviewer enjoys the sort of stature that the film critic I am talking about does, his voice can have a serious impact on the readers. Overwhelmed by the language, stumped by the vicious perspective, quite a few might choose to avoid the film the reviewer butchers without any qualms. That is not the function of criticism, or am I getting it all wrong?
One rather famous book reviewer I had to endure for quite sometime would walk up to me and ask, “Hey man, you’ve got any book that you want me to massacre? If so, I am right here.” A little apprehensive about this approach even when I was very young -- that age when aspiring critics rubbish anything and everything -- I remember giving him a couple of sad bestsellers to check out what he meant. He was funny, enjoyable, and his vitriolic tongue seemed to be just right for those books.
But then I made the serious error of giving him a quality literary work. When he sent his review to me, I, to my horror, discovered that the article had the same sarcastic tone that he had used to guillotine Harold Robbins-like gibberish earlier. Years later, that would have been unacceptable to me. But not then. I could not have asked this fellow to rework his article.
Such critics are forced to genuflect when a Salman Rushdie comes along. After having started out with a less-than-ordinary novel Grimus, Rushdie went on to write the path-breaking Midnight’s Children. Grimus had -- what most had preferred to ignore -- a few stunning passages that showed what Rushdie was capable of. With Midnight’s Children, Rushdie managed to silence all those who chose to believe that he was a terribly inconsistent writer.
But the question is: what if a debut-making novelist is good without having the talent to become a Rushdie? Does one have the right to cause serious damage to those who might have had a decent future if critics had been kinder? One must not forget that even publishers are influenced by such criticism, and that this might dictate their decision on the writer’s next work. But the critic goes on till he decides to submit his own manuscript to a publisher. His voice becomes gentle. Suddenly, he becomes aware of human follies and foibles as he awaits the verdict of the media. This time, for the many crimes he might have committed himself.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
Criticise since you must. Criticise if you should. The line of demarcation between the two is so very thin that it becomes impossible to segregate them. I am, of course, talking about the media’s analysis of films, music and literature. Our quintessential critic tends to forget that a creative artiste is human too. Humanness being a reality common to all, it is understandable that one might err while working on a product, be it a film, a music album or a novel. The critic’s task is to say what the flaw is and this, I believe, should be done in a tone of soft understatement. But what most do, and I wonder why, is that they murder the creative product with sustained malice. That’s inexplicable. They are doing their jobs, they might affirm in unison. That they are finishing off sincere people with great potential and pertinacity is the way I see it.
There is this film critic I really admire, for instance. Why I do so is not because of his reviews, since I believe that he fills his quill with a viper’s venom before his day begins. What I admire is the way he uses the language: his choice of words, his sentence structures and, most importantly, his fabulous command over punctuation marks, which make his reviews very readable. Not that his knowledge about films is any less admirable. He has been studying world cinema for years now, and that explains why he can identify acts of plagiarism like few others.
But what I do not understand is why he indulges in destructive criticism when a little bit of magnanimity can help a sincerely made product. For, when the average reader approaches a review, there are occasions during which he gets influenced by what the reviewer has to say. And when the reviewer enjoys the sort of stature that the film critic I am talking about does, his voice can have a serious impact on the readers. Overwhelmed by the language, stumped by the vicious perspective, quite a few might choose to avoid the film the reviewer butchers without any qualms. That is not the function of criticism, or am I getting it all wrong?
One rather famous book reviewer I had to endure for quite sometime would walk up to me and ask, “Hey man, you’ve got any book that you want me to massacre? If so, I am right here.” A little apprehensive about this approach even when I was very young -- that age when aspiring critics rubbish anything and everything -- I remember giving him a couple of sad bestsellers to check out what he meant. He was funny, enjoyable, and his vitriolic tongue seemed to be just right for those books.
But then I made the serious error of giving him a quality literary work. When he sent his review to me, I, to my horror, discovered that the article had the same sarcastic tone that he had used to guillotine Harold Robbins-like gibberish earlier. Years later, that would have been unacceptable to me. But not then. I could not have asked this fellow to rework his article.
Such critics are forced to genuflect when a Salman Rushdie comes along. After having started out with a less-than-ordinary novel Grimus, Rushdie went on to write the path-breaking Midnight’s Children. Grimus had -- what most had preferred to ignore -- a few stunning passages that showed what Rushdie was capable of. With Midnight’s Children, Rushdie managed to silence all those who chose to believe that he was a terribly inconsistent writer.
But the question is: what if a debut-making novelist is good without having the talent to become a Rushdie? Does one have the right to cause serious damage to those who might have had a decent future if critics had been kinder? One must not forget that even publishers are influenced by such criticism, and that this might dictate their decision on the writer’s next work. But the critic goes on till he decides to submit his own manuscript to a publisher. His voice becomes gentle. Suddenly, he becomes aware of human follies and foibles as he awaits the verdict of the media. This time, for the many crimes he might have committed himself.
(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)
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