tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72157532896456218042024-03-13T04:11:06.817-07:00MULLED INKTravel. People. Arts. Books. Reviews. Interviews. Images. Musings. Daydreams.ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-78371690983782389092018-03-02T22:30:00.001-08:002018-03-02T22:30:07.924-08:00Just the page, off-stage <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>A profile in two
voices of India’s most thought-provoking playwright in English, </u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>MAHESH DATTANI. Originally published in 2001.</u></b></span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><br /></u></b></span></h3>
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<i>It’s a June day. A breezy gust ruffles the spray of
magenta bougainvillea overhanging the intimate outdoor theatre at J P Nagar, Bangalore. A green
bamboo gate creaks onto the dramatic space. Muffled footfalls lead up the curve
of steps to a terracotta-bricked interior. </i></div>
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<i>A study door opens. A
flourescent blue-green Macintosh squats atop a study table. An assortment of
books line a wall. Videos of Hindi film classics of the Fifties and Sixties are
stacked tall in a niche. Notes from Ella Fitzgerald’s honey-brown voice waft
through the air. A full-length mirror lines the length of the door. A futon
with a blockprinted spread hugs the wall adjacent to the window. The early
evening sun rides a shaft in. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>A youthful man enters,
a quiet presence. Clad in a subdued orange khadi kurta, Kolhapuri chappals on
his feet. His gaze is unambiguous, his voice muted. The crescendo and
diminuendo of his laughter ripples through the space he has claimed for his
own. His hands form mudras in the air, the gold bangle on his wrist flashes as
he speaks, darting from past to present, from reality to flights to fancy
within the dimming of a spotlight.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>He’s India’s most
lauded contemporary playwright in English, honoured by the Sahitya Akademi in
1998. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Labelled by theatre
scholars as the definitive voice of the Nineties and the millenium. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Back home from Lilette
Dubey’s Prime Time production of his incest-based play, “30 Days in September,”
which premiered to a standing ovation in Mumbai in May. It was commissioned by
the Delhi-based RAHI (Recovering and Healing from Incest), funded by the Ford
Foundation. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Off-stage, just pages
from the life of 43-year-old Mahesh Dattani:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I was 12 when my parents took me to watch a Gujarati play.
Before the play began, the atmosphere at Bangalore’s Ravindra Kalakshetra was
raucous. Everyone was yelling at each other: ‘<i>Kantibai, kem cho’</i> and all that. Then, the bells rang, the lights
dimmed, there was an announcement, then loud music. The curtain went up, and
there was pin-drop silence. This surreal world unfolded, with make-up and
costumes. There were peccadilloes going on, who’s sleeping with whom and so on.
(<i>Pausing for effect</i>) At the end of
Act One, a gun went off. And somebody fell ~ in the audience!</div>
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My god! It was a play within a play! It was like magic,
suddenly breaking the boundaries of illusion and reality. I think that
influenced my theatrical technique very strongly. Because I always break those
spaces, going backwards and forwards between past and present, real time and
dream time. That experience was a major high for me.</div>
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I never really thought that I could be a part of theatre. <i>(Reflectively</i>) Being part of a
middle-class Gujarati family, it was just assumed that I’d join Papa’s business
after graduating in history, economics and political science from St. Joseph’s
College. Papa sold machinery for packaging and printing. He was a pioneer in
his field. Later, I did a course in marketing and advertising because I wanted
to be a copywriter. It was fashionable at that time. I tried it for six months,
hated it, then joined Papa’s business. </div>
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By then, I was with the Bangalore Little Theatre (BLT),
helping out with production. My first role was in Utpal Dutt’s <i>Surya Shikar</i>, done in English, directed
by Simha. I was in the chorus, one of two scrawny guys. <i>(Guffawing</i>) Every time we came on stage, the audience would burst
out laughing. We were just not coordinated!</div>
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It was the late Seventies. At that time, an old school
buddy, Bimal Desai, came up with an idea: “Let’s do a play together. You direct
and I’ll act.” After sifting through a pile of Neil Simon scripts, we chose
Woody Allen’s <i>God.</i> It’s so tweaky, so
funny. We recruited all our college buddies to fill the cast of twenty. We were
all so inexperienced! I must have been
about 21. Yet, we managed to get six house-full shows because of the student
community.</div>
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You know, I’ve directed more plays than I’ve written. This
may sound trite but it’s true ~ as a director, I enjoy the power. As a
playwright, I’ve absolutely no power. Of the plays I’ve directed, I’m most
proud of the staging of my play, <i>Bravely
fought the Queen,</i> in Delhi. It won the Sahitya Kala Parishad award for best
production in 1998.</div>
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(<i>Passionately</i>)
Quite frankly, I write because I’m a theatre person, not because I’m a writer.
It’s quite by chance that I became a playwright. At one point, when I was directing
European plays like <i>In Camera</i>,
Sartre, Euripides and all that, I decided I wanted to do an Indian play. I read
some translations. I loved Vijay Tendulkar’s <i>Silence,</i> <i>the court is in
session</i>, and Girish Karnad’s <i>Tughlaq</i>.
I was impressed by Badal Sircar’s <i>Baki
Itihaas</i>. But the English translations weren’t anywhere near the originals.
Maybe the plays don’t lend themselves to translation.</div>
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So I thought: why not try my hand at writing? That was in
1984. <i>Where there’s a Will</i> was the
result.</div>
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Whether as text or as tone, his words tear at the edge of
consciousness, blurring social constructs. He draws naked truths out of
long-shuttered closets, ferreting out themes beyond bedroom farces and
historical romances. His dialogue reeks of middle-class, urban Indian life
today, strewn with Hindi and Gujarati, charged with unspoken socio-cultural
subtexts. On the boards, invisible issues strut the stage, bringing the
audience face-to-face with its own moral subversions. His theatrical voice is
gender-sensitive, seeking out the lighter moments amidst unvoiced angst. He
often fines-tunes his plays in rehearsal with his Bangalore-based theatre
group, Playpen.</div>
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He describes ‘Where There’s a Will’ as an exorcism of the
patriarchal code through intimate sequences in the life of the money-centric
Mehta family. ‘Dance like a Man’ (1989)
explores the homegrown reality of the male classical dancer through the lens of
social acceptance, stemming from the playwright’s own six-year-long Bharatanatyam
stint under noted gurus Chandrabhaga Devi and U S Krishna Rao. As staged by Mumbai’s Prime Time, it did a
record hundred shows in India, London, Dubai and Colombo. ‘Tara’ (1990)
addresses the trauma that results from the separation of conjoined different-sex
Siamese twins, engineered to favour the male child. Some view it as a lens on
the gendered self, others as an alternate perspective on the feminine self in a
male-centric world. </div>
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<i>1991 saw the first
staging of ‘Bravely Fought the Queen,’ dominated by hot-blooded,
fully-fleshed characters struggling to
breathe amidst the debris of urban double standards. The next year brought to
life his first commissioned play, ‘Final Solutions’, an unequivocal exploration
of communal strife at the request of Mumbai’s theatre giant Alyque Padamsee. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>‘Do the Needful’, his
first radio play for BBC in 1997, delves into the social psyche of arranged
marriages Three others followed, including ‘Seven Steps Around the Fire,’
centred around the daily tribulations of the hijra or eunuch community, as
uncovered by a scholastic sleuth.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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When Prime Time put ‘On a Muggy Night in Mumbai’ on the
boards in 1998, it punched the mainstage audience between the eyes. As the
first Indian play to focus openly on gay themes of love and partnership.</div>
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Off the page, just scenes from the life of Mahesh Dattani:</div>
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People keep saying to me: “Why do you write about such
depressing subjects?” (<i>Shakes with
laughter</i>) After <i>Thirty Days in
September</i>, a gentleman protested, “We can read about incest and all that.
But there’s no need to put it on stage.” </div>
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I’m not looking for something sensational, which audiences
have never seen before. Some subjects, which are under-explored, deserve their
space. (<i>Contemplatively</i>) After all,
incest can happen in your family or mine, wherever there’s a child and an
adult. It’s no use brushing these issues under the carpet. </div>
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I have to take inspiration from real life and make it my
own. Unless theatre is about the human condition, it doesn’t always work. Even
if it’s a commissioned script, like the one I did for a film on HIV, <i>Ek Alag Mausam, </i>that’s the only way I
can write. I met over 25 people who were HIV-positive. I saw a person dying in
an AIDS hospice. It was so overwhelming. I just wanted to get away. (<i>Pausing</i>) Finally, I thought: “What if I
discover I’m HIV-positive tomorrow? What will that mean to me?” It will mean
I’m in touch with my mortality. </div>
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It may sound bizarre but, to me, gender never was an
issue. I’m not conscious of masculine or
feminine expression. I am who I am. At times it may be categorized as feminine,
at times as masculine. It doesn’t bother me. But peculiarly, it’s a big deal to
others. It took me a while to realize that my perception was different from
that of others. It again became grist to the mill, a question of challenging people’s
perceptions. That’s why I have titles like <i>Dance
like a Man,</i> or <i>Bravely fought the
Queen</i>! The latter is based on that
Hindi poem about Jhansi ki Rani. <i>Khoob
lari mardani, woh to Jhansi wali rani thi</i>! If she’s brave, then she’s like
a man! She can’t be a woman and be brave. Isn’t that ridiculous?</div>
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What’s the big deal?
OK, genitally you belong to one gender. (<i>Casually</i>) But beyond that, it’s all social construction. </div>
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In <i>Dance like a Man</i>,
the father doesn’t want his son to carry on being a dancer because he sees that
as a woman’s profession. He makes a deal with his daughter-in-law that she can
continue dancing if she’ll get her husband away from it. She asks why. He says,
“A woman in a man’s world may be considered progressive, but a man in a woman’s
world is pathetic.” There’s always
laughter about that. In the next line, she says, “Perhaps we aren’t progressive
enough.” There’s always silence after that one. </div>
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In a sense, there’s a complicity when the audience agrees
with the politics of a character, and are suddenly put into a spin when it’s
turned on them. It’s the same in <i>On a
Muggy Night in Mumbai. </i>There’s a dialogue between a gay man and a lesbian,
who’re very good friends. She tells him: “If you were a woman, we would have
been in love.” He turns round and says, ‘If you were a man, we would have been
in love.” When she says that, there’s laughter. When he says his line,
laughter. Then, she says, “If we were heterosexual, we would have been
married.” (<i>Dramatically</i>) Both of them
go “Aaaaaaaaaaa!” No laughter there.</div>
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I see all my plays as socio-political. <i>(Passionately</i>) That’s how I see <i>Final
Solutions</i>, which deals with communal tension. I don’t delve into the
machinations of the higher powers, how they manipulate events, although there
are strong overtones that it’s all politically engineered. When Alyque
approached me to write it ~ this happened before the Babri Masjid incident in
1992 ~ I wasn’t sure I was capable of doing it.
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I’ve based it on a riot I’d read about during the <i>tazia </i>festival in Ahmedabad where,
traditionally, the <i>rath</i> or temple
chariot is taken out by Muslims and Hindus. That particular year, there was
some communal tension, especially when the <i>rath
</i>went into a Muslim area. In <i>Final
Solutions</i>, the <i>rath </i>became a
symbol for projecting ideas and images of self through gigantic idols.</div>
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I like to focus on people who aspire to freedom, but are
somehow bound by society. (<i>Pushing his hair</i> <i>back)</i> That’s where my dramatic tensions arise. I realize how
empowered I am as an urban, upper middle-class Indian. We can live our lives
the way we want to, whether you’re single, unattached, without kids, or single
with kids. No matter how disapproving society is, it allows you a life</div>
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(<i>Thoughtfully)</i>
What if I wasn’t so empowered? What would my issues, battles, struggles be,
then? All my characters are women who are out there in some way. Either
sexually expressive as in <i>Bravely Fought
the Queen</i>. Or in some ways handicapped like Tara and Chandan in <i>Tara</i>. That’s what makes them come alive,
the fact that they have battles to fight. </div>
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I don’t write about any subject until I see where the
dramatic conflict lies. I usually choose
the urban family unit because, in our times, that’s where I feel the conflict
is. Perhaps it was the same in Tennessee Williams’ or Eugene O’Neill’s time.
But if you look at modern American playwrights, they hardly ever write about
the family because that’s not where the conflict lies.</div>
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Though I deal with grave subjects, my optimism seems to
somehow come through. Despite the sense of loss, despite the characters’
turmoil, there’s always a funny side to it. Maybe it’s just the way I am. I
haven’t figured that one out. </div>
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When I sent Lilette the script of <i>Thirty Days</i>, I said, “Look, it’s very grim. There’s not even one
scene where there’s an iota of humour.” She had a couple of readings, then told
me, “You’re such a goose, Mahesh. That scene is so funny!” I don’t know how, it
just comes through</div>
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(<i>Bringing his
fingertips together</i>) Playwriting, of course, is really for posterity. In
theatre, the only thing that stays is the written text. Everything else is so
transient. That’s the magic of theatre. You create an illusion and it’s gone.
It’ll never be the same again.</div>
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<i>On stage, he assumes a
diametrically altered avatar. Gone is
the tentative persona that drapes the everyday being. Gone is the sensitive
individual who laughs at life’s uneven trajectory and at the puckish imp within
himself.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>He takes Bangalore by
storm in the recent BLT production of “Henry IV,” the 1934 Nobel laureate
Pirandello’s classic satire on the madness intrinsic to all mankind. In the
title role, he alternates between sackcloth and satin, ranting and reasoning,
unleashing spine-chilling mood swings that mirror our inner turbulence. At
moments, he flashes with the fury of the misunderstood, at others he analyzes
the human condition with formidable lucidity. Irrevocably, he unlocks layers of
the character with undeniable histrionic finesse.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>He’s inspired by the
total theatre experience, whether as an actor, a director or a playwright. To
him, all the world’s his stage. Whether it’s a Playpen production in Bangalore,
Border Crossings in London, or Prime Time in New York. It’s the ebb-and-flow of
audience-actor interchanges that are the elixir of his life.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>His theatrical acumen
has drawn applause from around the globe. In a half-page review, New York Times
writer Stephen Bruckner felt, “Dattani is a canny and facile writer, and there
is nothing (in his writing) that is alien to American audiences. “ At home,
Alyque Padamsee thanked him for giving “sixty million English-speaking Indians
an identity.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>He built Rangamane in
Bangalore as a studio space for the performing arts in 1998. He’s held playwriting
workshops in India, and teaches an inter-cultural course on theatre at Portland
State University, Oregon, as a visiting professor since 1996. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>In the theatre of life, just thoughts between the acts of Mahesh Dattani:</i></div>
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Ultimately, all theatre is about the actors and the
audience, you know. (<i>Flinging out his
arms)</i> It’s the actor’s chemistry. Everything is geared towards that,
whether you’re a playwright or a director or a set designer. That’s quite a
power trip. I enjoy acting, directing, playwriting for different reasons. </div>
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Clarity is something I work on constantly. Some ideas may
seem very obvious to me. But the actors may say: “What is this?” I’d say:
“Don’t you see it?” And they’d say, “No, where is it?” That’s when I realise
it’s in my head. I need to bring it out, perhaps through the action.</div>
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(<i>Toying with a pen in
his hand</i>) I like to keep a lot in the sub-text. I hate it when actors
expect me to spell out things, which means they don’t trust their acting
ability. With amateurs, it’s disturbing when they try to paraphrase. </div>
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Sometimes, actors don’t trust audiences. I don’t know why.
The actors are not more intelligent than the audience. I hate those presumptions. The audience has
the advantage of sitting back and taking it all in. You’ve got to take feedback from the
audience, whether it’s silence or laughter or applause.</div>
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Do I have influences? (<i>Meditatively</i>)
Tennessee Williams was my favourite playwright for long. I realize <i>Tara</i> has shades of <i>Glass Menagerie</i>. But that was involuntary. I admire Tendulkar very
much. I find his plays very progressive. He doesn’t write from a predominantly
male perspective, either. His characters are so grounded, regardless of their
gender. I’d love to direct Tendulkar’s <i>Sakharam</i>
Binder, but I can see how it doesn’t work in English. I wonder if English
theatre audiences in India have even heard of Vijay Tendulkar or Mahesh
Elkunchwar. I’d say they’re both the creators of modern Indian drama.</div>
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(<i>Fiercely)</i> I feel writing in English, as we do in India, is our
strength. When Prime Time did <i>Dance like
a Man</i> and <i>Muggy Night in Mumbai</i>
in New York, they didn’t tone it down. Now, in <i>Muggy Night</i>, there’s a whole scene written in Hindi. Nor did we
change words like <i>ashtapadi</i> or <i>Gita Govinda</i>, in <i>Dance like a Man</i>. The audiences loved it; they got the context. It
was very empowering as Indians to say: “This is who we are, and this is how we
speak our language.” </div>
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I hate the term ‘post-colonial’. I resent the way it is used
to classify south Asian writing. Isn’t American writing, Australian writing,
also post-colonial? (<i>Throwing up his
hands</i>) It’s one way of negating our 5,000 years of culture. In a sense,
we’re the ones who’ve colonised them. It’s like what they’re doing with Chicken
Tikka Masala and Balti cuisine. We’ve done taken their language and made it our
own!</div>
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. </div>
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Surrounded by theatre buffs at the old-world Koshy’s
restaurant in Bangalore, he talks and breathes theatre, recites from old plays
and new, casting around for fresh talent. He listens to all-comers, making eye
contact a personality trait. Over endless cups of coffee, he recalls prized
productions and projects into the future. </div>
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Attending a recent documentary film festival on the
burning issues of our time, he reflects on the plight of the Kuruba tribe at
the Nagarahole sanctuary, then rises to defend the alternate perspective of a
film-maker. Mulling over provocative themes, engaging intellectually with
tourism-related paedophilia or the shadow of the beauty myth on urban India, he
interacts spiritedly with potent ideas.</div>
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His dreams for the future envision a shared space for
Kannada and English theatre. Perhaps a theatre
village named Natyagram, along the lines of Protima Gauri’s Nrityagram,
outside Bangalore. </div>
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Between curtain calls, just passages from the average Indian
life of Mahesh Dattani:</div>
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I was absolutely floored when I got the Sahitya Akademi
award. It was the happiest moment of my life. It’s quite a trip for me to be
mentioned in the same breath as Shashi Deshpande and A K Ramanujam, names I
revere. (<i>Laughing long and strong</i>) I thought they’d never give it to me
because I write in English and about horrible subjects. Besides, it’s an award for literature, not
for drama.</div>
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Initially, my family was concerned about me. But it was a
big moment for my late father when I received the Sahitya Akademi award. He
felt very proud when Alyque did <i>Final
Solutions</i> in Mumbai, and when <i>Bravely
fought the Queen</i> was done in London.</div>
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I joked with him then. I said: “I’ve done Mumbai, I’ve done
London. Next stop: New York.” But New York happened in July; I lost him in
March. When I was reading the half-page <i>New York Times</i> rave review of <i>Dance like a Man</i>, the first thought that
struck me was: “I wish my father was here!” <i>(Silence
for</i> <i>a few moments</i>) It was
actually a sad moment for me because he wasn’t there to share it. </div>
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My parents adapted to my life well because I achieved a
modicum of success. If I was a failure or unrecognised, I don’t know how they
would have felt. They’d probably say: “Why do you want to do all this?” The
important thing is that I can earn a living out of what I’m doing. I’ve
received a fair amount of recognition. I guess I’ve been a good boy. That’s
what parents want from their children, don’t they?</div>
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<i>He’s dedicated the
Penguin edition of his Collected Plays, published in 2000, thus: “For my
parents, Gaju and Wagh: ‘Look! I’m dancing like a man!’ <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>The stage fan whirrs.
Simon and Garfunkel’s ageless lyrics play on. The curtain comes down. But the
spotlight remains on Mahesh Dattani.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>(This interview was originally published in Man's World in 2001).</i></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u> </u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></o:p></u></b></span></h3>
<br />ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-57144861410925511352018-03-02T22:10:00.000-08:002018-03-02T22:15:33.550-08:00Murder and mayhem, Scottish style <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVS1ZTPfzIdkxnQ61EHBUrDGGmJoby7yihVtzPW0Si14btbZInUV_qAT051nwMW0YsjlQCi0hxK_Vj8DST3ZrYygJuY9VzkTYvVrmEgIcDp-3yByrtWnw8vTy742bRgwxUmbazHk2tf_41/s1600/Scotland+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVS1ZTPfzIdkxnQ61EHBUrDGGmJoby7yihVtzPW0Si14btbZInUV_qAT051nwMW0YsjlQCi0hxK_Vj8DST3ZrYygJuY9VzkTYvVrmEgIcDp-3yByrtWnw8vTy742bRgwxUmbazHk2tf_41/s640/Scotland+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: white;">Murder and mayhem in</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">My adventures as an Indian backpacker in Scotland in 2001</span></div>
<h1>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DAY 1/ July 25: Rainy, blustery and grey as gloom<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">7.35 am</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. Edinburgh looks cold, bleak and as welcoming as a dungeon. Stone
facades all around, ornate lamp-posts rear their heads as I puff my way up High
Street from the railway station. The flourescent blue-green backpack bumps
against my derriere at every step; either it’s too long or I’m too short.
Thoughts of a sub-five footer on her way to an all-Scotland backpack trip hyped
by <i>Lonely Planet, Let’s Go</i> and <i>Rough Guide.</i> I wonder why. Dash into a
coffee shop. “Yes, can I help you?” says the lanky Caucasian serving up
brioches and <i>café au lait</i> to Polish,
German and Latvian tourists. Haggis Travels? All I get is a long, blank look.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A bend in the
street. I’m in luck. I find five sun-bright yellow buses, each with the Haggis
legend: <i>Wild!</i> <i>Sexy! Seductive</i>! “The Compass Busters tour?” asks the post-teen
behind the counter. “Your driver Sue’s just gone! Follow her to the bus. Yes,
she’s the one with the long blonde hair.” I chase her down the cobbled
pavement. I ask a petite brunette if I’m in the right queue. She nods. All
aboard for kilt-knows-what!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’ve arrived in
Scotland during the coldest, wettest July ever on record,” plump Sue dimples at
us, her 22 wards, in the rear-view mirror of her Mercedes-Benz coach. “But our
skins are waterproof; we won’t dissolve.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">8. 29</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Edinburgh dissolves in the mists behind us. We’re on a low-budget trip
off the beaten track. No museums, no mega-malls, no big cities. Pale-lashed
Shaun, a high school teacher of history and literature from Canada, is my seat
mate. “There are some basic rules on my bus,” Sue’s back on the voice track.
“If you want to pee, fart or desperately cuddle, smile and ask me nicely. I’ll
let you off my bus… I won’t ask you to introduce yourselves. That’s a drag. Why
don’t you swap seats? Sit next to someone you’ve never met before. Then, you
tell us all about him or her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Canadian Jeff, a
shade less blonde than Shaun and fabulously freckled at 26, tears himself away
from his fiance Kim, who’s deep in “<i>Harry
Potter and the Goblet of Fire</i>.” He chews at the edge of his thumb, then
smiles tentatively. “I teach maths as a supply teacher at a central London
school. Most of my students are from Bangladesh. <i>Bhalo! Bhalo</i>! They taught me that,” he offers. I’m a zero at maths.
Figures are the key to Jeff’s past ~ as a banker, then an accountant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Before we know it,
we’re summoned to the front of the bus. “This is Aditi. She’s a writer from
India,” says Jeff. “If you don’t behave yourselves, she’ll write about you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“If you do behave
yourselves, I’ll have nothing to write about,” I cut in. Smiles. Guffaws.
Chuckles. Sue grins. I’m the odd one out among this bunch, mainly supply
teachers from Australia and Canada.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The bus halts.
It’s pouring. “Let’s make ourselves tea and coffee by the stream,” suggests
Sue. Burly Carlos of Fijian origin, now Melbourne-based, toys with the strand
of shells around his neck as hauls the tea bags, coffee powder and thermos
flasks of hot water out of the bus. Spiky haired Damien, currently an Aussie
hobo, lends him a hand. We pile out in windcheaters. How come Carlos is still
in his flimsy T-shirt? A rippling neigh of Carlos’ trademark laughter is the
answer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">10.10</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Historic Stirling makes Sue pull up. “This is where William Wallace,
the ‘guardian of Scotland’, defeated the
forces of Edward I in 1297, after the English king had killed 7,000 people at
Berwick-upon-Tweed,” she explains. “If it hadn’t been for Wallace, we’d have
still been a part of England.” Pointing
to the steep Wallace Monument, the tallest in Europe to an individual, she
dismisses a tawdry life-size statue of Mel Gibson in his <i>Braveheart</i> avatar as Wallace with the words, “That’s the worst
piece of tourist tack ever. If any of you paste a picture of it in your holiday
album, don’t tell me about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Driving past lochs
and glens ~ lakes and valleys in everyday English ~ Rob Roy creeps into our
lives at Balquihidder Church. Though a MacGregor by birth, when the Campbell
clan outlawed the name, he’d appear like a shadow from the mist and steal their
cattle, which he later sold back to them. “He died in a duel at the age of 70,”
Sue tells us, demonstrating the joust with an imaginary sword. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Once Caledonia,
now Scotland, only three per cent of the land’s original forest cover of birch,
oak and ash remains, thanks to ecological mismanagement since the Napoleonic
wars. Today, fast-growing Norwegian pines cover the hilly terrain as cash
crops, harvested every 25 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">14.22</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Six hours into Scotland, we know of the four Jacobite uprisings
against the English crown, the fierce highland charge invented by Bonnie Dundee
that laid English armies waste, the laws that governed the clans, even the
massacre at Glencoe of the MacDonalds by the Campbells, who were their guests ~
on the orders of William of Orange because they signed a letter of fealty to
him last. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Let’s go for a
wee wander,” announces Sue as she herds us towards Glencoe. “You don’t have to
reach the peak. Take your own time.” The rocky path unwinds across
heather-purpled trails. The bracken crackles under my sturdily-shod feet. I
don’t join the herd that speeds peakwards like sure-footed mountain goats. .
Red-cheeked Donna from Montreal, a quasi-government officer, heaves her bulk
after me. My neck feels clammy, my throat is parched. I doff my thick pullover.
Yet, it’s pretty chill outdoors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donna hails me.
Side by side, we bend over a crystalline mountain stream and take in deep
draughts. Sparkling Scottish spring water is sold at supermarkets, often
enhanced with peach or strawberry flavours from Singapore! Natural is best, we
decide, as we fill a water bottle for the upper reaches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I lend Donna a
hand as we clamber up a wobbly wooden ladder. Three young Frenchmen emerge
through the brambles beyond. “How far away is the peak?” I ask, gazing towards
the cloud-cloaked distance. “You’re almost there!” grins Michel, his red jacket
tied around his waist, as he jumps to a ledge four feet below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">17.49</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> After an hour on the incline, we know it isn’t true. Our lungs are
bursting with fresh oxygen, but our bladders are bursting too. I turn to Donna,
she nods. We start to descend, trying not to trip, joining the ranks of those
who almost made it. By the Haggis bus, we meet Naveen Chandra, whose father
left Bareilly after the Partition. He’s an engineer with General Electric,
blue-eyed from his German mother, brawny from his Indian gene pool. “My dad
loves India, though he doesn’t visit it as often as he’d like,” Naveen
confesses, as frail Gayle ~ all golden dew-fresh ~ nestles under his sheltering
arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The mountain
brigade turns up, bright with exhilaration. “The view from above is
indescribable,” pants slight Caroline, tugging at the brambles on her red capri
pants. Nothing in her life as a teacher has prepared her for Scotland. Adrian,
her elfin-look partner, bites into an apple, breathes in the landscape for
keeps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What I need now
is a long, cold beer,” sighs dark-eyed Laurina, who teaches communications at
an Australian school, swinging her ponytail. Her wish is soon granted. As four
of us pile into a women’s dormitory at the Oban Waterside Lodge hostel on the
west coast, overlooking bobbing fishing boats, we spy Mackie Dan’s pub tucked
below the exit. Over a Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks, we listen to Sue’s
amazing life: “I spent two years in the Australian outback. I was supposed to
cook for the cattle station guys there.
But my cooking was so bad that they soon let me do what I wanted to ~ herd
cattle on horseback. You can get a little sore from riding for the first few
days, but you’re fine after that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Out of the
darkness, over thirty young women dressed to the Ts storm in. They flock around
a pretty woman sheathed in pale pink. All her guests are festooned with satin
ribbons; they belt out bars of “<i>She’s
only seventeen</i>…” What the heck? “It’s a wedding shower,” explains Sally, an
intensive care nurse from Canberra. “They’re celebrating the bride-to-be.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">24.35</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Laurina brings back a case of Bacardi Breezers for the dorm. Squat
rum-n-juice bottles in hand, we swap life stories and paint ourselves into
contemporary legends. Have I abandoned my teetotaller truths?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The bright sky
turned navy blue only an hour ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DAY
TWO/ July 26: Blue-grey skies, showers
out of the blue<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">8. 59</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Refuelled with orange juice,
cereal and croissants, we scramble into our yellow bus behind Sue. “Is everyone
feeling fine today?” she asks, scanning our faces, sifting through assorted
names. “Aye,” a chorus greets her, a Scottish touch there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re driving out
to the Great Glen of Scotland, formed when the continental drift from Canada
carved out a deep lake-filled valley aeons ago.
Obediently, we chant: “Loch Linnhe.. Loch Lochie… Lock Oich… Loch Ness.”
Will there be monsters in store for us?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A stimulating
march up the Inchree trail. Waterfalls to the left of us, twisting streams to
the right; fleecy clouds line the horizon, shadowy outlines of peaks barely
discernible. Acclimatisation is the buzz-word here. Both Donna and I make it to
the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We shop for
supplies at a giant Safeway supermarket at Fort William. It’s packed. How come?
Because people here get paid on the last Thursday of the month. Scramble around
the confusion of products for 15 minutes. Settle for a stir-fry mix, strawberry
yoghurt, a gallon of milk. Non-metric world views prevail here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">12.02 </span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Another slant on ‘<i>Braveheart</i>.’
A coffee break at Glen Nevis, in the shadow of Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest
mountain at 1392 metres. That’s where Himalaya-bound mountaineers train because
of its unpredictable weather. Sue mysteriously rustles up a Sindhi-pink cake as
a surprise for Donna and her cousin Trudi, who share a birthday today. It’s
topped by a candle that will not die out! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Scotland’s
‘freedom to roam’ law sets us free to picnic or camp wherever we please,
without fear of prosecution by the owners. Isn’t that dandy? “It’s the best,”
says Carlos’ girl, Kate, a social worker who’s as stunning as a blonde Nargis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i>Braveheart</i> is a good movie for trying to
condense 50 years of Scottish history into 3 ½ hours of footage,” Sue explains.
“Glen Nevis gave it a feeling of a wilderness in the middle of nowhere. But the
film is riddled with factual errors. When Wallace’s wife was killed, he
actually skinned the killer alive and wore the skin as a belt for the rest of
his life! That’s the truth.” An afterthought after reports about an
Anglo-Scottish brawl in a movie hall, “In one scene, a double-decker bus goes
past ~ in 1297!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Under the
fluttering double flags of Scotland ~ the rampant red lion against a yellow
backdrop, and the blue St. Andrew’s cross on white ~ the tranquil waters of
Glenfinnan lap at the foot of a monument to all the Jacobites who died for
Scotland. A turkey-and-watercress sandwich loses its flavour as local
nationalism gains the upper hand with the first bite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">15.19</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Poky-haired, bleary-eyed Byron, a zoo-keeper from Australia, seeks
insights into Scottish pubs. Scotland produces 180 types of malt whisky, some
100 proof. That’s potent! Local drinkers regard blended whiskies such as Johnny
Walker as the dregs of the keg, opting for pure single malts from single
distilleries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t ever ever
ever go to a Scottish pub and ask for a single malt whisky with Coke or lemonade.
You’ll be sent right back to the border,” Sue warns us, after chasing wayward
traffic on the winding roads. “These FEBs! F….English B…s!” she swears. “They don’t even know how
to drive!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cross-border
tensions surface again as we drive past the North Sea oil rigs, heading for the
scenic route to the Isle of Skye. “If we’d been independent, we’d have been the
eighth richest country in the world now,” Sue explains. “But all the oil
revenues go to London.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Bagpipes play on
the music system. We pass man-made lochs that generate hydro power. Grassy
knolls roll into cloud-frosted peaks. Pine, oak, ferns, bracken flit by our
windows. The Eilean Donan castle beckons, the location for the cinematic <i>Highlander. </i>St. Donan came from Ireland
in the 6<sup>th</sup> century to convert the Scottish heathens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">17.39</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The castle, which belongs to the MacCrae family, warded the Vikings
off for 500 years upto 1255. It fell into disrepair until Farquhar MacCrae had
a vivid dream depicting how to restore the castle, which he did with a budget
of a quarter of a million pounds in 1995. We peer through secret peepholes into
wood-panelled rooms where clan heads met to plan the Jacobite uprisings against
the English foe. Authentic 17<sup>th</sup> century carved wooden furniture
studs the rooms, sweeping swords adorn fireplaces, fish-oil lamps wait to be
lit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A dark-haired
statue of a kilted man in an upstairs bedroom stops the scanning eye. In shock,
I watch him come to life, reach for his walkie-talkie! The cold walls and
twisting passageways take us to a kitchen where life-size figures preside over
green jellies and stuffed pheasants. “Can you imagine the MacCrae family still
living here?” whispers Kate. It’s a tough act to summon up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">18.45</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> We drive over the world’s most expensive toll bridge to the Isle of
Skye, built for 128 million sterling, unveiled in 1995. Local drivers pay 12
sterling for a return trip. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At every pub on the island, at every fish-n-chips stall, this remains a
constant bridge of contention, especially since the withdrawal of all ferry
licenses. “There’s a current public litigation pending for Skye’s 12,500
residents because, under Scottish law, it’s illegal to charge a toll for a road
when there’s no other form of crossing,” explains Sue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">20.10</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> Hectic activity at the
Kyleakin International Hostel’s communal kitchen on Skye. Damien and his
dumpling-like Naomi do pasta with meatballs, Caroline whisks up a grilled
cheese sandwich, Sally chooses to rehydrate a Thai soup. We all settle down
together with shortbread for dessert. Midway through a tale about his livewire
grandpop of 98, Damien turns to me: “Have you ever met Sachin Tendulkar? He’s
nifty! Even Bradman thought so.” Cricket helps us to bond across invisible
boundaries even after we drift to the Saucy Mary pub. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Suddenly,
conversation stops. Some Aussie girls from another Haggis tour drop their pants
for every shot they miss at the pool table. Can you get happier and higher than
that? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h1>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DAY 3/ July 27: Fluffy clouds, fleeting rain, high
spirits<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">9.45</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> Sleepyheads all, we slide
silently into our seats on Skye. Surrounded by craggy Black Cuillin mountains,
the glaciated remains of volcanic activity, we’re all bundled out towards the
icy Sligachan creek, where we listen to tales of the warring MacLeods and
MacDonalds of yore. Referring to a local grace who was granted the boon of
eternal youth and beauty, Sue adds, “All you have to do is dip your face into
the water like her for exactly three seconds, no more, no less.” To encourage
the timid, she takes the first dip. We all follow, even the beefy outdoorsmen
from Australia. With dripping faces, we realize we’re now wide awake, even if
no more beautiful than before!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s when murder
rears its head, through a game Sue devises to get us better acquainted with
each other. We pick a card each from a deck. I draw the Ace of Spades ~ and
find I’m the murderer. Will Carlos and Trudi, as the detectives, zoom in on me?
I tap Shaun gently on the shoulder outside the bus. “You’re dead!” I say. “The
murderer wears grey shoes.” And walk away. Donna’s next in line. Can they come
up with creative deaths?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">13.25</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> We’re walking down a slippery incline towards Lealt Falls when Donna
stumbles past, her mouth caked with mud. Did she trip? Is she hurt? “It w-w-was
the murderer,” she stammers. “It was sickening! I died of an overdose of sheep
shit! All I saw was the flash of… a silver ring…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Relief floods
through us as we sit on a ledge, watching the silver-streaked blue sky seep
into the watercolour waves at the horizon, with the Scottish mainland a mere
blur beyond. We listen to a fairy tale about the Silkies, beautiful seal women
who turn human when their pelts are stolen. Reality strikes soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Around 1770, we
learn, many farming communities were forced off their lands by the landowners.
Thousands died, others fled to the New Colonies of Australia, Canada and the
US. The crests and troughs along the slope were once filled with kelp to yield
a crop or two. That’s probably when the
Scottish national dish of haggis ~ made of the lungs, heart and innards of a
sheep or calf, mixed with oatmeal and spices, boiled in the animal’s stomach ~
came into being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">14.20 </span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The AM Pub at Florigarry, the birthplace of Flora MacDonald, who helped
Bonnie Prince Charlie to escape over the seas to Skye. Dare I? I order
Traditional Haggis with Neaps, without a clue about whether I’ll be able to
swallow a spoonful. Carlos and Byron are busy besting each other at the
dartboard between hoots of laughter. My order arrives with a can of <i>Irn-Bru</i>, Scotland’s favourite soft
drink, which outsells global colas. I take a tentative forkful of my haggis.
Hey! It tastes just like the Kheema Masala my Ma dishes up. “I didn’t want to
tell you it’s made of minced lamb these days,” winks Sue, raising her <i>Irn-Bru</i> in a toast. I sip mine. Just
like a sweetened soda pop, I decide. It’s a certified cure for hangovers, she
adds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">16.11</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
mystical trek into the cliffs and pinnacles called the Quiraing, created by
massive landslides of rock. “These are still active on a geological time scale
and will some day slide into the sea,” a rock-jawed beer-drinker at the Saucy
Mary pub at Kyleakin tells us later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We
climb over the grassy knolls, past sheep droppings, jump over slippery streams,
and realize we can no longer see the misty clouds because we’re in them!
Looking down from the table-top flatness, the lakes below appear crystal clear,
clear enough to see the swaying foliage at the bottom. We’re breathless, too
awed to even exclaim.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">18.24</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> Back at the hostel. “Let’s
explore the castle,” chants Naveen, setting out towards the 10<sup>th</sup>
century Castle Moil. Fifteen of us trail behind, over a rocky path, across peat
bogs. After the original castle fell into ruin, this one was built by a
Norwegian princess married to a Scottish clan chief in the 15<sup>th</sup>
century. Her claim to fame? She’d swing a chain across the bay to the isle and
collect a toll from all vessels sailing by ~ then flash herself to them as a
welcome gesture! Her name? Saucy Mary!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“What
if we do a Saucy Mary?” suggests Kim, flapping at her bright red T-shirt. Kate
and Donna and Trudi grin at the idea. Can we muster up enough courage? The guys
line up along the castle wall, cameras poised for action. We have our backs to
them, the sun plays on our faces. Did we do a Saucy Mary flash across the bay?
Now, that would be telling!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On
the way back, Naveen throws Jeff’s shoes into the mucky stream under the
bridge. “Don’t wade in, Jeff,” Kim shrieks. “I’ll buy you three beers if you
do,” says Carlos, his shoulders rippling with laughter. Jeff jumps in. The
water’s shallow. He returns holding his shoes triumphantly over his head,
festooned with seaweed and festering shells.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">20. 20</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> The Saucy Mary blares with
heavy wattage. Floppy-haired teens belt out lyrics we can’t decipher. The
Bloody Mary at the Saucy Mary doesn’t measure up. Even the packs of prawn
cocktail flavoured crisps are soggy. Time
to move on. We move en masse to the King Haaken bar, where a jazz group is
tuning its heart out. The barman looks puzzled when I ask for a cranberry and
Guinness shandy, an Irish pub ladies’ special. We lose track of time as we
boogie away the night. When did the sun go down? None of us have a clue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h1>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DAY 4/ July 28: Bright and breezy, icy and stormy, by
turns<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">10.15</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Over that blasted bridge, ripping with islander’s curses, to the
mainland once more. Carlos and Caroline, Byron and Jeff, are all geared up to
do a lap at Loch Ness, the lake that teems with tall tales. Will we spot
monsters like the fabled long-necked, goggle-eyed Nessie at Loch Ness?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cloud-iced Munro
mountains, the highest in Scotland, blur through our windows. So do the
stunning Four Sisters of Glenshiel, craggy peaks all in a row. Were they
originally beautiful sisters who waited forever for a silver-tongued Irishman
to keep his word? We’ll never know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“John Cobb lost
his life trying to shatter the world speedboat racing record on Loch Ness,” Sue
tells us. “He broke the record, touching 333 km.p.h. on the reverse lap, but
his boat vanished. They found bits of it, but not of Cobb… Either Nessie ate
him. Or he’s trying to set a record for the longest time underwater.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Loch Ness looms
large, a grey expanse of water that laps at our toes. I dip my fingers in; they
curl tightly away in protest. The heroic swimmers troop in; they’re out in
seconds flat. The 23.6 km lake, 900 feet deep, has a surface temperature of 5
degrees Celsius! “The monster that made waves in 1934 later proved to be a hoax
perpetrated by a Harley Street specialist and his accomplice, aided by the
periscope of a plastic submarine,” Sue says, badgered by our questions. “Maybe
I don’t believe in a great green monster with three humps. I hope they don’t
find a real monster because, if they do, the scientists will go overboard. I
hope it remains a mystery, a legend, an enigma.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">13. 35</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Sandwiches and fresh fruit, chased by great draughts of coffee, amidst
the ancient heaps of stones or burial cairns at the Balmaran of Clava, outside
Inverness, the feeder town and industrial centre of the Highlands. Were people
really buried or cremated at this site? Anybody’s guess. Naveen and Gayle wander into the cairn for a
quick cuddle; Carlos cups Kate’s neat bottom as the shadowy sun chases the
scattering clouds. We collect our litter; it leaves with us. The cairns remain
as timeless as they did in the 3<sup>rd</sup> or 4<sup>th</sup> century.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">14. 11</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Siesta anyone? Sue has other ideas as she drives us straight to
Culloden Moor, the site where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s highlanders or the last
Jacobite army were defeated by the English forces of William Augustus in 1746.
Knee-high heather and high grass still covers the battlefield, marked by
red-and-white Jacobite banner fluttering opposite the yellow standards of the
English. In the hour-long battle, 1,200 Jacobites lost their lives. “Then came
the worst part,” Sue narrates. “The English ordered the death of all Jacobites
within a five-mile radius. The massacre of half the highland population only
stopped when the English chief came across the killing of a woman in
childbirth. In a bid to anglify the Highlands, three edicts were issued: No
plaid! No bagpipes! No Gaelic! Today, you’d call it an ethnic cleansing.” It’s just minutes past lunch. Even Damien
looks pale at the gills. Shaun wipes away a tear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The heavens are in
tune with our mood. We imagine that windswept, sleety day, the armies facing
each other across boggy land. The wind bites our cheeks, rims our eyes with
red. Low mounds border the battlefield, where the Highlanders were laid to
rest. No heather will ever grow on those knolls, according to legend. The
ghosts of the past still thrive in the present, as we imagine Bonnie Prince
Charlie fleeing to France, with a price of 20,000 pounds on his head. “The
English beheaded a look-alike,” admits Sue, “and paraded his head through
London as a warning to other traitors. But we think the prince was a selfish
man, who just wanted to be king of any country.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">An eerie shriek as
we draw close to a stream where we can make wishes that may come true. Where?
What? Shaun’s hanging from his belt from the luggage rack in the bus. The
murderer strikes again! Six down so far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">18. 15</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Our home for the night, Carbisdale Castle, complete with a lady ghost
in grey and a nursery with a rocking chair that creaks for its invisible
children. Kim and Gayle, Kate and Donna,
Trudi and I share a women’s dormitory with bunk-beds at the end of a corridor.
Each of us gets lost at least five times that evening. All the passageways look
alike, red-carpeted, guarded by ancestral portraits and marble busts, and
common rooms with makeshift libraries: “If you borrow a book, remember to put
one back!” say the notices on the shelves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re all in a
Mexican mood in the communal kitchen. Naomi stirs a huge pot of minced beef
with spices, Kate shreds onions by the dozen. Donna and Trudi slice tomatoes
and capsicum to fill the enchiladas with. “Is it ready?” asks Carlos, sniffing
over the simmering stoves, his nostrils flaring. “Smells good…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Dinner’s up!”
announces Kim, sipping deep of her watermelon Bacardi Breezer. The menfolk drop
their cards, pile their plates high. I’m ravenous enough to give Damien a run
for his money. Silence reigns; a sure sign of a good feed. We’re too stuffed to
even look at the Strawberry Cheesecake and Lemon Tart desserts straight. “Let
me catch my breath,” pleads Byron.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">21.22</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Time for the jury!” announces Sue. Kate is picked to be the judge.
Carlos and Trudi retire to the passageway to tot up the evidence. Will they
find me out? They enter solemnly. “We, the detectives,” declares Carlos,
“charge Aditi with being the murderer. Our clues point straight at her. She
wears grey shoes. She has a red jacket.” I stand up on a bench, as ordered. “Do
you wear a silver ring?” I hold up three. “Do you have crooked teeth?” I open
my mouth wide. Kate tries not to let her purest Nargis profile dissolve into
hysterical laughter. She announces her verdict: “Guilty!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The penalty?
“Don’t come up with anything rash!” pleads Sue on my behalf. The group decision
~ tomorrow, I’ve got to stand up on the bar at a pub and sing for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">22.30</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> We sit around the common room on easy chairs, downing more beer and
Bacardi. Naughty games, forgotten names, come to the fore. Laughter hits the
high notes. In the hallway, Italian high-schoolers rehearse for a road show.
Luminous portraits hanging high oversee the proceedings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">DAY FIVE/ July 29: A wild wind blows, an occasional
sun glows<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">1.20</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
Is this the way back to our dormitory? Heck, no! Another wrong clue! Change
into my pyjamas quietly. Kim’s asleep on the upper bunk, her Harry Potter still
in hand. I drift into slumber. Donna wakes up, screaming! Our door is open, a
white figure lurks there. We’re all frozen with fright for a minute. Trudi
picks up courage enough to check it out. The marble statue of a female nude has
been moved. It stares stonily back at us. Who could have done this? “It must be
those silly Italian schoolboys!” declares Kim.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">2.45</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
Shrieks tear through the stairway to the Tower. White-sheeted eerie figures
charge down the corridor, chasing a gaggle of schoolboys. Real ghosts? Figments
of the mind? Donna dares to trip one up. It’s Naveen! The others turn out to be
Adrian, Shaun and Jeff! “Boys will be boys!” sighs Kim, as we trail her back to
bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">8.02</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
Bleary-eyed, tousle-haired, I sleep-walk to the loo. Not a single one free.
Italian teenagers with dark rings under their eyes crouch outside the baths,
too tired to look in. Not a good day for a shower. We can’t get the marble nude
by our door to budge, even with six of us pushing. How did they do it? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">10.15 </span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Will Sue let us catch up on sleep on her bus? Not the faintest chance!
“Let’s go to the Bone Caves,” says Sue, pointing to the heights of shadowy
mountains at Inchnadamph. “They once found the remains of polar and brown bears
up there.” Stop! Outlined against the
craggy top is a magnificent stag, one of the red deer that frequent this area.
Nobody moves, until Byron hits the rocky road again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mist-covered, the
landscape is mystique-ridden. “What happens if there’s an accident?” I ask Sue.
“I’ve got a thermal blanket with me,” she responds, “and a first-aid kit. If
someone breaks a leg, I’d phone for a helicopter ambulance. I’d get Carlos to
help me. I always identify one potential rescue person in each group.” That’s
reassuring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I drink some more
mountain water, splash some on my face. I’m the last but one, as usual. The
swell and sweep of the peaks and valleys is enticing. I enter the narrow, rocky
stretch, spot the other bobbing jackets near the cave. The wind begins to
buffet me, pushes me three steps backwards for every two forward. My blood
freezes for a moment as I take in the steep drop. I dangle my legs over the
edge, watch the play of light and shadow in the deep glen. Herds of deer graze
on the gentle slope across. Half an hour later, I slowly wind my way back to
the haven of the Haggis bus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">15.44</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A huge ‘aye’ greets the idea of the Clansman Centre at Fort Augustus.
“There’s a gorgeous guy who presents the show on some days, but I think you’re
going to get the goonk!” laughs Sue. In the heather-patched, stone-walled
recreation of a Highland cottage, complete with turf roofing, we find we have.
He’s got a strange drawl picked up from years in Belgium, a far cry from the
soft Scottish accent we’ve grown to like. Clad in plaid, his hair wild and
unkempt, MacKinnon evokes highland life for us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“The Scottish highlanders
lived in houses like these,” MacKinnon explains. “Each family had five to eight
people, who shared the space with their animals. Smoke from the peat fire kept
them warm and cured the meat they hunted. Because they inhaled it constantly,
many highlanders died of lung diseases. They kept an iron pot on the fire, into
which they tossed vegetables, water and entails. It all boiled together into a
Scottish broth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The plaid, we
hear, was originally a stretch of cloth six metres long. It was pleated and
draped over a shirt, tied at the shoulder, held at the waist by a belt, and
formed loose pockets for storage. Not too different from a sari, I think to
myself. Made of pure wool, it kept the wearer warm, and could double as a
sleeping bag outdoors. “You’re wearing your own survival kit,” MacKinnon quips,
then pats the leather pouch on his belt, adding, “This sporran ~ that’s from
Gaelic for purse ~ held oats when the highlander travelled. Whenever he was
hungry, he held a handful of oats in the waters of a stream. They swelled
enough to do for a meal. That’s where the notion of a tight-fisted Scotsman
comes from.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A towering sword
clasped in a two-fisted grip, a shield of leather and wood to defend himself
with, he assumes the Highlander Charge mode in a jiffy, as we all sit bolt
upright. Shouting “Dirty Englishman!” or “Scotland forever!”, MacKinnon
decimates an invisible army before our very eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The kilt, which
derives from the Scandinavian word for ‘to pleat,’ was revived under Sir Walter
Scott ~ because it was banned after the Battle of Culloden. “Originally, there
were about 50 clans in the Highlands. Tartans of pure wool, dyed with natural
extracts, could be worn by anyone,” MacKinnon explains. “But today, it’s all so
commercialized. They’re even inventing new clans to suit the tourist trade ~
2,500 to date!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">19.34</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Morag’s Lodge at Fort Augustus is a far cry from the other hostels.
Our girls’ dorm has an attached shower. No tangoing with strange men wrapped in
mere towels. The town is quaint and quiet, a waterway meanders parallel to the
main street, the Loch Ness tourists feed the local coffers. I wander into town,
steeling myself to entertain the Haggis group that night. I peer into shop
windows, stack up on postcards of thistles and heather, kilts and kirks. Why’s
everything so deadly quiet? It takes me half an hour to figure out that it’s a
Sunday. Not a creature stirs in town ~ except tourists like us!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The in-house chef
cooks up a feast at four sterling a head ~ garlic bread, chili con carne,
salad, salsa, pasta, baked potatoes, even ice-cream from a wooden churn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Back at the pub at
Morag’s, where the first drink comes cheap and a jukebox spews oldies from the
Sixties, the Haggis gang gathers. “Aditi, aren’t you joining us?” says Gayle
from the lower bunk as I jot notes, afraid I’ll dodge the engagement. It takes
me a whole half hour to shower and double-hop down the wooden steps. Naomi and
Kim gather close. “Ready to go tone deaf?” I ask, my knees shaking as I stand
on the leather-rich seat in the pub. I launch into Tagore’s ‘<i>Purano Shei Diner Kotha</i>,’ the Bengali
version of <i>Auld Lang Syne</i>, before the
jitters get the better of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey, babe, you
can sing!” yells a stranger from the corner, raising his tankard. “What
language was that?” puzzles Jeff, then quickly sets it right with “<i>Bhalo! Bhalo</i>!” The ordeal’s over. We
trade school jokes, swap riddles, buy each other Bacardi Breezers until the
clock strikes 2 a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h2>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">DAY SIX/ July 30: Blustery,
biting winds; a drizzle dots the hours<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">8.10</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
“I’d like to stay on with Haggis Travels for another year,” confesses Sue, one
of seven women drivers of the 22 at Haggis. “After that, I want to settle down
and have a baby. I’ve got four younger brothers and sisters. I love the feel of
a family. But it all depends on whether I meet the right man.” What’s that around her neck? A silver Celtic
cross, a gift from her dad on her 18<sup>th</sup> birthday. “I never take it
off, not even when I shower,” she stresses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Cille Choirill,’
says the signpost. Where does it lead? To a mossed-over graveyard that boasts
of an intricately carved Celtic cross in stone that dominates the rolling
roundness of the surrounding hillside. Does it mark a special grave? Aye, that
of the itinerant bard Ian Long, who ensured that justice was done in the case
of Seven Elders who killed the young heirs to a clan chief, so that they could
remain in power. “In the 1930s, while building a road, the diggers found seven
skulls in an old well. Maybe the story’s true. That’s the Well of the Seven Elders,
near Lake Oich,” Sue adds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">13.40</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The bus pulls up at Ruthven Barracks, the northern terminal of the 18<sup>th</sup>
century road taken by Hanoverian soldiers travelling from Blair Atholl to
Dalnacardoch through the Gaich pass. It was built to quell the Jacobite rebellion
in 1719. About 300 troops fleeing the rout at Culloden took refuge here,
awaiting Bonnie Prince Charlie, who let them down. The disheartened men set
fire to the barracks before they fled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">15. 21</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Time to cheer up at the Eldadour distillery, the smallest in all
Scotland. Like all single malt whiskies, the water of life is twice-distilled
here from malted barley roasted over peat fires, spring water and yeast.
“Whisky is part of life in Scotland,” explains Linda, our dour-faced guide. “It
was originally made by groups of farmers getting together to make whisky to
ward off the harsh winters. Ours is the last handmade malt whisky in Scotland,
a fact we’re proud of.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Eldadour produces
just 15 casks of whisky a week, each matured for ten years in old Spanish
sherry casks that lend the spirit their golden hue. But when Linda offers us
each a glass of 20-year-old Eldadour single malt, I take one sip and put it
down. It’s too strange for my wine-tainted palate. Naomi pulls a face, so Byron
does the honours ~ he downs her glass, and mine too. As we pull away from
Eldadour, we look at the Scottish burns or streams with new eyes ~ each a
potential jar of whisky!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">16.04</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> More ancient stones at Dunkeld Abbey, more stories as we head back to
Edinburgh. “The Stone of Destiny, on which the British monarchs are crowned,
was said to have been stolen from Scone Abbey in 1296 by Edward I,” narrates
Sue. “But the Scottish people believe that the original, which is from Egypt,
was hidden by loyal monks on the island of Iona. So, generations of British
monarchs have been crowned on a lookalike stone, which may have been a toilet
cover from Scone Abbey!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">To round off the
trip as Edinburgh’s Royal Mile veers into sight, Sue says, “Scotland has never
had a Queen Elizabeth, so the present British monarch should be Queen Elizabeth
I of Scotland… We all believe we’ll reclaim the Stone of Destiny one day, when
we’re independent of England.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">17.30</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Back at Haggis. We collect our itineraries and promise to catch up for
a final drink together at The Mitre, a 1598 pub on the Royal Mile. I race down
the road to look for a special gift ~ a pewter quaich or traditional
double-handled drinking cup. “When the clan chiefs gathered,” Kate reminds me,
“they’d pass the whisky around in a quaich as a gesture of welcome and
friendship. It was originally made of wood, with glass at the bottom, so that
the drinker could look behind him as he drank, in case a traitor crept up to
stab him!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">20.20</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Adrian and Caroline, Damien and Naomi are through with their
beer-fortified steak-and-kidney pie,
gearing up for a guided Ghost Walk through Edinburgh. Will they have the
stomach for it? I toy with the idea of haggis again, then opt for a duck pate
with rocket salad, washed down with a double Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks.
“You’re drinking Irish stuff in Scotland. That’s sacrilege!” teases Shaun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Jeff and Kim help
him to ease his backpack out of the ceiling-high stack we’ve created in a
corner of The Mitre. I pull out my jazzy pack from under a towering grey
sleeping bag. “That’s mine,” says Byron, “I’m tall enough to carry it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Time to run. I’ve
got to catch a National Express coach to London at 21.30. “Remember how to
spell my name,” yells Damien, through a bear-hug. “It’s not <i>demon</i>!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I have one foot
through the door when I hear Carlos bellow, “I’m the one who found out you were
the murderer! Don’t ever forget that!” I bellow back with laughter, as 21
others join in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>(This article was originally published in Man's World, India, in 2001)</i></span></div>
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ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-43849078232288988052015-10-09T03:06:00.000-07:002015-10-09T03:06:19.633-07:00Book review: The Secret of Falcon Heights by Ranjit Lal <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpScEEoCk-_VXCUirPTOtTxlP2X57jNWqjOar8Q-PAoMXJvrb0wpujPgSDkMy1PUId66fNxFUxYy8xk251AOuJNUlWti6xXjc6TNXN4Noqi76Ouj6iNUjhWxyi1LN7D69NQgsCb8mimhD/s1600/The+secret+of+Falcon+Heights+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpScEEoCk-_VXCUirPTOtTxlP2X57jNWqjOar8Q-PAoMXJvrb0wpujPgSDkMy1PUId66fNxFUxYy8xk251AOuJNUlWti6xXjc6TNXN4Noqi76Ouj6iNUjhWxyi1LN7D69NQgsCb8mimhD/s640/The+secret+of+Falcon+Heights+2.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">The
Secret of Falcon Heights<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Text:
Ranjit Lal<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Penguin
Books. 2014. Paperback. Rs. 250. 220
pages. English. Young adult.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
978-0-143-33333-3<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Until about five years
ago, I was afraid we would never have relevant India- centric literature for
young adults. Unanswered questions teased me: Why were we, as writers and
readers, afraid to engage with the societal skeletons in our collective
cupboards? Why were we constantly shielding our teens from explosive subjects that
throng our media?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">My misgivings vanished
when Ranjit Lal ~ whom I have long admired for the engaging bandwidth of his
writings ~ published ‘<i>Faces in the Water</i>,’
brilliantly tackling female infanticide with sensitivity and surety. His novel won
the Crossword Best Children’s Book award in 2010. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Was his a random excursion
down an offbeat track? Lal, to my delight, proved me wrong to establish himself as an
intrepid explorer of the young adult genre. Take the 1984 Delhi riots in ‘<i>The Battle for No. 19’</i>. Or child sexual
abuse in ‘<i>Smitten.’</i> Or teen sexuality
in ‘<i>Black Limericks.’</i> I came to
applaud each rivetting read for his literary daring and masterly storytelling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> In ‘<i>The Secret of Falcon Heights</i>,’ Lal engages
with other taboo subjects that seldom enter Indian drawing rooms. Here he
explores (hold your breath!) political corruption, social ostracism and even an
episode with shadows of Bhanwari Devi in 1992.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">On the tantalizing book
jacket, a young woman in black sets a falcon free to soar against an idyllic
landscape. The cover blurb reads: ‘She’s beautiful. She’s fearless. She’s
bewitching. So why is she the ‘leper’ of Pahadpur?’ Lal treats his subject with
a cinematic, edge-of-the-seat vividness, interspersed with episodes of
distilled teen spirit, pulsing with life.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Sandeep, 17, narrates
the story, set against a post-colonial pucca hill station, complete with a
club, an army set-up and treks into the hill. How will he and his siblings ~ Manish
(14) and sister Chubs (7) ~ survive three months in the internet- free hills
with their terrier Jacko, under the eagle eye of great aunt Mita Masi? They are tantalized by Aranya, the girl next
door at Falcon Heights. The townsfolk shun her; they gossip darkly about her past.
But what is the truth?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">With all the drama of breaking
news, Lal transforms the mundane into an irresistible adventure that is unputdownable,
yet inoffensive to teen readers, parents and teachers alike. His dialogue,
distinctive of sibling rivalry and revelry, helps. So does his ability to weave
in full-blooded twists and turns into his quick-paced plot. Who are the
s/heroes; who the villains? Lal keeps the reader guessing almost till the end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Sandeep’s voice is in
perfect sync with today’s teens. Take this nuanced hint of first love when driving past Aranya in
distress on a rainy road, thanks to Mita Masi’s prejudices: ‘I turned around
and stared: her face was lit by the battery lantern… Her jaw was taut, her chin
stuck out defiantly, rain streaming off it, but there was anguish in her eyes,
the same devastated, hollow anguish I had seen in Papa’s eyes when Mom passed
away.’ From that moment on, it is impossible not to root for Sandeep’s
happiness, no matter how danger-laced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Lal’s writing is
charming with its unusual detailing. For instance, the way the older siblings
nurture Chubs playfully, coaxing her out of her wandering ways. Or the enchanting evocation of Aranya’s falcon
as it mantles its pigeon prey on a ledge. With the trio’s parents out of the
big picture (a device often used by Enid Blyton and JK Rowling), the coast is
clear for an adrenalin-fuelled plot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> This powerful narrative soars, dips and lands
as effortlessly as Aranya’s falcon. In Lal’s experienced hands, it never
nose-dives into patchiness of tone, plot or character. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">I am now a committed Ranjit
Lal fan for his convincing unravelling of the ugly, everyday India. Especially
since he has made this world accessible to young adults. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">....</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">This review originally appeared in the GoodBooks site:</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">http://goodbooks.in/node/7419</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></i></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-76032073032589922302015-09-14T05:38:00.000-07:002015-09-14T05:38:00.539-07:00Book review: Big Bully and M-me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsyDkQPMoCJlXdruiYJ1tdHadlPhm_m3wSo_tQR_AgJRDL3qIsSlosXLP1cwvZsorQbgg_rRJvautiidNae-5n2d9J_IH3-2FEPX0zpBQKl6_3OyncOtmPjT3RO0aOBrgENFjNxX8svhh/s1600/Big+bully+and+me.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsyDkQPMoCJlXdruiYJ1tdHadlPhm_m3wSo_tQR_AgJRDL3qIsSlosXLP1cwvZsorQbgg_rRJvautiidNae-5n2d9J_IH3-2FEPX0zpBQKl6_3OyncOtmPjT3RO0aOBrgENFjNxX8svhh/s640/Big+bully+and+me.jpeg" width="412" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Big
Bully and M-me<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Text:
Arti Sonthalia<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Illustrations:
Sebin Simon<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Duckbill.
2015. Paperback. Rs. 150. 68 pages. English. Age: 7+<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
978-93-83331-21-5<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Some issues are so
fiercely volatile, so intrinsically fragile, that they need handling with kid
gloves, especially in children’s books. Yet, reading novels by British authors
Jacqueline Wilson, Michael Morpurgo and Elizabeth Laird are like master-classes
in how to communicate the most bleak, even gory, subjects. Broken homes.
Refugee lives. Current politics. Mental
illness. The differently abled. They touch each issue with deep understanding,
sensitivity and superb storytelling to make it child-accessible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Within the Indian
context, some authors have mastered this tricky turf. Names that spring to mind
immediately include Sigrun Srivastav, Ranjit Lal and Paro Anand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> To me, Arti Sonthalia’s book stands apart from
the other Duckbill Hole books I have read because it is essentially
issue-based. The series, for children just stepping into chapter books, has uncomplicated
plots, fun characters and lively illustrations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">How is Sonthalia’s distinctive?
Her plot, potentially a minefield because her narrator Krish has a speech
impediment, is handled with intelligent emotion, laced with humour. Her
quick-paced storytelling is a sure invitation to even reluctant readers. Her
adept handling of the subject will silence adult doubters who ask, “But why write
about this for children?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Her main character Krish
(he hates being called Krishna), is shorter and skinnier than his classmates at
Bright Side School. Self-doubt clouds his days. Will his best friend Green pick
him at basketball? Will Ishaan, the class bully, trip him up every day? How
many wily ways must he think up to avoid oral tests, plays and debates? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">His worst nightmare
comes to life when Krish’s class teacher decides on an extempore speaking
contest for the semester show, with an irresistible prize. But why must he be
paired with the Big Bully? I will resist giving away more of this quirky plot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Sonthalia gifts Krish a
credible narrative voice: “Every time I open my mouth, my words break and jerk,
making it difficult for others to understand what I say. Sometimes the words
get stuck in my throat and won’t come out.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">The supporting
characters are as vivid, as unforgettable. Like Dennis ‘the Menace,’ their
class teacher, who ensures that classes are fun-packed. He believes Krish can
conquer challenges. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Krish’s mother promises
him a new bicycle if his extempore is smooth sailing. His super-achiever brother
wins an inter-school spelling bee. His smart classmate Khushi seems to read his
mind. Krish is in awe of them until he discovers that everyone is human. This
changes his world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Sonthalia evokes
Krish’s plight just right. She does not talk down to young readers, neither
does she preach. Her narrative sparkles, her vocabulary is spot on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">In an interview with
Tanu Shree Singh on the Duckbill blog, Sonthalia says, ‘I did my research on
stammering and what children face when they stammer. I also met the Indian
Stammering Association leader in Hyderabad.’ She attended their sessions,
listened to podcasts, read books ‘to feel the trauma a person who stutters goes
through.’ What emerges is a poignant tale about the human condition, its
sunshine and shadows, wrapped in an extra-large heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Sebin Simon’s zany illustrations
enhance the story. Such as notebook jottings of Krish plotting his way to a new
bicycle. Or a class joke translated as a teapot filling a car petrol tank. Or Dennis
in a mighty stretched jump-stop. Or a Krish’s tall mother looming over Dennis
as he announces the results. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Sonthalia seems like a
natural for the Hole books, even with her first book for children. Would young
readers and older reviewers like to read more by her? Yes, beyond a shadow of a
doubt. <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><i><b>This review was originally published in GoodBooks at: </b></i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">http://goodbooks.in/node/735</span></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-69430433198471691502015-08-15T04:31:00.000-07:002015-08-15T04:31:32.753-07:00Book review: A Bhil Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-R7GJd6iO1ZHeuFb7BFU4V8kFyrQimUWXvkLef4M98bdjJaJ3KlfvDR-bLGv6MrlT2XPDS4JhAasOJtv33aQlRQWklL8PHHdmWVqaM6glgsqI3a0f4izlIgrVsqfxtrHL69GrcJOobsT6/s1600/A+Bhil+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="574" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-R7GJd6iO1ZHeuFb7BFU4V8kFyrQimUWXvkLef4M98bdjJaJ3KlfvDR-bLGv6MrlT2XPDS4JhAasOJtv33aQlRQWklL8PHHdmWVqaM6glgsqI3a0f4izlIgrVsqfxtrHL69GrcJOobsT6/s640/A+Bhil+story.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
Bhil Story<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Text
and visuals: Sher Singh Bhil and Nina Sabnani<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tulika
Publishers. 2015. Paperback. Colour. Rs. 175. 32 pages. English. Age: 5+<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
935046628-7<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Folk tales take us back
to our roots, to ancient wisdom, often to common sense. Some memorable versions
of Nani’s or Ajji’s tales illuminate the trail of Indian children’s publishing
over the past two decades – such as Gita Wolf’s ‘<i>A Very Hungry Lion</i>,’ Vayu Naidu’s ‘<i>A Curly Tale’</i>, and Shobha Vishwanath’s ‘<i>The Blue Jackal.’</i> Retold with finesse, each has an inbuilt rhythmic
narrative that is in sync with the spoken word, a grandmother’s way of evoking
time and place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘A Bhil Story,’ in a
nutshell, is about how the parched village of Jher in Madhya Pradesh searches
for water. Its dramatic personae include Sher Singh, wise Bhuri Bai, a rooster
with a flair for drama, and the local badwa or shaman, who can divine water
sources. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The book was sparked by
a workshop at the Industrial Design Centre at IIT, Bombay, supported by the Tata
Centre for Technology and Design. As a follow up, film-maker/ illustrator/
animator Nina Sabnani led a team to Jhabua district in Madhya Pradesh, in the
footsteps of Bhil artist Sher Singh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The tale was first
realized as an animated film, voiced by the villagers. It was later reborn as
this book. Sher Singh’s pithora paintings – akin to prayers in the Bhil
community, with each dot evoking an ancestor – are bright, tantalizing, deeply evocative.
Each dot or line is a call to the imagination as they morph into a person or an
animal, each frame is infused with movement. For the reader, his is a call to explore,
to ‘read’ the pictures and between each frame. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The relationship of
visual to real life grows richer once we realize that Sher Singh, as a child of
seven, learnt to paint from his mother Bhuri Bai. (Is hers a common name among
the Bhils? Is this a true story from their lives?) By 15, he had graduated from
walls to canvas, and evolved an individual colour palette. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I read this book
through four times over, my eyes danced with delight over Sher Singh’s images. In
one corner, two wild-haired heads look goggle-eyed into the text. Across
another spread, meandering villagers with pots move towards a little bird that
symbolizes hope. They follow a ribbon of water till they find an overflowing
pot under a badwa with a dholak. His advice to the villagers is simple: go home
and paint trees on your walls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That, say Bhil folks,
is how the tribals began to paint – and how they had enough water ever after. This
origin tale points to sound environmental logic – with enough trees planted, we
can save the parched earth and ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Within the Bhil
community, we know that sacred Pithora paintings signify happiness, peace and
prosperity. They are a must at weddings, childbirth and festivals, doubling as a
visual spell to heal sick children or cattle. The local badwa, when called in
to mediate with Pithora Baba, often suggests a painting as an offering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sher Singh’s art teems
with life. It is pristine, primal, yet sophisticated, dancing to a secret rhythm. If only the folktale retold here had
responded to its call. Instead, lost in translation, the text proves lacklustre,
even bordering on the pedestrian. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This sparked a slew of
questions: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Was the text a literal
translation of the Bhil tale from Jher village? Could editorial intervention
have enhanced its rhythm to bring it alive in English? Why is the story less playful
than its latent humour suggests? Would the use of more local Bhil words with
Word Bird notes as in earlier Tulika books have helped? Would creative use of typography
have proved the right match for Sher Singh’s singing pictures? Could a better
designer have worked magic? Such dynamic visuals, we realize, could have told
the tale on their own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This book is disappointing
because of how exceptional each of Nina Sabnani’s earlier books for Tulika
were. Remember ‘<i>Mukand and Riaz,</i>’ ‘<i>Stitching Stories’</i> and ‘<i>My Gandhi Story’?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In this case, between
the art and the story falls the shadow. No matter what the answers to these questions,
this is a far cry from the best of Tulika. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Originally published on the GoodBooks blog:</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;"><i>http://goodbooks.in/node/7307</i></span></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com1Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-56928405542560975482015-07-12T22:59:00.000-07:002015-07-12T22:59:01.098-07:00Book review: The House that Sonabai Built<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3loXOPYj51jlSl1OpJwtLNankkwEmdNhGGuBEU2pbGV3s7f-gzlyn0PvCAqEYlPi5LGV-ugMTQ7JagBX_wLaesGjSCCQsRpMQlUOxWBcRGbadFVpBpsgiwwzTO3eFVJzEdiKF1-2LR4iU/s1600/The+House+that+Sonabai+Built.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3loXOPYj51jlSl1OpJwtLNankkwEmdNhGGuBEU2pbGV3s7f-gzlyn0PvCAqEYlPi5LGV-ugMTQ7JagBX_wLaesGjSCCQsRpMQlUOxWBcRGbadFVpBpsgiwwzTO3eFVJzEdiKF1-2LR4iU/s400/The+House+that+Sonabai+Built.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Text:
Vishakha Chanchani<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Photographs:
Stephen P. Huyler<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tulika
Publishers. 2014. Paperback. Colour. Rs. 250. 32 pages. English. Age: 8+<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
935046627-9<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What happens when a
dedicated art educator/ writer like Vishakha Chanchani teams up with noted US-based
cultural anthropologist and Indian folk craft expert Stephen Huyler? They
magically, quite poetically, conjure up the life of Sonabai of Puhphutara
village in Madhya Pradesh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some lives are akin to
those of a plant. Without sunlight and water, they wither and perish. Others
struggle to bloom against all odds. Sonabai’s life – part of Tulika’s ‘Looking
at Art’ series for children ~ was like a never-say-die flower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How was the book born?
As Vishakha puts it, ‘Stephen Huyler’s passionate sharings in his book on
Sonabai provided eloquent reference. He brought her work into a fuller picture…
I was overwhelmed by her story and the solitude of her journey. Her joyful
creations spoke of a love of life that in reality had been denied, but could
not be stolen from her.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For Sonabai’s story
echoes that of thousands of creative minds from rural India. Like other women
from the Rajawar community, she was born to a landscape of dust and obscurity. At 14, she was married to Holi Ram, much
older than her. He permitted her to pitch in with their fields or to use the
well, but she was forbidden to meet anyone, even her own family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Sonabai dared not
disobey him. So she stayed like a prisoner in her own home. Alone with her
son,’ writes Vishakha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead of succumbing
to darkness or depression, Sonabai looked for light. Harking back to childhood
memories of clay play, between chores she made her little Daroga Ram ‘a monkey,
a girl, Krishna playing the flute.’ Her tools were born of the earth and
necessity – a bristly brush from the chewed, blunt end of a stick, natural
pigments of ground leaves and vegetables. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sonabai’s journey is
evoked simply yet vividly by both the text and Huyler’s brilliant photographs: ‘As
the clay touched her fingers, and her fingers touched clay, something happened!
Her heart leapt up, and a new light gleamed in her eyes… She suddenly
remembered the days when she was carefree and young, when she had helped her
mother smear cow dung and earth on the wall – how she would make zigzag or
curly patterns with her fingers upon wet white lime, which was used to paint
walls, and then decorate them with designs.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Huyler’s images are
like rich, dazzling lodes of Indian folk life. A hand with bangles etches lines
on a clay wall, elemental yet elegant. Rice straw hair streams from a face yet
unborn, as gnarled fingers shape eyes. A faceless woman paints a fashioned
parrot in vivid green. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Like more urban artists
like MF Husain and Jamini Roy in the Tulika series, Sonabai’s tale is both
personal and universal. As her spirit began to soar, she created creepers and
leaves in relief for the house Holi Ram built. To diffuse the harsh light that
entered their home, she cobbled together fantastical lattices / jaalis of
bamboo, twine and clay, embellished with lively human and animal figures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Out of the blue, a team
from Bhopal’s noted Bharat Bhavan for the arts came to Puhphutara. Though homes
in the area were traditionally decorated, at Sonabai’s they found an
unbelievable wonderland. As Huyler observed, ‘Everywhere around us was art. The
columns, the walls, the doorframes, the windows, and beams and the baseboards –
all alive with Sonabai’s humour, wit and remarkable eye for balance and form.’
He researched her work for five years,
resulting in an international exhibition in San Diego in 2009-10. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some episodes touch the
heart. As when the Bharat Bhavan team seek a sample to show their director in
Bhopal, ‘They were so keen that Sonabai didn’t know how to refuse. But her
heart broke. There were tears in her eyes when she saw them breaking off a
piece of jaali to take back with them, along with the sculptures on it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The other villagers
were just as astounded when they first stepped into Holi Ram’s house. One
remarked, ‘Look, Sonabai has turned mud into gold!’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In another chapter of
life till her late 70s, Sonabai travelled and taught across India and abroad,
accompanied only by Daroga Ram. By the time she passed away in 2007, Sonabai
had passed her unique skills on to son, her daughter-in-law, even younger folks
in their community. Thanks to her vision, their village was imprinted forever
on the art map of India.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Vishakha captures the transition from
village to world thus, ‘How did Sonabai feel, to be suddenly uprooted from her
home, where she worked passionately, content to be appreciated by her son and
no one else? Did she like going to cities, conducting workshops, training
others in her village, getting written about in newspapers and books? Shy and
awkward, Sonabai did it all. She didn’t complain all those years when she had
to stay at home and she didn’t complain when she had to leave it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This deeply moving book
is about Sonabai’s life as much as it is about dreaming big. It invites urban
Indian children to look at rural life with curiosity and to respect its
depth. Read with attention to detail, it
is about the magic latent in everyday life. It calls out equally to children
who are hooked to screen devices as much as to those who are led to craft
bazaars and art galleries. Its potential audience includes schoolchildren, parents,
art teachers and librarians. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To conclude in
Vishakha’s words, ‘Like her many beautiful figures that would emerge from a
lump of clay, Sonabai’s art grew from simple beginnings, experimenting,
evolving. In the small village, with nothing to work with except what she found
around her, and in spite of all the difficulties she faced, her art continued
to thrive. It is this spirit that stirs us, as much as her art. This, perhaps,
is her true legacy.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">.....</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>This review was originally in the GoodBooks India website. The link:</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">http://goodbooks.in/node/7237</span></span></div>
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ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-20620188176726048382015-06-23T02:45:00.002-07:002015-06-23T02:45:51.598-07:00Book review: Raza's Bindu <div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76BrRpnbw4reEk8TT2z5bKEVxrzgMSEm8nquTigXwxaYOeT-fu0yveefv7cgxFRh2XbWHNuO0oW0slImvIZ4mZ32ZRJCYSGG_a4MqfdleBSa5332Z846hm0998-SR0EkOWv9Qjg0AhfS1/s1600/Razas+Bindu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76BrRpnbw4reEk8TT2z5bKEVxrzgMSEm8nquTigXwxaYOeT-fu0yveefv7cgxFRh2XbWHNuO0oW0slImvIZ4mZ32ZRJCYSGG_a4MqfdleBSa5332Z846hm0998-SR0EkOWv9Qjg0AhfS1/s640/Razas+Bindu.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Raza’s
Bindu<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Concept
& Text: Ritu Khoda and Vanita Pai. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Afterword
by S.H. Raza<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Illustrations:
Kundan Shanbagh <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Scholastic
India. I am an Artist series. 2014. Hardcover. Full colour. Rs. 350. 150. 66
pages. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
978-93-5103-282-3<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Breathes there a child
who doesn’t enjoy playing with colours, whether on paper or on walls? My
informed guess would be: No. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Like music, art has an universal
appeal for the young across countries, colours, religions ~ until adults
(including parents and teachers) step in with spirit-sapping questions. Like ‘How can an elephant be
silver, with a pink trunk?’ or ‘Silly! Why have you painted the sky green and
the grass blue?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think it is
unfortunate that Indian adults often tend to look down on arts-based professions.
Nor do most parents take children to visit artists, studios, or art galleries. Their
fear: how could this lead them to the top of the class, an IIT seat, or a Bill
Gates lifestyle? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As an art buff (surrounded
by original art at home during my growing years), my friends today include
dozens of creative dreamers. For decades, I have wished it was possible to
change our collective lens on art. But how? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To me, this book is a long
overdue step in the right direction. Active art educator Khoda and creative
writer Pai spell out their dilemma in a concept note, ‘Why are children not
aware of great Indian modern artists?..... How are we to inform them? What
approach should we take? How should we balance the visuals with the concept and
text to make a book that would grab children’s attention and more importantly,
hold it?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Their foray begins with
a mere dot ~ or Raza’s bindu. They engage the reader with a hands-on, child-centric
approach to his art. The legendary artist, now 93, says in his afterword, ‘As a
child I was never able to concentrate on studies. One afternoon, my primary
school teacher made me sit and train my gaze on a ‘Bindu’ he had made on the
wall, to teach me to focus… Decades later in Paris, when I sought some Indian
ideas for my art, the Bindu came back to me and it became a recurring image in
my work over the years. To me, Bindu is a still centre, a source of energy. It
is the beginning and the end.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Guided by a playful,
lilting narrative, aided by intelligent creative exercises, the book charms
both the child and the art-resistant adult. For instance, one of the three
tear-out worksheets at the end comes with these instructions: ‘Take your
paints, pencils or crayons and find a quiet corner to sit in. Close your eyes
and take a deep breath. Slowly open your eyes and start making your Bindu.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The core illustrations
based on Raza’s paintings, some with unique fold-out pages, are
irresistible. Play is the central road to
a child’s heart, a route the authors navigate with soul. Via geometric stickers
with which to create art. Via exercises
on the Rangamala or the Panchatatva, made easy and fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And best of all, via
questions that tease the child into exploring uncharted concepts: What would it
be like to be under Raza’s cool, blue sea? Or looking up at the calm blue sky?...
Why do you think Raza painted these
bindus in half? Could they be playing hide-and-seek? Do you think they will
meet? What will happen then?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unlike other recent Indian
children’s books on art, which have concentrated on art lives instead of experiential
learning, Khoda and Pai have their formula just right. They often back up their
book basics with intimate, non-stop fun workshops at bookstores, libraries and
other child-centric spaces. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The time is right. The
approach is right. All we need now is for parents to take their rearing cues
from these luminous creators: Ask open-ended questions. Listen patiently. Focus
on the process. Accept mistakes. And so on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This
beautifully-produced book makes me look forward to future journeys in the series
with Ambadas Khorbragade, Ram Kumar, Ganesh Haloi, Jamini Roy, Badrinarayan and
others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Who knows, a generation
impacted by this insight-rich series might bring mind-blowing surprises our
way. Perhaps there is a future MF Husain,
J Swaminathan or KCS Paniker in the wings? As adults, we need to peek carefully
~ and not disturb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Raza’s
Bindu</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> made me wish this book had come my way when I was
8-plus. It might have enhanced my journey into the art world by several notches.
I would not doubt that for a micro-second. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(<i>This review was originally published online in GoodBooks in 2015)</i></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-87033212215964773682015-06-23T02:39:00.001-07:002015-06-23T02:39:27.596-07:00Book review: The Patua Pinocchio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolSsJNLtEjBPqoMzkw-EjHHHL6ZON7hBP_4M6RO_7wNRxmyvSFhYgYj6IbqeBgtmiF8HtJZeAlIu-69At_2rOfKz0GhDCCEEjc8Y2bW4YdXuvLHWcasZ3S5OJ4-E4hXTepvsFHmUvt4uM/s1600/The+Patua+Pinocchio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolSsJNLtEjBPqoMzkw-EjHHHL6ZON7hBP_4M6RO_7wNRxmyvSFhYgYj6IbqeBgtmiF8HtJZeAlIu-69At_2rOfKz0GhDCCEEjc8Y2bW4YdXuvLHWcasZ3S5OJ4-E4hXTepvsFHmUvt4uM/s640/The+Patua+Pinocchio.jpg" width="457" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Patua Pinocchio<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Text:
Carlo Collodi (adapted from Carol della Chiesa’s translation from the Italian)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Illustrations:
Swarna Chitrakar<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tara
Books. 2014. Hardcover. Colour. Rs. 550. 190 pages. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
978-93-83145-12-6<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pinocchio has gone
viral since it was first published in Italian by Carlo Collodi in 1883. Adapted
by Walt Disney Studios as a 1940 film, the wooden marionette who dreams of
being a real boy is all set to reappear in a Disney live action fairy tale in
the near future. In Italy, director Roberto Benigni (‘<i>Life is beautiful’</i>) did his own film version in 2002, while
Pinocchio inspired a popular Korean tele-series. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The wooden boy made guest
appearances on <i>Sesame Street</i> and the <i>Muppet Show</i>, and was a supporting
character in the <i>Shrek</i> movies. He was
even a knight on the chessboard in the Japanese manga anime series <i>MAR</i> between 2003- 2006. Former British children’s laureate Michael
Morpurgo did an irresistible, quick-paced variation on the tale in 2013, told
by Pinocchio in the first person, with breathtaking illustrations by Emma
Chichester Clark. And so, Pinocchio’s conquest of the global imagination continues.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I first heard of this long-nosed,
cheeky bad boy as a bedtime tale from my Ma when I was about three. What did I make
of it as I grew? That it was about a good father and his naughty son. That it is
not always right to create stories or live in a fantasy world. It did not
strike me as a highly moral tale then. Nor does it now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This Tara book is
edited and abridged from Collodi’s Italian text, translated into English by
Carol Della Chiesa. It was born during a recent workshop for traditional Patua
scroll painters from Bengal, hosted by Tara Books. These enchanting balladeers, often seen at
crafts bazaars and in scenic villages across Bengal, meld painting,
story-telling and performance in their art form, evoking Indian epics,
folklore, mythical heroes and creation stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Swarna Chitrakar, a
Patua artist for over 20 years, was charmed by the Pinocchio story at the
workshop. She chose to illustrate it in her traditional style, though not in
age-old sprawling scroll panels but in smaller frames to suit the book format. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On these pages, the little
wooden boy crosses cultures, continents and languages to resemble maybe a child
Krishna, a cross between a folkloric hero and a universal child. His skin is
dusky, his gaze wondrous and undaunted (almost Jamini Roy like). He is clad
minimally, or dons only jewellery, true to the Patua trope. Visually, Swarna
renders him as mischievous, playful yet almost beatific. Irresistible, beyond
doubt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As across Indian
traditional folk paintings, Patua artists use clothing to denote social rank. The
marionette theatre chief (or Fire Eater), for instance, is dressed in fancy raja-like
gear, draped with necklaces. In contrast Pinocchio’s father, the carpenter
Geppetto, wears a simple dhoti, while the pretty, pivotal Blue Fairy is
sari-clad and bejewelled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Patua art has, for
centuries, celebrated animals and birds, whether mythical or real. Swarna’s chirping
cricket, non-existent in Indian folk art, captures the eye in a trice. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Zigzagging across the frame, with scales and striped
limbs, he sets the mood for other rollicking creatures from her fertile
imagination. For instance? A goggle-eyed trickster cat with a goofy grin. A
subtly-feathered red pigeon who flies Pinocchio to safer shores. Fish in earthy
ochres, browns and greens, netted from the deep with Pinocchio.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some of Swarna’s
stunning images linger in the mind’s eye for hours. Such as the detailed black-and-white
title drawings that launch each chapter. Or the incredible rath-like coach drawn by dozens of monochrome outlined horses,
almost whinnying with life. The Fire Eater in blazing red striding towards his
stove, the Harlequin as his intended tinder grasped firmly in his hand, while Pinocchio
pleads for mercy. Or the cunning giant ochre cat, almost purring with content, with
a trembling blackbird in its jaws. Or Pinocchio swimming into the swirling
waves from the Shark’s wide mouth with Geppetto on this back, surrounded by
buoyant little fish, the predator rendered minimally as a gaping jaw with an
enormous eye. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Spectacular art apart, the
playful typography in this impeccably produced book ~ a hallmark of the best
Tara books ~ makes this one distinctive. Designer Tanuja Ramani lays out the
story with accents of 19<sup>th</sup> century book design, including border
motifs and smaller typeface when dialogue is in a gentler, softer voice. This element
proves both playful and powerful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">V. Geetha of Tara Books
writes in her concluding note: ‘This is the first time that Patua art has been
used to illustrate a children’s classic from another tradition. While
re-drawing and designing the tale, the book adds fresh ~ and startlingly
unfamiliar ~ layers of meaning to a well-known story, and in the process,
renders it truly universal.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So true. This book is
highly recommended for parents and teachers who seek to realign their
children’s imagination. Or tweak ways of looking at popular tales. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking back at <i>The Patua Pinoccio</i> with wonder, I am
faced with a nagging, unresolved question: Does Indian folklore have a
Pinocchio- like story in any form? Would you know? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>(This review was originally published in the GoodBooks website in June 2015) </i></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-44792921081871095092015-03-28T02:05:00.000-07:002015-03-28T02:05:20.264-07:00Book review: DO! ~ a Warli visual wonderland to celebrate <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZ326MHd4YzCy7eXE6kgNkcbGA2euES6bPEB4uZk1I2LZQsEUnWrtOVrHUCfCUxlS1LoD3S0yrDvuUvd9N3ScjZbuXF2E64MoHeyVGmlPE7VLX4nJSEyxsMLM3IqqNn2pEZsyg3Fu79pE/s1600/Do!%2Bcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZ326MHd4YzCy7eXE6kgNkcbGA2euES6bPEB4uZk1I2LZQsEUnWrtOVrHUCfCUxlS1LoD3S0yrDvuUvd9N3ScjZbuXF2E64MoHeyVGmlPE7VLX4nJSEyxsMLM3IqqNn2pEZsyg3Fu79pE/s1600/Do!%2Bcover.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Text/
concept: Gita Wolf<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Illustrations:
Ramesh Hengadi & Shantaram Dhadpe (with help from Rasika Hengadi and Kusum
Dhadpe) <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tara
Books. Non-fiction/ Art. 2009. 2014 edition. Paperback. Full colour. Rs. 150.
32 pages. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
978-93-83145-16-4<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Minimally worded
picture books are often more powerful than ten thousand long-winded words. Such
as? The wacky board books for children by 2013 Astrid Lindgren awardee, Argentinian
artist Isol, like her two-way multi-fold classic, ‘<i>It’s useful to have a duck/ It’s useful to have a boy</i>,’ for sure. Or
David Shannon’s 1998 brilliant ‘<i>No,
David.’ <b><o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In India, most publishers
hesitate to concentrate on visuals to engage young minds. Or to explore the
riches of indigenous art forms to tell a story. Maybe because of the
prohibitive cost of colour printing? Even Uma Krishnaswami’s brilliant ‘<i>And Land was Born’</i> in the Bhilala style for
Tulika had a strong folktale by Sandhya Rao as its base. Against this backdrop.
Tara Books creatively pioneered the use of Gond, Warli, Mithila and other folk styles
in hand-crafted, internationally acclaimed books such as ‘<i>The London Jungle Book,’ ‘That’s How I See Things,’ ‘Hope is a girl
selling fruit’</i> or ‘<i>The Nightlife of
Trees’</i> over the last two decades. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On my shelves, dozens
of Tara Books vie for attention because of the sheer joy they bring me as a
reader and an art buff. Their quality-conscious team ensures that each one makes
a lasting impression ~ for its text, visuals and impeccable production values. I
wasn’t a jot surprised when Tara won the Bologna Prize for the Best Children’s
Publisher of the year in Asia 2013, in addition to one of the International
Book Industry Excellence Awards 2014 at the London Book Fair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘DO!’ just makes the
case for Tara even stronger. Silkscreen printed on recycled kraft paper, it
brings to life the rural walls on which the Warli art of western India
originated. What is the book’s intent? Since the fluid Warli figures are
pictogram-like, its blurb says, ‘Children relate immediately to this art style,
and DO! can be used in many ways: as a picture book, to learn about verbs, to
discover the stories on each page, to talk about village life, or to draw their
own pictures and stories in the Warli style.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The book works intelligently
at each level ~ and in unforgettably image-driven ways. The child within me
came vitally alive again once I discovered that I could open this book to any
page and plunge headlong into a pictorial paradise, chuckling all the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To begin with, I scanned
the double spread with the verb ‘Play’: stick figures chase a football with
concentration, their hair streaming behind them; three men play badminton by a large-leafed
tree, their rackets as finely wrought as the net; girls skip rope with abandon
as others bounce a ball with glee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Next, I explored ‘Read’:
a duo under a thatched roof concentrate on books, as do figures stirring a
steaming pot of (maybe) rice; a man and a woman on their way to work carry a
stick in one hand, a book in the other; a rural library has its cane and bamboo
shelves stacked high; a villager shepherds his livestock, his fist clutching a
book, signalling his dream of quieter hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As for ‘Draw’, it is a
page-packed crash course on do-it-yourself Warli art: two parallel lines that
morph into a Z, grow a torso, acquire limbs ~ then dance, run and bounce to
life. Using the basic geometry of lines, circles and triangles, the renditions
are wonderfully zany. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Warli pictograms
made this book a wonderland of non-text, as I plunged into a super-active world
of <i>sleep, sit, fight</i> and verbs-plus.
Such as roosters at war over grain. Or cattle locking horns by the edge of a
pond. Or a man resting under a tree, atop which birds roost. And of course, the
irresistible delights of the Warli dancing circle that visually summons up the
community as much as the circle of life, true to the traditional style where a
single spread tells a complete tale. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This exceptional book
allows the child (or adult) to imagine brilliant colours in the moving figures
against the clay-brown backdrop. To realign an urban perspective in the light
of tantalizing faraway, unknown rural lives. Even to acknowledge that wordless
wonders can spark more brilliant texts in a writer as a reader. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘DO!’ is a book worth
reaching for to nurture your child’s visual vocabulary. It is as potently an
essential tool to revitalize the sleeping inner child within each of us as
adults, whether as parents, teachers, grandparents or creative guides. I could
celebrate this visual wonderland every single day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">(<i>This review was originally published in the GoodBooks India site) </i></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-89476190650227084402015-03-09T23:18:00.001-07:002015-03-09T23:18:17.230-07:00Sari lore: When the classic is contemporary <span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Chimy Nanjappa at Vimor</b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i>(This article was originally published in The Hindu Metroplus supplement in Bangalore on July 28, 2003)</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> "LOOK AT this antique pooja sari," says Pavithra Muddaya, holding up a
rich red silken length. "Unlike the popular ones today, its orange
checks are ikkat or woven tie-and-dye, so are the white <i>butas</i> within each. Working with Tamil weavers over the past 28 years, we've taught them to create the <i>butas</i>
with a single strand of silk, so that they don't have to combine local
weaves with ikkat from a different region. The result is two silk
versions and one in cotton that the market can afford, and that sustains
the weaver community." </span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Pavithra should know, as she holds up a more contemporary avatar of the
classic pooja sari, distinguished by its wavy white mailikanne or
peacock's eyes border. She's grown up with natural fibre weaves ever
since her mother Chimy Nanjappa set up Vimor (that's Indonesian for
"pure") at their inconspicuous home in the Victoria Layout in 1974.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> "I used to sell saris on my trips abroad. So, the idea came to me: if I
can sell to a foreigner, I can sell here too," reflects Chimy, a former
general manager at Bangalore's Mysore Arts and Crafts Emporium, often
assigned overseas by the Handicrafts and Handlooms Export Corporation
(HHEC). Initially, she travelled to small south Indian weavers, and
coaxed the local Weaver's Service Centre (WSC) to replicate her
exquisite collection of temple saris. In time, Vimor's clientele grew to
include Indira Gandhi, Sonia Gandhi, Begum Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed, Pupul
Jayakar, and Shabani Azmi.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But big name clientele means little to either Chimy or Pavithra. For
Vimor's reputation has grown by word of mouth, instead of advertising.
Why? Probably because the experience of shopping off a large bed,
picking saris out of cupboards, makes you feel completely at home. It's
comparable only to diving headfirst into your grandmother's sari
cupboard, and emerging full of wonder over every singular weave.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> For the timeless saris at Vimor, adapted to the skills and resources of
today's weaving community, speak subtly of history and geography.
Through the gandaberunda or double-headed eagle that was the Mysore
royal insignia, or the mythical annapakshi that recalls Tamil lore.
Through the procession of elephants on a pooja sari pallu that evokes a
Mysore Dussehra or temple friezes at Belur, through untold stories of
legendary weavers' guilds in mailikanne or mokalmoru weaves against
shimmering grounds sumptuous as peacock feathers or dusky skies. Through
a Manipuri pallu that turns up in a Karnataka sari, signaling
peregrinations of style. Through an antique magenta sari enlivened with <i>butas</i> of bi-planes, vintage cars, and gramophones.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Vimor's success links intrinsically into a second generation of both
buyers and weavers today. Buyers who know they will not find an eyesore
among its woven treasures, priced between Rs. 350 and Rs. 14,000. And
weavers from the Kancheepuram belt, from Raidurga in Karnataka who trust
the outlet for, as Chimy says: "We're here to encourage the weavers, to
help them come up in life."
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> How? Sharing her mother's stunning yellow-checked black cotton sari with
red and ochre Ganga-Jamuna borders, Pavithra points out: "It's so easy
to keep antique pieces in the cupboard, to bring them out to exclaim
over every few days. But we have to give something back to society." So,
she's shown the Raidurga weavers how to create a heavy cotton,
minimal-care black sari with yellow woven borders and a contrasting
pallu. An office-goer can afford it for everyday wear. And the weavers
have learnt to innovate from its colour and design palette, instead of
merely replicating an old sari.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Take the case of the original temple cotton sari, which has flooded the
market in its Chettinadu avatar. Simplifying the concept of a checked or
striped ground with contrasting big borders, Vimor taught weavers in
Salem, Kancheepuram, and Andhra Pradesh to adapt the sari with a single
shuttle, instead of three. This cut weaving costs, sustaining whole
villages, and ensuring that the elegant sari survived. On a parallel
track, weavers in Durgam and Arni learnt to weave lightweight silk saris
on a single shuttle in stunning combinations such as rust shot with
golden yellow and green, promising personality-plus at Rs. 1,500 to
woman executives tired of look-alike power dressing.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Instead of monopolising traditional weaves or patenting their own
innovations, Vimor has ensured that lakhs of weavers live with dignity.
"I've tried to impart that multiples of one or two beautiful saris
should sustain and feed their families," Pavithra stresses. "That sets
the weaver free to experiment for the home market and for export. But
most important, it builds up his self-confidence." For award-winning C.
Shekhar, a towel weaver, she conceptualised a deep blue cotton sari with
a silk pallu, interfaced with jute, banana or pineapple fibre
interweaves from his export surplus stocks.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Pavithra, who trained at the local WSC while studying law, shares warm
memories from Vimor's times past. Of taking their rich cottons to
Kamaladevi Chattopadhyaya, the late doyenne of the post-independence
Indian crafts renaissance, who lauded their documentation of kasuti
stitches on a red cotton sari sampler. Of Jnanapith awardee U.R.
Ananthamurthy's comment in the 2002 National Handloom Expo visitor's
book, comparing their revival of weaving traditions to a resurgence of
music. Of an Andhra weaver who waited hours for "Chimy amma" to bless
his wedded daughter, despite a delayed train at Katpadi junction.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Together, they share the story of a Tamil weaving family ruined by an
avaricious son. He collected orders that they were unable to execute,
plunging them into insurmountable debt. The skilled father is currently a
daily wage earner at his nephew's loom. "The weaver's pride is of
paramount importance in our polycot age," says Pavithra earnestly.
Weavers like Shekhar, Balasubramaniam, and Rajendran, whose lives they
have touched, could not agree more.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> What makes Vimor's buyers return time and again? "Good aesthetics and
minimal costs appeal to common people and the sophisticate alike," notes
Pavithra, as she folds a divine brinjal-hued Kancheepuram silk with
golden checks, vivid against a deep green border with two streaks of
patterned gold.
</span></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">(Vimor can be contacted on +91-80-25551514). </span></i></span></div>
<div align="justify">
<br /></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-53648454734074664782015-02-09T23:43:00.000-08:002015-02-09T23:43:40.787-08:00Dance: Constanza Macras and Dorky Park 'Back to the Present' ~ A Startling Take on Today <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji35UIy3-nR4TVIxyfd-CetlD9ak_49fkcolrsPAbuL-Io1NW_ruP_bL_EYRhBMgVa3dn7GU3biv9Hs3LLmN7kXuCrobA1pSEYft9btOrFRyZJAugh4w0PQAP1PwAXCIdBcA4-iVEeHtwO/s1600/Macras+back+to+the+present+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji35UIy3-nR4TVIxyfd-CetlD9ak_49fkcolrsPAbuL-Io1NW_ruP_bL_EYRhBMgVa3dn7GU3biv9Hs3LLmN7kXuCrobA1pSEYft9btOrFRyZJAugh4w0PQAP1PwAXCIdBcA4-iVEeHtwO/s1600/Macras+back+to+the+present+1.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>(On February 9, 2015, I watched Constanza Macras' Dorky Park troupe perform 'The Past' at Chowdiah Memorial Hall in Bangalore. It took me back to a piece I had done for The Hindu Friday Review in December 2004, when they first made contemporary dance lovers in the city sit up and take notice with 'Back to the Present' at the same venue. Here's a sharing of my take on them way back then).</i><br />
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CONSTANZA Macras has the power to
electrify and energize. To upend conventional notions of dance theatre. To draw
optimal output from her multi-faceted, cross-cultural artistes. To satirize
society with the precision of a Powerpoint presentation, the joy of peaking
from collective achievement.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
There was no arguing with these
facets of ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back to the Present</i>,’ the
Argentina-born, Berlin-based Macras’ cheeky look at reality shows and lifestyle
bytes, when her troupe ~ 2003-born Dorky
Park ~ took the stage at
Chowdiah Memorial Hall on Dec. 1, 2004, . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The prop-packed, many-tiered stage
setting had us wondering what was in store at this Asian premiere when a
curly-haired dancer of Mexican origin began to execute rather conventional
contemporary dance moves, slowly, sensuously, dramatically. Caught off guard,
within a trice, we were watching a melee of performers vaulting through an
array of doors, tripping each other while performing karaoke numbers in the
oddest positions, balancing, tilting, pirouetting, miming, surviving a series
of abysmal ‘accidents.’ At its very core was contact improvisation,
synchronized to a seeming spontaneity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFQmv76fu8Zd_bYk4YNN24JRlbq9hcHcXsRecMiz3J49iMYa2HbZgBmPSGBcr4vJot0BJgOb_XWkhZ5fHg-Ivlklc-qPTFgOEW4Sy3HVq3WLmw8Yw47qHo-47PmdmJoNUI5NH9-g6ByEu/s1600/macras+back+to+the+present+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFQmv76fu8Zd_bYk4YNN24JRlbq9hcHcXsRecMiz3J49iMYa2HbZgBmPSGBcr4vJot0BJgOb_XWkhZ5fHg-Ivlklc-qPTFgOEW4Sy3HVq3WLmw8Yw47qHo-47PmdmJoNUI5NH9-g6ByEu/s1600/macras+back+to+the+present+3.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
What was the point of the perfectly
orchestrated chaos with a cast originally of Australian, American, Dutch,
Mexican, Peruvian, Indian and German origin? To quote the programme notes,
Macras “takes the audience on a journey into the past ~ memory as looped
feedback, as it were. How do you recycle the stuff that never decomposes, like
love letters, flags, old props and old ideas? As history becomes increasingly
digitalized, what is the difference between storage and memory? And where do
you go when you don’t want to deal with either the past or the future?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
With its individual inputs directed
by a conceptual overview, dizzy with high-voltage performances and brilliant
costumes by Gilvan Coelho de Oliviera attuned to a spoof, this tour-de-force
overturned Indian notions of dance theatre. Those who entered with specific
ideas of Kalakshetra-style dance dramas or more established musicals had to
jettison their baggage within the first 15 minutes of ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back to the Present</i>.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
For here was a performance that
took a shy at globalized notions of entertainment (especially reality TV),
urban ideas of living and loving, idioms of contemporary dance, and even
performance <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">per se.</i> It jolted us out
of comfort zones, handing out new lenses with which to view ourselves at a
manic, irresistible pace. It was an enchanting, challenging experience for
dance connoisseurs and laymen alike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Macras’ show, originally performed
as a site-specific work at a derelict, abandoned, rambling early 20<sup>th</sup>
century, centrally-located department store in former east Berlin, proved
outsize in both vision and execution. It entailed the audience following the
cast from room to room as scene followed tumultuous scene. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Adapted to the proscenium stage,
the 2 ½ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hour non-linear performance
offered unforgettably absurd scenes that gauge the futility of TV realism
engaged in “the flatness of everyday struggles.” Such as the madcap couple
engaged in a gluttony and karaoke contest. Or the serious-faced introduction to
the sex lives of the insect world, against the backdrop of a musical soiree. Or
even the roughhouse, seesaw battle of the sexes amidst the merry-go-round of
life, in which a kiss and a cuddle are no more potent than a sock on the jaw. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back to the Present,’</i> characterized seamlessly by the here and now,
showcased a mind-blowing range of virtuosity, interspersed with onscreen
sequences to allow for scene shifts ~ whether as a slapstick sequence, a
warbling duet in an on-the-move relationship, couch potato combat, a take-off
on classical concerts, or a frenetic chase between improvised exits,
culminating in a madhouse fight with stuffed toys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
With frenetic movement as its only
constant, the show wove together elements of pop philosophy, visual satire,
lyric-based melodrama and over-the-top wit with perfect body dynamics to the
tune of musical hits, including ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Kal Ho Na Ho,’ the latter
rendered by Delhi-based artiste Anusha Lal. Bangalore dancer Abhilash N. stepped into the
shoes of Israel-born Nir De-Volff without missing a cue, while B.S. Arun Kumar
proved as adept at the drums as at staging deadpan interludes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
At the end of the non-stop action,
what did we take home from this premiere, sponsored by Daimler-Chrysler and Max
Mueller Bhavan? An understanding of the strong emotions generated by Macras’
workshop at Attakkalari earlier this year. A hope that ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back to the</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Present’ </i>could
be pruned slightly for easier interface with a stationary audience. And a
fervent wish that Dorky
Park will be back in our
midst soon with another brilliant production.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEn2OVeld4JtWz-S0pMxWQAOm_zNCs1yc_fns7J2q-lAE8-m0cmbx-X8Sb2Bgl6djM4d0skFutPOpwmn-yR2lAvXBTFxDlIy01c0YvSZg0IdvxGnaUzTUGO0gn-rRFBy_E6IZtKs_Cjalx/s1600/macras+back+to+the+present+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEn2OVeld4JtWz-S0pMxWQAOm_zNCs1yc_fns7J2q-lAE8-m0cmbx-X8Sb2Bgl6djM4d0skFutPOpwmn-yR2lAvXBTFxDlIy01c0YvSZg0IdvxGnaUzTUGO0gn-rRFBy_E6IZtKs_Cjalx/s1600/macras+back+to+the+present+4.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-55487473517352017162015-02-07T21:39:00.000-08:002015-02-07T21:39:56.857-08:00Book review: Freedom Run by Subhadra Sen Gupta and Tapas Guha<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwtdz5dpeFTjwhLLokauvlDojRn-ViJbJ8kQ17je8rX4UNyFFQj3WuxtYdskA7evEljXu69j9pA-xCnqRmp9Rvswlp5dJzq3ipgRYqkfFDdbmLRn7pRAt85KQYMcdPE61vDrAtXDHWHYl/s1600/Freedom+run+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwtdz5dpeFTjwhLLokauvlDojRn-ViJbJ8kQ17je8rX4UNyFFQj3WuxtYdskA7evEljXu69j9pA-xCnqRmp9Rvswlp5dJzq3ipgRYqkfFDdbmLRn7pRAt85KQYMcdPE61vDrAtXDHWHYl/s1600/Freedom+run+cover.jpg" height="640" width="505" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">FREEDOM
RUN</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Story
and script: Subhadra Sen Gupta</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Illustrations:
Tapas Guha<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pratham
Books. 2014. Paperback. Full colour. Rs. 35. 14 pages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN:
978- 81- 8479- 545- 5 </span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">India, according to history
textbooks, achieved independence from the British on August 15, 1947. Has
self-rule proved worthwhile? Do we have universal freedom from hunger, from
homelessness, from illiteracy today ~ at least for our children? Not by a long
shot, as any random reality check in 2015 proves. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The 2011 Indian national
census (in lieu of elusive current figures) found that, of a total population
of 259.64 million between 5 to 14 years old, about 4.35 million work as child
labour. In agriculture. In handicrafts. Even as household help. That’s despite pro-child
legislation on the books, but seldom implemented. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Against this backdrop, I
was deeply moved when the Nobel Prize for Peace 2014 went to Indian Kailash
Satyarthi and Pakistani Malala Yousafzai <i>"for their struggle against
the suppression of children and young people and for the right of all children
to education."</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Right on cue, this book appeared from two creative individuals I admire.
They bring to life aspects of invisible India. Of runaway children who sniff
glue over little bonfires at despair-edged railway platforms to quell their
hunger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of child ragpickers who sift
through our consumer waste. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of children
destined to a cycle of poverty by an accident of birth; born to read, but
forced to labour. Indian publishers often consider their stories unmarketable
or unfit for urban child readers. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">In <i>Freedom Run</i>, Subhadra Sen Gupta and Tapas Guha create an
irresistible narrative for Pratham through vivid, colourful comicbook frames.
The central figures are three pre-teen boys who knot carpets for a living for a
brutal, mercenary loom owner in a village in the Mirzapur or Bhadohi districts
of Uttar Pradesh. They earn little or nothing because their fathers are in
debt. Their workshed, like their young lives, lacks light. Suddenly, a window
of opportunity beckons. Will they be able to make the break? </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">As with her popular history and adventure books, <i>Freedom Run</i> is
Subhadra at the top of her writerly game. As an editor, I admire her impeccable
plotlines, her humour, her deeply-researched evocation of place and time. As a
writer, I am in awe of her fluidity across genres, her zest for life on the
page, and her unforgettable characters including those in <i>Let’s Go Time
Travelling, Bishnu the Dhobi Singer</i> and <i>Ashoka: the Great and
Compassionate King</i> among her 25+ books. As a reader, I admire her total
sync with young minds.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">This book is as much Tapas’s masterwork as it is hers (as with their
collaboration on Satyajit Ray’s popular Feluda series). Besides a perfect choice
of typeface, his brilliance surfaces repeatedly, through alternate visual
perspectives, though action that spills over frames. Such as two boys in
anguished conversation through the warp of the loom. Or the fear on a young
face as the furious owner raises his cane to strike. Or the wraparound joy
framing a boy who sights his big brother and a glimpse of freedom. Or the
threatening adult silhouettes against a wall as the three children sneak out at
dawn. Or the drama-packed frames of the chase through Varanasi that tease both
the eye and the mind ~ and charm the reader.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The comic-book style for proficient readers is perfect for this
essential story of our time. Perhaps this book will lead to a generation less
ignorant of child labour or a little-known India. A sign of a more egalitarian
world? Or similar treatment for other burning issues? </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">‘<i>Freedom Run’</i> reaffirms that Subhadra Sen Gupta was the right
choice for the Sahitya Akademi’s Bal Sahitya Puraskar 2014. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Story/ Content: ****</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Illustration: *****</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Language: ****</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Design: *****</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">.....</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Originally published on GoodBooks at:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">http://goodbooks.in/node/6953</span></u></div>
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ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-62854869832035368292014-12-20T09:16:00.000-08:002014-12-20T09:16:14.629-08:00Book review: The Case of the Candy Bandit by Archit Taneja<div class="review-content">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">THE CASE OF THE CANDY BANDIT. </span></b></div>
<b>
</b><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Text and illustrations</span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">: Archit Taneja.</span></b></div>
<b>
</b><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cover illustration and design:</span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Kaveri
Gopalakrishnan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
<b>
</b><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Duckbill. 2014. Paperback. Rs. 150. 130 pages. </span></b></div>
<b>
</b><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ISBN: 978-93-83331-15-4 </span></b></div>
<b>
</b><br /><br />
<br />
I have been addicted to child detectives
and spies since I was about seven. When I am bored today, my daydreams
are often packed with Holly Short and Harriet the Spy, the Famous Five
and Nancy Drew and, more recently, Andreas Steinhofel’s <em>The Spaghetti Detectives</em>. I am seriously tracking down <em>The Great Cake Mystery</em>, Precious Ramotswe’s first case as a schoolchild. Maybe with a detour via Anushka Ravishankar’s <em>Captain Coconut</em> <i>and the</i> <em>Case of the Missing Bananas</em>.<br />
<br />
I am puzzled by the dearth of captivating child detectives amidst the
tidal wave of Indian children's fiction across the last twenty years.
That is why my pulse quickened when I read about Archit Taneja’s
Superlative Supersleuths. Who are they? The talkative, logic-wired
narrator Rachita and her on-and-off sidekick Aarti, both aged about
eleven or twelve. While Aarti is in week-long candy exile, following a
root canal procedure, cupcakes, laddoos and candy go missing from
classroom lunchbox treats. A promising start to an action-packed
narrative, I think to myself.<br />
<br />
The assorted dramatis personae have everyday charm. This is as true
of Rachita’s parents, totally in sync with their resident private eye,
as of a dental evangelist who urges the children to quit their sugar fix.
The motley classroom cast includes Arjun, who loves food beyond reason,
and Mrs. Dutta, who teaches maths through thermocol-rich charts. The
four-footed stars – a dog and a pet rat.<br />
<br />
Duckbill has packaged Taneja’s debut novel perfectly. Its aqua-blue
cover with funky lettering has some key elements sprinkled on it. The
illustrations within are a smart match. Sleuth notebook jottings.
Diagrammatic desk settings. Suspect footprints. Mrs. Dutta’s maths
chart. Cool chapter titles. And the irresistible fingerprint page
numbers.<br />
<br />
Taneja’s writerly mind has a logical, playful quirkiness. I imagine
him being a hit at sleuthing workshops or investigative quizzes that
lead children up the garden path to a giggle-and-guffaw finale. But this
plot lets Taneja down. It has too little pace or tension, too many
meanderings, too meagre a scattering of clues. It trips over extended
detailing – Rachita’s plethora of sheep dreams, a favorite sandwich
recipe, or mundane thanks for a proffered guava.<br />
<br />
On an extended revisit after my first reading, I scout for reasons
why. Could it be because the detective duo are not on the same page?
Rachita is immersed in real-time facts, letting her mind roam
irrationally only in her dreams. Of Aarti, she writes: “Aarti hates
detective books. She doesn’t even share the table with me because she
detests them so much. I convinced her once, to read one of them. After
reading a few chapters, she threw it back at me in disgust… She’s into
fantasy books.” Rachita’s voice – whether she is writing or dreaming,
speaking or thinking – could have been delineated with more sparkle and
conviction. The mix does not benefit from the excess of colloquial
“aghhhs” and “ugghs” either. Even the clues lack surprise after the
initial chapters. As a reader, I was upset that I could spot the culprit
early on.<br />
<br />
It is not easy to get the Indian child's voice absolutely right in
print and I admire writers who have perfected it – Anushka Ravishankar,
Sigrun Srivastav, Asha Nehemiah, Poile Sengupta, Subhadra Sen Gupta and
Uma Krishnaswami, among them.<br />
<br />
I now face a maze of pesky questions. Could the Superlative
Supersleuths have been honed to a smoother finish with guidance from the
editor/s? Perhaps a few drafts more? A sleuthing duo less reliant on
adult help? More action, less sluggish thoughts? But I live in hope.
Perhaps there’s a Superlative Supersleuths sequel in the pipeline. I’m
sure that will live up to Taneja’s latent potential, with a guiding hand
from Duckbill.<br />
<br />
To me, Duckbill remains one of my favorite Indian imprints for
children. This book could have been a winner, but misses by more than a
whisker. I wish…<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(Originally published in GoodBooks online at: <u>http://goodbooks.in/node/6874</u>) <br />
</div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-8116143762938337332014-11-30T22:33:00.000-08:002014-11-30T22:33:07.002-08:00Art: An open space for ideas<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Art can be an exciting idea, not something one physically owns. This is the spirit that drives the newly-opened Gallery SKE in Bangalore.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">(This article was originally published in October 2003)</span></i></span></div>
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A shrinking community: Mahendra Sinh portrays the Parsi.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">IF YOU'RE art-alienated, it's time to take a look at the new Gallery
SKE, launched on October 18, an open space for ideas that could redefine
Bangalore gallery trends. </span></span></div>
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The brainchild of Sunitha Kumar Emmart, who earlier managed Sakshi
Gallery, the space takes its name from her initials. Its contemporary,
globally-styled area, bamboo greened beyond sheet glass, boasts of
supporting wall text. The gallery opened with Mumbai-based Mahendra
Sinh's black-and-white Parsi photographs that grow beyond documentation
to lyrical insights.
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I learnt so much from the energy and experience of Sakshi's Geetha
Mehra," says Sunitha, who'll be shuttling between Bangalore and the U.S.
because that's where her American husband, Niall Emmart, runs a
software company. "But while visiting private galleries in New York and
London, I admired their strong, exclusive commitment to select artists."
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, Sunitha opted to focus on three artists whose work she had a gut
feeling for — photographer Sinh, and Bangalore artists Krishnaraj
Chonat, and Avinash Veeraraghavan. "When I moved to New York, I knew I
wanted to be involved in Indian art, but I didn't know in what way. I
needed a back-up space here," adds Sunitha.
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gallery SKE opens at a time when art as commerce governs media matters,
when installation and innovation are replacing oil on canvas and
standard sculpture, when art is defined by ideas, not conventions. "I
admire Mahen for being such a stickler for detail, from the Ilford paper
he prints on to the pasta he makes at home," Sunitha recalls. "He's
taught me so much about photography."
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">What shaped her stance? "The commodification of art bothers me. With the
lack of public spaces and museums here, I feel it's important for
artists to have a dialogue with other people," Sunitha says. "Ten years
down the line, I have a vision that younger people might want to support
art, perhaps by lending transport to an international artists' camp
like Khoj."
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<img align="middle" border="1" height="238" src="http://www.thehindu.com/thehindu/mp/2003/10/27/images/2003102702130302.jpg" width="351" />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">In a society that bypasses visual culture in daily life, how would
Gallery SKE bring this about? By creating cross-strata children's
workshops that unfold the secrets of colour or famous art. By staying
open on Sundays, so that senior citizens can join their families en
route to dinner or other destinations. By inviting the corporate sector
to send its young employees to expand their art horizons. By enthusing
schools to share a show, despite exam-centric pressures. By throwing
open the gallery's collection of books/catalogues to art students. By
organising artist juries to help young talent present work impeccably.
Perhaps, even by training teenagers to curate their own virtual art
shows, an idea Sunitha encountered at the PS One site, affiliated to New
York's famed Museum of Modern Art (MOMA).
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">As a first step, Sunitha is planning 16-week annual educational modules,
perhaps Sinh introducing the work of various photographers. "Art could
be an exciting idea, not something you own in a physical sense," she
stresses. "I joined the Young Collector's Council at New York's
Guggenheim Museum. You're invited to their openings, after which the
artist lectures on his/ her body of work. They even recommend books to
follow up on a show."
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sunitha sketches in her approach to catalogues. Sinh's show engages us
through poet-critic Ranjit Hoskote's essay, dramaturge Rustam Bharucha's
response, and the photographer's own perceptions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">
In the future, she hopes to coax Canada-based novelist Rohinton Mistry
to write the text for an expanded book of Sinh's Parsi visuals.
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I don't see myself as a curator, but I can identify people's potential.
My skill lies in bringing talent together. I'm just the facilitator,"
concludes Sunitha, dreaming aloud for Gallery SKE. "People should be
free to fix a time to come and discuss their ideas, whether they are
finally formalized or not." </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">(<i>This article was originally published in The Hindu Metroplus, Bangalore, on October 27, 2003)</i> </span></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-67641207263377955282014-10-10T01:03:00.000-07:002014-10-10T01:09:58.246-07:00Ranga Shankara: A decade of precious moments <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKSBV45jnNLODzxKcC-1KtBLyoBct-7P3ebsKfqu5tz2O8nWOMZSDR60ec4KTNO1x1SSDbVwNUqhcahomzwade_14SvEQLfrqInKyEYV-gtjYlCA-04KQEAmLc0HwXSLq9HYDs1FWKVzz/s1600/Boy+with+a+suitcase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKSBV45jnNLODzxKcC-1KtBLyoBct-7P3ebsKfqu5tz2O8nWOMZSDR60ec4KTNO1x1SSDbVwNUqhcahomzwade_14SvEQLfrqInKyEYV-gtjYlCA-04KQEAmLc0HwXSLq9HYDs1FWKVzz/s1600/Boy+with+a+suitcase.jpg" height="320" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Boy with a Suitcase</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I LOVE THEATRE. As much as I love writing, reading, travelling<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>~ or even breathing, I guess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At school in Jaipur, I loved being on stage. Transforming
into an 8-year-old boy in shorts at 15, playing Red Indians and cowboys, Minnie
Mouse voice, silken ponytail, and all. Or being an ancient crone in a ghost
story, with my hair powdered and streaked, my brow artfully etched with eye
pencil. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But what I loved just as much was watching scenes come
alive once the curtains went up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially when Geoffrey and Laura Kendall’s
Shakespearana troupe visited us at Maharani Gayatri Devi Girls’ Public School
annually. Their dramatic opening line still lingers in my memory, words I took
with me to Stratford-on-Avon and the recreated Globe theatre in London, ‘When
Shakespeare played, the stage was bare, the throne of England was a chair in
Shakespeare’s time…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I felt so at ease while reviewing English theatre in
Madras (not yet Chennai) during my first decade at Indian Express, especially
brilliant productions at the Museum Theatre by directors and players like Vimal
Bhagat, Ammu Matthew, Mithran Devanesan, and Nirupama Nityanandan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I relocated to Bangalore in May 1992, I went
into mourning. As a viewer, I felt theatre during the Deccan Herald festival
fell flat at Chowdiah Memorial Hall, so large, so impersonal, with acoustics
more suited to music than theatre. Even Ravindra Kalakshetra, where I watched my
first magical Ratan Thiyam play, seemed cold when compared to the Museum
Theatre. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As if in answer to my prayers, Ranga Shankara was
inaugurated in J.P. Nagar in October 2004. I have been in celebration mode ever
since. The intimate space is perfect and heart-warming. So is the endearing
warmth of its founder Arundhati Nag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now that Ranga Shankara turns ten in October 2014, I
look back with wonder ~ and tenderness and incandescent joy. As a theatre buff,
I would like to offer a personal tribute by sharing ten random, unforgettable moments
through which I celebrate the first decade of Ranga Shankara. Here goes:</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxPw_WDkPG7ma-hBrgjsh5cCvrFrHl88vrcxAqDk10tDuwcmSd4OlGDZUOftMaiQ4I1nrNm8QvUT8J_aa7jr5tIkfjPLBUv41nqSdqwt_ncDr-b_o0_XwcBiup65VLOX5LST4VKyrNBMk/s1600/Arundhati+Nag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxPw_WDkPG7ma-hBrgjsh5cCvrFrHl88vrcxAqDk10tDuwcmSd4OlGDZUOftMaiQ4I1nrNm8QvUT8J_aa7jr5tIkfjPLBUv41nqSdqwt_ncDr-b_o0_XwcBiup65VLOX5LST4VKyrNBMk/s1600/Arundhati+Nag.jpg" height="290" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Arundhati Nag</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ ~ Listening to Arundhati Nag share the
theatre’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">raison d’etre</i> in 2004,
during an interview I did for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hindu
Sunday Magazine</i>: “This theatre will strive to bring Karnataka to the centre
stage of world theatre, as well as to bring world-class theatre to the common
man in Karnataka.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dream achieved, quite irrefutably.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">~ ~<span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The dazzling 35-day global inaugural festival
from October- December 2004. It included Mysore-based Rangayana’s
Kudiyattam-influenced <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maya Sita Prasanga</i>.
And Habib Tanvir and his Naya Theatre’s spectacular <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Charan Das Chor</i> in Chattisgarhi. And Imphal-based Chorus Repertory
Theatre’s stunning presentation of Ratam Thiyam’s visually poetic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ritusamharam.</i> I was enthused enough to
attend 27 of the shows! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"> ~ <span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">November 2004. Lahore-based Ajoka
Theatre’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ek Thi Nani</i>, in which
theatre veterans Zohra Sehgal and Uzra Butt played out a plotline parallel to
their own lives as sisters. Sehgal, then 92, had a fever when she stepped off
her flight. But her never-say-die spirit saw her through to a standing ovation,
bypassing coughs, pills and improvisations. I salute them both, onstage and off
it. </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6r954ObHjIr88wWW6HyPFhIfipjAHvYHzRLcAhUzbimh8S6penGOq0mPL-MHBA65M8wptT5lDytjhcZ0DWx61HXQbp10wKZpMVA0WbHFeiFtI4Zg-wzOd7Y7SjqmHNyCRATDE1NXWqrQ/s1600/Measure+for+measure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6r954ObHjIr88wWW6HyPFhIfipjAHvYHzRLcAhUzbimh8S6penGOq0mPL-MHBA65M8wptT5lDytjhcZ0DWx61HXQbp10wKZpMVA0WbHFeiFtI4Zg-wzOd7Y7SjqmHNyCRATDE1NXWqrQ/s1600/Measure+for+measure.jpg" height="270" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Measure for Measure</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ November 2005. Director Simon McBurney
and his Euro-British Complicite theatre set the stage on fire with his interpretation
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Measure for Measure</i> as a take on
the Bard for our time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Electrifying both
as drama and social commentary. I even interviewed McBurney between two
back-to-back performances, the chai he requested brought to us by young
playwright Swar Thounaojam. More recently, Swar’s plays have come to life at
Ranga Shankara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ June 2006. Germany-based Gracias Devaraj
and Uwe Topmann in Nino D’Introna and Giocomo Raviccio’s ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Robinson and Crusoe</i>,’ a rollicking tale of two warring soldiers
marooned together. Enacted in English and (yes!) gibberish, it had an audience
of mainly schoolchildren rocking with laughter in their seats. As adults,
hugging our knees on the steps and in the aisles, we joined in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ April 2008. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Under the Mangosteen Tree</i>, directed by Rajiv Krishnan of Perch from
Chennai. That was in its initial avatar as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sangathi
Arinhya,</i> a celebration of Malayalam writer Vaikom Mohammed Basheer’s life,
personality and brilliant stories through a tight-knit, evocative production.
In tandem with black-and-white images of Basheer’s life by Punaloor Rajan and a
Moplah food festival at Anju’s in-house café. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ June 2011. The stellar Indo-German
premiere of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boy with a Suitcase</i>,
which I found rivetting enough to revisit thrice with different friends in tow.
A Ranga Shankara collaboration with Mannheim’s Schnawwl Theatre, it captured
dilemmas about culture, continents and identity brilliantly, especially through
outstanding performances by M.D. Pallavi and Shrunga B.V. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ March 2012: Director Sunil Shanbag’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stories in a Song</i>, his tribute to music
as theatre (in collaboration with Shubha Mudgal and Aneesh Pradhan). Spanning
seven theatrical anecdotes <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(some
apocryphal?), it encompassed notes from Sufi geet to Kajri, brilliantly held
together by seasoned performers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ October 2012: An outstanding global
Shakespeare festival. Still luminous in memory thanks to plays like Atul
Kumar’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piya Bahurupiya</i> (Twelfth
Night) in nautanki style, the Tblisi-based Marjanishvili Theatre’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rogort’s Genebot</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(As You Like It) in Georgian (a play within a
play, with backstage onstage and exquisite costumes), and even a Kiswahili
rendition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Merry Wives of Windsor</i>,
notable for its impeccable comic timing.</span><br />
<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfxZm1Bwuhf4akvP8R8MI2ifS_6FjIJZ3QsQETxmUeINZkt9pjbvAeeeOE6VBMJuM-xVIG_NkIPPje9R_3MW8Oqa2ajnA4sYosCN7nit_BmxkXhUljMGmfpCZo3y4XXS5IykwXOm5p2oK/s1600/The+Kitchen+theatre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfxZm1Bwuhf4akvP8R8MI2ifS_6FjIJZ3QsQETxmUeINZkt9pjbvAeeeOE6VBMJuM-xVIG_NkIPPje9R_3MW8Oqa2ajnA4sYosCN7nit_BmxkXhUljMGmfpCZo3y4XXS5IykwXOm5p2oK/s1600/The+Kitchen+theatre.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The Kitchen</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~ August 2013. Roysten Abel’s totally
experiential theatre in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Kitchen</i>,
inspired by Rumi’s kitchen at Konya in Turkey. Its highlights included a 22.5
ft. high set, 12 mizhavu drummers from Kerala live, and two actors cooking
payasam from scratch onstage for the audience to taste when the last notes died
down. Calling sight, sound, taste, smell and touch into play, we experienced
theatre as a microcosm of life. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Thank you, Ranga Shankara for
bringing the best of local and global theatre to me. For energizing me to dash
from Cooke Town to J.P. Nagar every time you bring a good play to Bangalore.
For tempting me with sabudana vada and akki rotti at Anju’s Café, so I am never
late for a show. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I had not imagined such a dream run
when I first watched the staircase, the toilets, the café, the box-office and more
fall into place over slow months in 2003- 2004.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> What can I wish you now, dear Arundhati
and Team Ranga Shankara? Cheers to the next brilliant decade! And perhaps the
next hundred years?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Bangalore loves you. So do I. </span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-54795660743171148892013-07-21T02:25:00.003-07:002013-07-21T02:25:46.132-07:00Book review: Bengali Belly Laughs - Sandeepa Mukherjee Datta's 'Bong Mom's Cookbook'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5MNNbtTdLNOphYQR5dgJSOZD7T1drwqVzxfWvDnKvPexJIYd51mQyx7z_zp1bKM_IlErebIF95wOn4TiqsmJBQXR8Dz06FnHcMukjaF7LmtyoWRY0nC2hTLCQSPEP65JIySNee1AxZ1T/s1600/Bong+Mom%27s+Cookbook.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5MNNbtTdLNOphYQR5dgJSOZD7T1drwqVzxfWvDnKvPexJIYd51mQyx7z_zp1bKM_IlErebIF95wOn4TiqsmJBQXR8Dz06FnHcMukjaF7LmtyoWRY0nC2hTLCQSPEP65JIySNee1AxZ1T/s1600/Bong+Mom's+Cookbook.png" /></a></div>
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Total disclosure, thrice over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a cookbook addict. They spell perfect
bedtime reading to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not cook Bengali food at home. Whenever I
want some desperately, I drop in on friends who have Bengali mothers. Yes, Bong
moms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Believe it or not, I have never
read a cookbook that made me laugh out loud at midnight or into the wee hours.
Till now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For starters, sample this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Question: What do Bongs eat?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Answer: Anything and everything, as
long as it is followed by Gelusil, Pudin Hara, Jowaner Aarak or Nux Vom 30.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sandeepa Mukherjee Datta’s got
the recipe just right. She’s a New Jersey-based engineer who set up her own
blog, Bong Mom’s Cookbook, in October 2006. It gets 120,000 hits a month. In a
new avatar, it is this delicious, authentic, LOL book for Bongs – and the
larger world beyond. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her heady mix? One part US-based
nostalgia for Bangali <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>cookery or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ranna.</i> Two parts real-time motherly zest
for Sukumar Ray and rooted-in-India culture. Garnished liberally with humorous
anecdotes, starring an extended cast of family and friends, her husband (a.k.a.
H-man), and her two twinkle-tongued little daughters. Her light touch ensures
that the fare dished up works like magic. Via kitchen and blog, she busts the
myth that Bengalis survive on a diet of fish and rosogollas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sandeepa deftly adapts traditional
fare to everyday American reality. For instance, tossing mushrooms into a
poppyseed-paste <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aloo posto</i>. Just as
smoothly, she whips up an image beyond Spiderman on weekend TV during her
childhood: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ma spent those mornings
entirely in the kitchen, her cotton sari damp and turmeric-stained, smelling
strongly of Sunday, of mutton curry.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
makes you want to cook Mangsho’r Jhol at once. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A tech-savvy woman, Sandeepa<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sketches in Excel sheet estimates of mutton/
per head in grams as she toils over a dinner menu for 60 to mark her little
daughter’s birthday. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She evokes her cross-legged
Baba packing her flight-to-the-west suitcase with a pressure cooker, mustard
oil and Bela De’s cookbooks in Bangla. She recalls her widowed Choto Dida feeding
her leftover <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ruti <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(</i>chappati) with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bati chorchori</i> of potatoes that weaves through millions of Bengali
childhoods. Her diary-like stories make time and place collapse in a trice, creating
a notion of Bengaliness sans borders. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favourite anecdote recreates the melodious
tinkling of red and green glass bangles on the wrists of Manu’r Ma, the
household help, as sun-dipped colours dance on the floor. With the acuity of a
word artist, she brings alive the grinding of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">posto </i>on the pockmarked black stone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sheel-nora .</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As deftly, she conjures
up memories potent enough for Sandeepa to recreate vegetarian Fridays, a la her
Ma, in the US. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her recipes worked brilliantly,
whenever I reluctantly took a break from her stories. I tried the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Posto’r Bora</i> (poppyseed fritters) and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dhone Pata Chicken</i> that H-man wooed her
with in Bangalore. Her pages occasionally reach beyond boundaries to include
sharing Machha Besara (an Odia fish curry). For, to Sandeepa, food “is life
wrapped in a soft egg roll with slices of crunchy onion and bites of feisty
green chilli. It has something to tell. Always.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
To me, her family-centricity ripples
through this laugh-riddled cookbook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is about how Sandeepa mastered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dhokar
Dalna</i> step-by-step from her Ma <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in Kolkata
over Skype, while the latter concentrated on her maid’s mastery of dust under
the table. Or her Ma’s theories of why pizza-scoffing children are less intelligent
than those on a diet of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">macher jhol- bhat</i>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sandeepa’s attention to detail
seasons her pages. As do her jottings on a perfect onion paste for curry or the
Bengali addiction to mustard. Tongue-in-cheek, she addresses questions like: Are
Bengali Brahmins vegetarian? What do Bongs eat for breakfast? How come folks originally
from East Bengal can eat hilsa on Saraswati Puja, while those from West Bengal
cannot? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She brushes aside carping about her
non-authentic cabbage sabji or the demerits of making <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhapa-doi</i> in the oven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Denied
the green chilli chicken at ‘Oh Calcutta!’ en route from Kolkata airport to her
parent’s home, she recreates her own version.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Cook, eat, blog. That was the game
plan when Sandeepa set out on this journey. Her authentic, slice-of-life
sharings of Bengali life in a wired world win over both the reader and the
cook. Take a bow, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bong Mom’s Cookbook</i>,
no matter the avatar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i>(Originally published in The Hindu Business Line on June 28, 2013) </i></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com2Bangalore, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764182 76.949115699999979 13.4667792 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-62242324558987019192013-03-09T20:24:00.000-08:002013-03-09T20:24:03.122-08:00Art: Kochi-Muziris Biennale -- The spice of global art<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Kochi: The Arabian Sea beyond the biennale locations</b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
was imprisoned for eleven years. In my cell, I saw the moonlight but not the
moon…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We aspire towards a freedom that
will lead us towards creating an art without fetters. This unfettered art will
be our moonlight.”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~
Zarganar, artist from Myanmar, 2012</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It is early March. We
are in Kerala as art aficionados. Pouring sweat, we walk through Jew Town to a
background score of waves lashing the rocks. After three days across 3,00,000
sq. ft. of mainly site-specific art by 80-plus artists from 24 countries at the
ongoing Kochi-Muziris Biennale (KMB), due to conclude on March 13, we need time
out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4qJ0cWM07H8xmqWwWW255YbsEHq1l098ichu1mcpwi3e701e1AytoO63L4Jdh8n2ld3JfG4Q66wXZG0J-Jx8Crs4BsbkFtU7WNMAuwtkZcsK1-qQdZAsGk4n_cMqYyX-a3H-io9DlsPa/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4qJ0cWM07H8xmqWwWW255YbsEHq1l098ichu1mcpwi3e701e1AytoO63L4Jdh8n2ld3JfG4Q66wXZG0J-Jx8Crs4BsbkFtU7WNMAuwtkZcsK1-qQdZAsGk4n_cMqYyX-a3H-io9DlsPa/s400/Kochi+Biennale+096.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mandalay House: Type 'Justice' </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our encounters with art
deconstructed, then reconstructed in terms of ideation and execution, have been
soul-deep, even searing, at the first Indian biennale’s 14 locations across
Kochi, Mattancherry, Ernakulam, and the legendary port of Muziris. At
saturation point, mere sculptures and paintings seem almost passé. Instinctively,
we freeze – and almost turn away – when we chance upon KMB’s logo metres away from
the 16<sup>th</sup> century Paradesi Synagogue. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But we emerge from Mandalay
Hall in Jew Town electrified by a video loop of Zarganar, Myanmar’s most famous
comedian, sharing his life behind bars. Close by, a taped note invites us to
type ‘Justice’ on a rickety Corona typewriter. The result on paper reads: ‘O-u-t-r-a-g-e.’
We feel inextricably altered, connected to a global network of art, as protest,
as politics. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The biennale impacted
individuals as deeply as the host city of Kochi, with its cosmopolitan, multicultural
history as focus. From December 12, 2012, the mega-show redefined disused colonial
warehouses and bungalows, never open to the public before, as sites of artistic
exploration. Alongside, it celebrated current excavations at Muziris, the
ancient port buried by a 14<sup>th</sup> century flood. Today, Kochi – declared
a Biennale City by its mayor – is no longer a dot on the Spice Route, or the
Indian gateway to Islam, Christianity, or Judaism. Galvanized by the KMB’s
three lakh footfalls by February 28, the Kerala government has pledged to build
100 galleries in 100 panchayats. Is an art revolution underway?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIInBNBRranrJ8lo1eTv8DT8v45hN09FOc84WRsZqzCunonqTOQxlmsEyBxQfGHzGw2T-Aa5us6X_s4pMzVO4uEcrWvC4yQ3nnY_JfioTrpZQ02IZV4LSVppanv1QtiIOi_ONtXHy1buY/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+Bose+paints+Tata+Nano+for+auction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIInBNBRranrJ8lo1eTv8DT8v45hN09FOc84WRsZqzCunonqTOQxlmsEyBxQfGHzGw2T-Aa5us6X_s4pMzVO4uEcrWvC4yQ3nnY_JfioTrpZQ02IZV4LSVppanv1QtiIOi_ONtXHy1buY/s400/Kochi+Biennale+Bose+paints+Tata+Nano+for+auction.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Bose paints a Tata Nano to raise funds </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Post 20-plus curatorial trips
abroad and 124 studio visits, KMB’s artistic director/ co-curator Bose
Krishnamachari points out, “Biennales democratize art, taking it from the
confines of galleries, and mix it with people and places, removing the elitist
tag… Recent studies have proved their soft power and economic contributions to
the host city.” </div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The biennale venues throng with
designers from Montreal and Chennai, artists from Vadodara and Bengaluru,
curators from Mumbai and Kolkata, in addition to anthropologists from New Delhi.
In Kochi, even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">idiappam</i> vendors and
fisherfolk refer to the KMB today. A middle-class family with adult children
recently took a train to the biennale from south Kerala on the recommendation
of their barber. Hotel bookings have soared by 80 per cent. Like us, most
entered the biennale as sceptics, but left as converts.</div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Artist Riyas Komu, co-curator of
the biennale, notes, “Anything that happens in Kerala gets discussed, equally
by a professor or a barber. So, Kochi is the perfect venue for an Indian
biennale.”</div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBCuKv8yQ2_28GU7AppBgVSYhqyUrJPPc59h_KRQJBNa_bXINlSXdvzPRI5DVLIZewIc2_LA5c-5_pecz6zEalkiqeTWJP4M65cpwi9_bDRvu-G547gT1TgxlOcL5dQPXSxgudlJTpbde/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+Subodh+Gupta+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBCuKv8yQ2_28GU7AppBgVSYhqyUrJPPc59h_KRQJBNa_bXINlSXdvzPRI5DVLIZewIc2_LA5c-5_pecz6zEalkiqeTWJP4M65cpwi9_bDRvu-G547gT1TgxlOcL5dQPXSxgudlJTpbde/s400/Kochi+Biennale+Subodh+Gupta+.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Subodh Gupta installation, Aspinwall </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
However, this artist-led
initiative met major obstacles en route, raising troubling questions:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why does India have an art market
infrastructure, but inadequate museums? Why was the government-sponsored Triennale-India,
founded in 1968, last held in 2005?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Kerala Government’s initial
Rs. 5 crore allocation was mired in media mayhem. Local trade unions had to be
mollified to unload artwork. Miffed local artists vandalized art, including
installations by South African artist Clifford Charles. </div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But the Kochi Biennale Foundation
trustees deftly transformed protest into pride. Through theatre sketches in
rural Kerala. Through outreach programmes at schools. Through a campaign with
shopkeepers, auto-rickshaw drivers, even pedestrians, each holding a poster in
Malayalam: “It’s my Biennale.” Pushed to the wall, the foundation raised the
requisite Rs. 13.5 crore through corporate donors, embassies, and the art
community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
community includes feted Indian artist Subodh Gupta. His </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">boatload
of found objects at the 160,000 sq. ft. trading compound of Aspinwall House, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">reflects </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">socio-economic
transformations that mesh into Kochi’s stories. “For the artist, his boat is
the universe that floats leisurely upon the waters of destruction to reach the
land of regeneration,” writes Gupta on the wall. </span></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Buoyantly afloat, the biennale leaves
behind upgraded pan-Indian art-handling and shipping facilities, all shipshape
for 2014. And a network of supportive mentor-curators including Sarat Maharaj
(South Africa), Thierry Raspail (France), Adriano Pedrosa (Brazil) and Hans
Ulrich Obrist (Serpentine Gallery, UK). Chris Dercon, director of the Tate
Modern gallery, London, frames the KMB against the globe’s 150-plus similar
expositions: “This is probably a biennale which is able to redefine and
revaluate the life of biennials in general.” </div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCmQMo246YmthBzoTDgdZL5_y48h_vuQfBN6XV-hJv8UV_bsVx1FwdjfSin1Gv1jhRshJ0l_OO6at9bkAxGB_7m_adhR2gz8NQUnwkHtR1nXGXTauP2PQNdTp3o0ygw6AEnREquwGFRfQ0/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+Atul+Dodiya+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCmQMo246YmthBzoTDgdZL5_y48h_vuQfBN6XV-hJv8UV_bsVx1FwdjfSin1Gv1jhRshJ0l_OO6at9bkAxGB_7m_adhR2gz8NQUnwkHtR1nXGXTauP2PQNdTp3o0ygw6AEnREquwGFRfQ0/s400/Kochi+Biennale+Atul+Dodiya+.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Atul Dodiya photo installation, Aspinwall</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Was the compliment justified? We
felt it was. For Bose and Riyas aligned art and locations impeccably, ensuring
about 50 percent pan-Indian representation. For instance, Atul Dodiya’s
photo-installation, ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Celebration in the
Laboratory</i>,’ is spread out amidst peeling plaster, chipped tiles and random
railways signs. His subjective portrait gallery embraces the who’s who of
contemporary Indian art, including M F Husain, K G Subramanyan, and Nilima
Sheikh, shoulder-to-shoulder with critics, curators and gallerists. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Outdoors at Aspinwall, swaying
palms smile as giggling, pigtailed schoolgirls in blue tunics clamber up gunny-bags
to peer into Srinivasa Prasad’s outsize, suspended<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘cocoon’ of thorny bamboo, binding wire and
steel cable. As they whisper in wonder, demystified art becomes a desirable
experience. For, to Prasad, Kochi was “the perfect template to create beautiful
artwork.”</div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1np22_M2CONEEF-VP61IbOuMaBpALxWbW8Tiv3E1x0ivcHgV-fAZc7O-3WQTySYqG4u1CXWtCob3bLOpJGxkW5idRYAoMekbXH_EyTPbhZCqo9_hNJZ638HbAFJ8XQ0Kd727ZMFUaXlt/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1np22_M2CONEEF-VP61IbOuMaBpALxWbW8Tiv3E1x0ivcHgV-fAZc7O-3WQTySYqG4u1CXWtCob3bLOpJGxkW5idRYAoMekbXH_EyTPbhZCqo9_hNJZ638HbAFJ8XQ0Kd727ZMFUaXlt/s400/Kochi+Biennale+050.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Carlos Garaicoa's tapestries, Durbar Hall</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A ferry ride away, we gawk at Cuban
artist Carlos Garaicoa’s tapestries at the renovated century-old Durban Hall,
his videos melding the weaves with revolutionary squares in his faraway land. Within
the black drapes at Rose Street Bungalow, we watch Chinese artist Ai Weiwei’s
documentaries of dissent.</div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Seated on the wooden floor at Moidu’s
Heritage Plaza, a former coir godown, we tune in to Australian artist Angelica
Mesiti’s ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Citizen’s Band,</i>’ a
four-channel video installation of extraordinary adaptations of traditional
music to new environments. Such as Cameroon-born Lois Geraldine Zongo’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">akutuk</i> or water percussion in a Paris
swimming pool. Or Mongolian Bukhu Ganburged playing his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">morin khur</i> or horsehead fiddle while throat-singing in downtown
Sydney. Over 21 minutes, geographies collapse. Transiting cultures sans visas, we
are in tears. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKz7C_NgnabyCk_t9KLadeLUJdtXBPOg2jiKvVhhZoFhMCRrZBpYQFmnnUQhzYumdOX9o5d2BM4iOh_Wkvucgd2q8f5G4WsBrd4Hjt14vyI5jZNORDFB9pZsk5gV2r42rpBJBM3XP1zJB/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+Mesiti+with+video+installation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKz7C_NgnabyCk_t9KLadeLUJdtXBPOg2jiKvVhhZoFhMCRrZBpYQFmnnUQhzYumdOX9o5d2BM4iOh_Wkvucgd2q8f5G4WsBrd4Hjt14vyI5jZNORDFB9pZsk5gV2r42rpBJBM3XP1zJB/s400/Kochi+Biennale+Mesiti+with+video+installation.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mesiti with the water drummer on video, Moidu's </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
KMB’s spice-inspired olfactory
work reaches its acme with Brazilian Ernesto Neto’s udder-like cotton
installation at Moidu’s, overlooking the Arabian Sea. We can smell, touch and
almost see aromatic turmeric, cumin and cloves through the yoking of the global
and the local as he perfects the genius of simplicity. </div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRxxaiLMp0VJsNGGHxKlIhwQaBuTH98dwXujJAwYEN0jTZXiFkz_8WDcGz3xEzTy9SUaVDi7bjGZcyB_Ix5eETP8L-BfhkFGhxZl0rbi48pHfRHd3b6xrzE3F7cczpNat5ymeYwaqafsB/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+Ernesto+Neto+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRxxaiLMp0VJsNGGHxKlIhwQaBuTH98dwXujJAwYEN0jTZXiFkz_8WDcGz3xEzTy9SUaVDi7bjGZcyB_Ix5eETP8L-BfhkFGhxZl0rbi48pHfRHd3b6xrzE3F7cczpNat5ymeYwaqafsB/s320/Kochi+Biennale+Ernesto+Neto+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ernesto Neto's spice installation, Moidu's</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="first-para" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At Dutch-style Pepper House,
Nairobi-born, Amsterdam-based Ibrahim Quraishi salutes the 1960s Fluxus
anti-commerce movement with his installation of white ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Islamic Violins</i>.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crafted in
Pakistan, perfected in the Netherlands, they are accompanied by video in Kochi.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How does one gauge the
impact of this Kochi Biennale? Perhaps by this story doing the rounds in
Kerala. Of two children overheard at dusk at Edapally. One says to the other,
‘Let’s play now. I am Bose. You are Riyas Komu…” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As for Bose and Riyas,
they are already immersed in a grand dream of a Rs. 72 crore edition in 2014.
At Aspinwall, Bose frenetically paints a donated Tato Nano in his unmistakable
style, to be auctioned at a fund-raiser. Coming up? Perhaps a commissioned
borderless curator in tune with the cultural sensitivity of Kochi, which still
hosts 13 communities. Perhaps 15 public sculptures on the road from the airport
to Fort Kochi. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Post-biennale, the
world views Kochi both as a historical mother-lode and a site of infinite
possibilities. If, like Zarganar’s moonlit art, this mega-show does not define
India as a global contemporary art port of call, nothing ever will. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhnoZZ2-M_fUresDp9ycyRb4g0bIvXAPu12CMdrXSqHowRtU7Jnl8F9JU2FN1SXHt2Jxdez1PjmE40gxygTC74ndV1Ygh3y9uDZzDX8bJ7hxD4tpomaJTL1oF6fKvGu3l7FTWYfOyxWn_/s1600/Kochi+Biennale+Ibrahim+Quraishi+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhnoZZ2-M_fUresDp9ycyRb4g0bIvXAPu12CMdrXSqHowRtU7Jnl8F9JU2FN1SXHt2Jxdez1PjmE40gxygTC74ndV1Ygh3y9uDZzDX8bJ7hxD4tpomaJTL1oF6fKvGu3l7FTWYfOyxWn_/s640/Kochi+Biennale+Ibrahim+Quraishi+.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ibrahim Quraishi's 'Islamic Violins', Pepper House </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">* * * * * * * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>My article was originally published in The Hindu Business Line on March 8, 2013: </i></span></div>
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ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Kochi, Kerala, India9.9312328 76.2673041000000479.806105800000001 76.105942600000049 10.0563598 76.428665600000045tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-77416986268254828732013-02-22T07:13:00.001-08:002013-02-22T07:20:06.351-08:00Hobbies: Post a pick-me-up! <div class="body">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76m1gLFCaJ0lUg9Pb8S5YsHavOY57gfMX6Oe3Oq61aePOSg3WAgog3_38svi-SLRnvv8zDHJz5KUTal3rwy3JiDb2YVlOapsbuMAEWtB_XOKQDrrFb0xHKurMeqBTgPSRNpbVX6lnJnqc/s1600/Postcrossing+logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="41" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76m1gLFCaJ0lUg9Pb8S5YsHavOY57gfMX6Oe3Oq61aePOSg3WAgog3_38svi-SLRnvv8zDHJz5KUTal3rwy3JiDb2YVlOapsbuMAEWtB_XOKQDrrFb0xHKurMeqBTgPSRNpbVX6lnJnqc/s320/Postcrossing+logo.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Writing is a solitary vocation. Each day, I steel myself to sit still, to fill an unforgiving computer screen with words, characters and plots. My mobile is silent; my Internet is off. Sans deadlines or the buzz of a workplace, the experience can be soul-sapping. Or deeply energising — whenever the words pan out right. </div>
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Stillness fuels my wanderlust. My mind migrates to faraway Bratislava or dinner with Inuits. Devouring <i>dal-roti</i> on my futon, I imagine lime-cured Peruvian <i>ceviche</i> on my tongue. </div>
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In the 21st century, amidst nuclear families, single parents and growing isolation, we depend increasingly on sms, email and social networks for communication. Few inter-personal alternatives loomed until I chanced upon Postcrossing (<a href="http://www.postcrossing.com/">www.postcrossing.com</a>) in July 2012, catching me off-guard. I wondered: Who writes letters in our wired age? </div>
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I found out since that over 384,347 Postcrossers from 217 countries do (all data pegged to February 14, 2013). The site tagline reads: ‘A postcards exchange project that invites everyone to send and receive postcards from random places in the world. For free!’ Post offices across the globe, verging on closure, took note. Especially when the project’s exchanges touched one million registered postcards in April 2008, then soared from 10 million postcards in January 2012 to (believe it or not) 15 million by December 31. </div>
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Listed by <i>The Washington Times </i>in January 2013 among 11 ‘unusual and bizarre hobbies’, alongside guerrilla gardening, robot-building, and competitive dog grooming, how did Postcrossing begin? A nomadic geek of Portuguese origin, Paulo Magalhaes, 30, set it up in July 2005 while at university. Manned by volunteers, the project currently generates an average of 10 received postcards globally every minute. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Paulo and his partner Ana pore over postcards</b></td></tr>
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Berlin-based Magalhaes responds over email about its impetus: “Email is a fantastic communication tool. I use it every day. However, email and social networks have become omnipresent. They are no longer special, but rather banal. They carry short-lived messages that are almost always quickly discarded.” </div>
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The<a href="http://%20postcrossing/"> Postcrossing </a>founder-manager stresses, “However, a postcard is very different. The sender handwrites a message specifically for you. Writes your address, stamps it, and posts it at their local post-office. Then it travels several hands, possibly over country borders until it reaches your mailbox, probably hand-delivered by your local postman. Receiving mail brightens the lives of thousands of people every day… Postcards are meaningful and tangible. In a day and age where digital ways of communicating are become more cold and distant, it is even more special to receive something you can put on your fridge door or take with you to work.” </div>
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India’s 1,676 Postcrossers could not agree more. ‘Penpalkamran’ from Kalyan-Dombivili (Maharashtra) leads the <i>desi</i> pack with 2,195 sent cards. He was unavailable for comment. Pune-based Mukund Chiplunkar, 59, a chemical engineering consultant, is a close second. His 1,900-plus cards have traversed over 13 million km. </div>
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He first heard of Postcrossing on BBC’s Click Online in 2006. Chiplunkar, an active participant on Facebook’s Postcrossing India page, shares his experiences at member-meets in Pune — as do other Postcrossers in Mumbai, Delhi and Bangalore. Over postcards and coffee at the GPO or a café, members discuss life stories, first day covers, and geocaching, while they pen cards to pan-India fellow enthusiasts. </div>
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How has Postcrossing impacted Chiplunkar? On email, he writes, “Most Indian Postcrossers practise this hobby alone, but with passion, within their immediate family. However, they don’t feel lonely. For Postcrossers, every day is a new story and every postcard is a new opportunity. It is up to him/ her to make the most of it. This keeps the Postcrosser going through mundane activities with eternal hope.” </div>
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Personally, the first Postcrossing card I sent out arrived at the door of Willi in Germany in 11 days. He turned out to be the highest-ranked Postcrosser ever (10,012 sent cards over six years). My first incoming card, from Dresden, carried American poet James Baldwin’s philosophical lines, “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.” Bingo! I am a Baldwin fan. </div>
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Every Postcrossing encounter has changed me since July 2012. I now swap directly with an Italian retiree in Turin, the recipient of the 15-millionth postcard. He is a vital cog in my circle of communication, which currently embraces Portuguese and Chinese schoolgirls, an aspiring Russian writer, a Spanish nurse, even a Dutch grandmother. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>An Inge Look 'Granny' postcard </b></td></tr>
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As an art aficionado, I have celebrated aboriginal Dreamtime drawings from Australia and Monet’s ‘Water Lilies’ from France. But my major discovery was already a Postcrossing cult — the irresistible Granny postcards by Inge Look, the Finnish gardener-turned-artist (www.ingelook.com). I wear a wrap-around smile all day when I receive a Look. </div>
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Chance encounters dot the route to postcard nirvana. The postman on our beat often stops his moped on the kerb to hand-deliver my bunch of cards from Slovenia, Antigua and Barbuda, and Russia. His colleagues at the local post-office giggle as they frank my outgoing cards, checking out the bright images. </div>
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True to Magalhaes’ vision, Postcrossers today range from children learning English or geography at school to their grandparents — and every shade of person in between. Project statistics prove that, far from living in device-driven virtual space, the average Postcrosser is about 26! </div>
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Numerically, Russia has 42,200 Postcrossers, followed by the US (41,492), China (35,561), and the Netherlands (25,992). At 770 postcards an hour, and 2,043,406 laps around the world, the few locations untouched by Postcrossing might justify a teetering off the map: American Samoa, Malvinas, the South Sandwich Islands, Tokelau and so on. </div>
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The solitariness of writing daily no longer troubles me. All I need to recharge my creative spirit is a long-distance telecon with a dear friend or a postcard from Cyprus, Japan, or Finland. Reading between the lines, my blues vanish in a trice as I set off for unexplored destinations.<br />
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<i>(This article originally appeared in The Hindu Business Line on February 22, 2013)</i><br />
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Link:<br />
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<u>http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/features/weekend-life/post-a-pickmeup/article4435654.ece?homepage=true&ref=wl_home/</u><br />
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ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com2Bangalore, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.59456269999998312.4764147 76.949115699999979 13.4667827 78.240009699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-21281744615901198352012-10-06T00:12:00.000-07:002012-10-06T00:12:20.781-07:00Travel: Jaisalmer ~ Camelback communique<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>With Ramu, at the dunes outside Jaisalmer, 1999</b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></td></tr>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Rabaris, also called Raikas in Marwar, are the breeders of camels. They assert
that their ancestor was brought into existence by Lord Mahadeo in order to take
care of the first camel, which was created by Parvati for her amusement.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~
Rajputana Gazetteers, Vol. III, by Major K D Eerskine, Calcutta (1908)</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His name is Ramu.
Deoram, astride the second hump of a seat behind me, tells me so. His gait is
awkward and lurching. Tending towards a ramble. Or even a shuffle. One step
backwards for every two forward ~ or that’s how it feels to a novice rider like
me. I seem to be astride a moving hillock ~ and I’m trying my best not to fall
off. And when he’s on a canter, while I teeter precariously atop him, it is quite
a dizzying experience.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ramu’s snout is abuzz
with sandflies; he snorts frequently to persuade them to go away. But they
return to bug him. So, he trots and frets and tosses his head wildly, while I
grit my teeth and clench my teeth, clinging onto the ropes that swing from
Ramu’s snout to my hands. I don’t fancy a dramatic toss onto the sparkling
desert sands of the Thar in Rajasthan.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbH_kBlQFIoF_UvFPJxZZ-75nTuRtMdA5THdZw-WlXG0sVVkVNUa0HWHwDt8vdxMiaGCoopIbKvQBtPYiI6BVmQpTZzIgpj3pSSQUCvxV4Xpjc-x24gtbWLtqVtLRsRBMm3S5WAnYjt8w/s1600/Jaisalmer+camel+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbH_kBlQFIoF_UvFPJxZZ-75nTuRtMdA5THdZw-WlXG0sVVkVNUa0HWHwDt8vdxMiaGCoopIbKvQBtPYiI6BVmQpTZzIgpj3pSSQUCvxV4Xpjc-x24gtbWLtqVtLRsRBMm3S5WAnYjt8w/s400/Jaisalmer+camel+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> My companions on the
camelback adventure share my feelings. I’m one of five amateur riders on an
hour’s camel ride from the outskirts of Jaisalmer to the Sam <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dhani </i>or dunes at the edge of the Thar
desert, known as the site of spectacular sunsets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We start out by jeep from
Jaisalmer en route to Sam (pronounced S-a-a-m), 42 km away. As we drive along
the smooth asphalt from the desert city, which boasts of a golden sandstone
fortress and exquisite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">havelis,</i> babul
shrubs teem by the roadside. The early evening sun dazzles our eyes, attuned to
mile upon mile of bright wasteland. There are few dwellings in sight. Nothing
seems to move or grow or thrive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A sudden screech of
brakes. The rubber sears the road. The jeep halts. And we spot the reason why.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A family of
camel-herders stand by the wayside. They strike up a conversation with the jeep
driver in Marwari, the regional language around Jodhpur and Jaisalmer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our driver returns.
Would we like to ride to the dunes, he asks. These are honest men, he assures
us, adding that he has known this foursome of Rabaris for years. “It’s just
Rs.100 per head ~ all the way to Sam, a ride of over an hour. And they will
drop you back to the jeep after sunset,” he tosses in a bonus. It is an offer
we cannot resist.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Deoram, who owns Ramu,
encourages me to jump astride his kneeling camel. Ramu tosses his head
disdainfully and goes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hrrrrrumph</i>! The
snorting so close to my ear is unnerving. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnStXT9LKOD_xaepSzfLG6ECkE-sA4azREUy29z2RFk8GvcKP49uUBnkQXoD-gA0UyOz-dKfSGueesECbNrMQAA6qvzM4xMMkYji-T3o05LaAGPL0pqeKpKUW5-I6ifLLKsqiPIEfc8tJ/s1600/Jaisalmer+camel+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicnStXT9LKOD_xaepSzfLG6ECkE-sA4azREUy29z2RFk8GvcKP49uUBnkQXoD-gA0UyOz-dKfSGueesECbNrMQAA6qvzM4xMMkYji-T3o05LaAGPL0pqeKpKUW5-I6ifLLKsqiPIEfc8tJ/s400/Jaisalmer+camel+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As Ramu sways, rides
and lurches skywards on his spindly legs, I shriek with fear. Around me, my
companions are on camelback, but two to a camel for moral support. I could do
with some, too. So, Ramu kneels once more and burly, moustachioed Deoram, who’s
28 ~ clad in a weather-worn white dhoti and kurta ~ accompanies me on Ramu.
Before he gets on, I notice that he strips a branch off a desert shrub and
twirls it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t hit Ramu, I say,
fearing the worst.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As our caravan of four
camels strides towards the dunes, I overhear a breeze-wafted conversation from
atop Bijli, who strides alongside us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Have you been to
school?” the tourist from Gwalior asks Pirdan, Deoram’s younger brother. He is
bright-eyed and lively at barely 20.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Yes, I’ve studied till
Class X. I’m the only one in our family who has studied so far…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Are you married?” the
tourist persists. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I got married four
years ago, at 16,” Pirdan replies. “”I was engaged when I was seven. She’s from
our community.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Child marriage!”
exclaims the Gwalior man. “How could you allow it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s part of our
tradition,” responds Pirdan. “I’m proud to be a part of it… We even allow widow
remarriage.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What does your family
do, I ask Deoram.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We’re Rabaris,
camel-herders,” he responds in Marwari, which sounds like a first cousin to
Hindi. “We rear and tend camels. We’ve been lived this way for generations,
perhaps centuries.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Has he had Ramu for
long? “For 12 years now,” Deoram says with pride. “I bought him at the annual
cattle fair at Pushkar, near Ajmer.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My curiosity gets the
better of my manners. How much does a camel cost?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSRe0D6RsoPdEOvU-yOpPlSOTGF2oVp9J21tYb1K9cl85Ek0Vh9LrtjGAWxL_INV3tCQ_tbrUSnrm21WckG1kxslFwYlEZmzfM43aSzRv2YymQH6RVRnfmTwiJAZwio1xYTjZrN1rblDK/s1600/Jaisalmer+camel+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSRe0D6RsoPdEOvU-yOpPlSOTGF2oVp9J21tYb1K9cl85Ek0Vh9LrtjGAWxL_INV3tCQ_tbrUSnrm21WckG1kxslFwYlEZmzfM43aSzRv2YymQH6RVRnfmTwiJAZwio1xYTjZrN1rblDK/s400/Jaisalmer+camel+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“About Rs. 15,000 to
20,000,” Deoram’s voice is gruff as he uses his makeshift whip to gently spur
Raju to a canter, for the other camels are setting a lively pace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How does his family
live around the year? “We sometimes hire our camels out to draw carts,”
Deoram’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mama </i>or maternal uncle
replies from Mayur-back, as he trots ahead of Ramu. “During the tourist season
from October to February, we charge Rs. 100 per ride to the dunes. We have four
camels, so we make about Rs. 400 per day. This is a good season for us. But
times are not so good in summer…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A dry season in every
sense? “It’s tough to feed the family then,” Deoram, who has studied upto Std.
VIII, picks up the thread of the conversation. “My parents, my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mama,</i> my brother and our families, we
all live together. Since we aren’t farmers, and the land is so parched, our
meals then are very frugal…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hrrrrrrrrrumphhh</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">,
says Ramu, lurching along, contributing his mite to the small talk. The
sandflies buzz on and on about his snout.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Does Ramu respond to
his name? Deoram laughs, “Of course. When he’s out grazing and I call his name
like this <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>~ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ramoooooooo ~ </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he stops
wherever he is. Then, it’s easy to find him…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ramu tosses his head
and grunts at this point, as if in assent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We cross mile upon mile
of sun-bleached scrubland. The caravans before us have carved a path through
the arid waste. So, Ramu follows Bijli and Mayur without missing a step.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do you know,” Deoram suddenly
breaks into a torrent of words, “the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oonthwalas</i>
or camel-herders of Sam are thieves? They take you for a ride of just 10 or 15
steps and charge you Rs. 100!” His voice peaks with indignation. “Then, they
stop and refuse to go another step unless you pay Rs. 75…They cheat everyone.
And they’re Muslims…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(That seems strange
when, later, I hear from a schoolmate in Jaipur that the Rabari community
embraces both Muslims and Hindus. She even knows of Muslims in Rajasthan with
Hindu names).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As Ramu shuffles on
while I careen from side to side ~ I’m told the speedy camels of Jaisalmer can
cover 100 km in a night ~ Deoram periodically waves his arm to indicate the
dunes in the distance. Time seems to blur as we weave, sway and stagger our way
towards the horizon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over a hump in the
land, in a split second, time comes to a standstill. Wave upon wave of golden
curves, breeze-kissed and vegetation-free, spell a magical ocean of golden
grains. Amidst the rise and fall of the dunes are caparisoned camels in stately
procession, their riders mere silhouettes at that height.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The radiant sun is
still overhead. It singes the sandy slopes in the background orange. Flames
shade the edge of the horizon, where the sky fuses with the landscape. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The stillness of
waiting is pierced by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhopas</i> or folk
minstrels, singing the plaintive strains of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maro
Desh Marwar</i> (my land is Marwar). Colourful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">safas</i> or turbans on their heads, embroidered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mojris </i>on their feet, playing on a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ravanhatta </i>(Ravana’s bow), they offer a vocal votive feast to the
glorious sunset.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9F0jgYTMMmgbifCTzEcRWZZrMLDkrzKXZAIsvyFhdY1GrerpnZR5qGZmeF4pl-hka5wn5DXIRSzDwjXVX-hyZde7_1lE_nZKlTMaxRbYS01Efu0o_aTog87pVc42tskhG_Aj2-gcCZQL/s1600/Jaisalmer+camel+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9F0jgYTMMmgbifCTzEcRWZZrMLDkrzKXZAIsvyFhdY1GrerpnZR5qGZmeF4pl-hka5wn5DXIRSzDwjXVX-hyZde7_1lE_nZKlTMaxRbYS01Efu0o_aTog87pVc42tskhG_Aj2-gcCZQL/s640/Jaisalmer+camel+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As their voices stream
from song to song, the skies respond as if ablaze. Fiery oranges blend into passionate
reds, mauves vie for skypower with burnt pinks. Prussian blues appear at the
edge of the aerial canvas ~ until both the sunset palette and the eye drown in
a star-drenched sky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Within a half-hour,
dozens of camels tread the timeless desert sands on their way back to tents,
hotels or vehicles. We wind our way back to Ramu and Mayur, only to find Deoram
and his brother rivetted by alien rites of courtship. All tall foreigner
reaches for the hand of his girlfriend behind a dune.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gora kitna harami hain!</i> (The foreigner is a rascal)”, exclaims
Deoram. Pirdan responds with, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dekho,
gori to chher raha hain! Besharam!</i> (Look, he’s touching the white girl.
Shameless”) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Neither the constant
tourist traffic in the Jaisalmer area nor the passage of time nor thousands of
sunsets have tinted the lives of the Rabaris. Theirs is a world wrought aeons
ago.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But we, who live today,
have to re-tune ourselves to the present. I get onto Ramu once more, this time
with less trepidation, and trot all the way to the jeep without toppling off. A
solo trip this time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Off the camel trail,
after a special evening thanks to Ramu and his ilk, we return to Jaisalmer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We carry with us
memories of a glowing sun merging into a dazzle of stars, and shoes filled with
pure gold ~ of Sam sand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(Sunday
Herald, Bangalore, January 1999)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com1Jaisalmer, Rajasthan, India26.9157487 70.908344326.859114700000003 70.8293803 26.9723827 70.9873083tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-34297909047149119412012-10-04T21:36:00.000-07:002012-10-04T21:36:20.912-07:00Travel: A Kaziranga dawn safari on the wild side <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAot3VT6MY_ss8u_TBqqL6x7vmi7c1CBl-J6yaYJQUClCGeAuRDxXcUkWv4OGbWFk8P0XiKeQnliv3g-5UqwvVhLDsOKVp1KQRZBjPzKooEdIN4lGKsdFeWZZCimtimALpH1qRJ44ZGCB/s1600/Kazi+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAot3VT6MY_ss8u_TBqqL6x7vmi7c1CBl-J6yaYJQUClCGeAuRDxXcUkWv4OGbWFk8P0XiKeQnliv3g-5UqwvVhLDsOKVp1KQRZBjPzKooEdIN4lGKsdFeWZZCimtimALpH1qRJ44ZGCB/s640/Kazi+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The Great Indian One-horned Rhinoceros we spy</b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The alarm sounds like a distant drone in our room at the Bonhabi resort in Assam in March 2010. Krittika and I shake ourselves awake ~and bolt into the darkness outside, where our guide (now our friend) Mirza waits for us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Krittika’s German husband Markus and his friend Christopher decide they need to sleep-in. Or else, what’s a holiday about? Besides, we have already done the jeep safari around the Kaziranga National Park the previous evening, their heavyweight, sophisticated lenses ready to shoot at sight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But Krittika and I feel the adrenalin surge of an adventure ahead. So, we’re shiny-eyed and bushy-tailed, even at 4.30 am. It is pitch dark outdoors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Krittika, Markus and Mirza clown after the jeep safari</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By the time Ratul bhaiya drives us to Kaziranga in his Toyota Innova, we find dozens of beautifully-dressed ladies from Nagaland milling around. They giggle shyly behind their hands. They nudge each other playfully. They have all the bubbliness of truant schoolgirls sans an escort. They queue up and settle into seats atop tame elephants, six to each mount. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On a parallel soundtrack, Mirza tells us of the retirement benefits for the elephants at Kaziranga. They are allowed off-duty at the age of 60 (or is it 65?) The elephants are given shelter and food for the rest of their lives, according to Assam Forest Department regulations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Naga ladies are all set to go. There is just one elephant left ~ Babu. He seems sleepy, like us, but tame enough. Our seat is different from theirs: two of us face the front, one faces the rear. An elevated platform allows us to clamber onto Babu easily enough. We have a forest ranger with a gun with us. Just in case of an emergency, we are told. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Babu sways, tosses his head, then joins the queue of elephants lined up for the crack-of-dawn safari. How different will this be from the jeep trip the previous evening?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Very different, as we learn over the next hour or so. As we head into the tall, bristling elephant grass, we’re told not to reach out for it. Its sharp edges could cut our hands. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">En route, Krittika and I joke with Mirza. About the green, orange and white chutneys we get at a traditional dinner at Guwahati. About the drunk local youth who comes up to me afterwards while we wait for Ratul bhaiya to bring our vehicle closer, with the puzzling query, “Australian or what?!!” Who, me? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From the simple wooden howdah atop Babu, we scan the grass. What will we sight? When?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Look,” whispers Krittika. A grey shape looms ahead as Babu pushes through the grass. It’s a Great Indian One-horned Rhinoceros. Kaziranga is home to two-thirds of the world’s population of these animals. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It has its huge derriere turned towards us. Turn, turn, turn, Krittika and I whisper to it silently. The rhino declines. Later, we see a group of rhinos. One faces us. Click-click-click, go Krittika’s camera and mine.</span></div>
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Statistics hit me in the face later on. For the rhino’s horn is prized as an aphrodisiac in Asian cultures. As a result, between 1980 and 2005, 567 Kaziranga rhinoceroses were killed by poachers. Despite armed patrols and legislation including <i>Assam Forest Regulation of 1891 </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">and<i> Biodiversity Conservation Act of 2002</i></span>, 18 more died in 2007.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A group of gaur or Indian bison</b> </td></tr>
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As Babu sways from side to side, our mahout Raju puts his finger to his lips. We need to chatter less in the wilderness.</div>
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We scan the horizon. No tigers in sight. The only elephants we see are the procession of tourists who lead the way ahead of us. We spot some impressive gaur or the Indian bison. I’m not trained to identify birds, though some perch on the swaying grass, others fly overhead. </div>
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Suddenly, we come to a standstill. Babu puts his head down. He pulls up a clump of elephant grass. He chews. Slowly. Meditatively. With rapt attention. </div>
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A minute goes by. Two. Five. Babu continues to chew. Raju is impatient now. He prods the elephant with his pronged metal prod. </div>
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Babu flaps his ears. He continues to pull up tufts of grass. He chews some more. He seems disinclined to move ahead. The last of the elephant procession with other tourists have long vanished from sight.</div>
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Raju is irritated now. And impatient. Even angry. He prods Babu’s head. The elephant brushes him away. </div>
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The mahout tries once more. And yet again. With the same result.</div>
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Raju prods Babu’s head hard. Once. Twice. A few times. Krittika and I want to scream. Blood appears on the elephant’s forehead. We gasp. It hurts to even watch. </div>
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At this, Babu trumpets. He rears his head. He rises up, briefly on his hind legs. He shakes us from side to side. Quite unexpectedly. Even violently. We clutch the wooden bars of our seat in fright. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Long minutes tick by. Raju goads him some more. More terrifying sounds emerge from the elephant. He sways from side to side. Babu refuses to give up. The prod pokes the bleeding spot once more. </div>
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Please don’t hurt the elephant any more, Krittika and I plead. </div>
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Mirza suggests that perhaps Babu should retire from these safaris. Maybe he is too old? Or hungry at this hour?</div>
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After what seems like aeons to us, Babu reluctantly rambles through the grass once more. We spot more bison. The odd rhino or four.</div>
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But all we mull over is odd thoughts. What if we had fallen off the wooden seat? What if Babu had tossed us off? Would Mirza, Krittika and I have turned into the tricolour Assamese chutneys underfoot? </div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if we had a closer encounter of the rhino kind? Despite their bulk, they are known to charge at upto 50 km.p.h. We are grateful that we are able to shrug off the fear ~ and laugh once more.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Krittika and I watch Babu make friends with his mahout again</b></td></tr>
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Once we dismount after the dawn safari, we find that Babu and Raju are friends once more. The elephant gives his mahout a trunk up, so that he can clean his wound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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On our way back to the Bonhabi resort around 7.30 am, Krittika, Mirza and I stop at a little roadside shack. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun is now a red ball of fire in the sky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Settlers of Bangladeshi origin man the shack on National Highway 37 between Kuwarital and Tezpour in Assam. Clad in a coarse cotton sari, she cooks us hot parathas and potato sabji for breakfast. Her man, in a checked lungi, looks at us with sleepy eyes. </div>
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We try to read the unasked questions behind his cloudy eyes. Who are we? Where are we from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We do not belong in their midst, for sure.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A fiery post-safari sunrise at Kaziranga </b></td></tr>
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I have not shared this story often. But it all came back in a rush of late. I thought of Raju early in 2012 when unprecedented flooding of the Brahmaputra took a toll in Kaziranga. Over 540 animals, including 13 rhinos and numerous hog deer perished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The safari on the wild side was rekindled when our friend Mirza visited me in Bangalore just last week. Over cake and limoncello, we re-imagined Babu vividly from the standpoint of almost ‘tricolour chutneys’ who survived. </div>
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Where is Babu today? Is he safe? Does he still take tourists on Kaziranga safaris across its 378 sq. km. at dawn? I wish I knew the answers.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com1Kaziranga National Park, Assam, India26.6 93.46666726.585802 93.446926 26.614198000000002 93.486408tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-29324934499581162452012-09-12T01:53:00.001-07:002012-09-12T01:53:48.837-07:00Crafts: The call of northeast India<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
AT first glance, Bangalore’s ANTS store seems like a mere crafts
outlet. It offers cane-handled Tangkhul Naga black pottery and Manipuri kauna
reed mats, traditional dai knives in a sheath, elegant Bodo weave wraparound
skirts, even coral-turquoise jewellery. But beyond its sunny café, where conversation
flows easy over cake and cappuccino, lies an invisible but potent mission. For
this outlet in upmarket Indiranagar, is more about people than products.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Its intent? To create illuminated
entry points for mainstream India
into the Seven Sisters and One Brother (Sikkim) states of the
often-misinterpreted, little-visited northeast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This was apparent at its recent
festivals of Meitei and Tangkhul Naga food, celebrating the universal language
of food. Sourcing ingredients like fermented bamboo and delectable shelled
snails from Manipur, the former was cooked over two days by Meitei students and
IT professionals. Over 2000 of them live in the IT hub. Biting into Paknam, a savoury
pancake of steamed herbs, spices, dry fish and gram flour, we mull over how
little Bangalore
knows of the Meitei. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The million-strong Meitei are the
major ethnic group of Manipur, whose seven clans trace their written history
back to 33 AD. Such inputs catapult us beyond familiar connects, such as
Manipuri dance, director Ratan Thiyam’s famed Chorus Repertory Theatre, and the
iron-willed dissident Irom Sharmila.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Tasting Shingju salad of cabbage,
raw papaya and fermented fish, my thoughts race to a March 2010 group exploration
of Assam,
Meghalaya and Arunachal Pradesh. The journey left us full of questions: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When the biodiversity-rich Aruchanal
mountains are latent with tourist promise, why is there but a single infrequent
helicopter flight to Tawang from Guwahati? Why are Assamese highways the only
connections between eastern and western Arunachal? Why are Indian soldiers (not
police) allowed to beat up handcuffed suspects in a public jeep in daylight in Assam? The
answers are hardly as sweet as the kheer of purple-black rice, grown only in
Manipur.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Issues apart, our trip left us
memories to cherish. Of women weavers at traditional looms under their chang
ghar on stilts on Assam’s
Majuli island. Of a Khasi church service dedicated to us in friendly Mawlynnong
in Meghalaya. Of the grandeur of Tawang monastery against the snow-steepled Himalayas. The journey only whetted our appetite for
Manipur, Nagaland, Tripura, Mizoram and Sikkim. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Such positive stories from the
northeast are the foci of the ANTS store, committed to Fairtrade and Craftmark
values. Trichao Thomas, a Naga from the Pomai tribe of Manipur, coordinates its
programme to ‘northeastize the mainstream.’ How? Through initiatives like food
festivals, readings from ‘Neti Neti,’ a novel by Shillong-born Anjum Hasan,
even a mini Naga cultural festival. Unfortunately, historian Ramachandra Guha’s
talk on the Naga peace process was cancelled due to the July 2008 Bangalore blasts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
ANTS, launched in December 2007, is
an offshoot of the Action Northeast Trust (<a href="http://www.theant.org/">www.theant.org</a>).
Like her counterparts on Majuli, this store showcases weaves by Bodo women like
Bongaigoan’s Sheena Basumatary, 38. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In 2002, design student Smitha
Murthy from Bangalore’s
Srishti school asked Sheena and four others to create samples of traditional
motifs as part of a ‘Weaving Peace’ project. Sheena agreed because her husband,
a driver, did not earn enough to support their three children.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Three years later, Sheena joined Aagor
Dagra Afad, registered to empower Bodo woman weavers. Today, as its assistant
managing trustee, she guides 200 others. And Smitha, who reinterprets Bodo weaves
as sleek cutaway blouses in sync with urban India, is both ANTS designer and an
Aagor trustee. Over the past nine years, Aagor has distributed Rs. 65 lakhs to
its 102 weavers (soaring to 400 in response to larger orders), by “crafting
livelihoods for the poorest, harnessing strengths of the weakest.” Its sales
have touched Rs. 2 crore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sheena, who studied only upto Std.
2, says, “The money I earn from weaving has given me self-confidence and
control over my life. I’d never imagined that I would one day make important
decisions for such a big organization.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Every product at ANTS couches an
unvoiced story from the Northeast, often visualized by mainstream India as an
unfathomable, troubled region. This pilot store in Bangalore hopes to use “soft power to mould
minds.” Even if changing mindsets takes years, NGOs and the Bangalore intelligentsia can now reach out to
the local northeastern diaspora of over 65,000. Perhaps New Delhi and Mumbai will respond as empathetically
one day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
For those who long to explore the northeast,
ANTS is currently engaged in talks with groups like GypsyFeet, engaged with
community-based tourism and local home-stays. Perhaps that will keep hope alive
within Awon, Athing and Mimi, the Nagas from Manipur who staff ANTS. For they
dream of a united India, sensitized towards the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>distant, tantalizing northeast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i> (The Hindu Business Line 2003) </i></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bangalore, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.594562712.724026199999999 77.2787057 13.2191712 77.910419699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-47852247292796280362012-09-11T08:29:00.001-07:002012-09-11T08:29:28.613-07:00Lifestyle: All that glitters is ... Montblanc<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbsUCkxx8Vf3Wgi3kstBfDaejhc0nzwIJWOc32Ly0yOJK6EO881aa0Yaowmgo_MhKtreohvj4C5XfM75mZn1FbLv84PcSecJQVuNB77-VWHACDbboK4KwLWjg5qBJT4xlrtiIvcSvKEO4/s1600/Montblanc+jewellery+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbsUCkxx8Vf3Wgi3kstBfDaejhc0nzwIJWOc32Ly0yOJK6EO881aa0Yaowmgo_MhKtreohvj4C5XfM75mZn1FbLv84PcSecJQVuNB77-VWHACDbboK4KwLWjg5qBJT4xlrtiIvcSvKEO4/s320/Montblanc+jewellery+1.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>
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URBAN Indians had grown accustomed
to statuesque, stunning Anna Bredemeyer as the face that launched essentially
feminine products over nearly 30 years. That’s why it is quite a shock to
encounter her in Bangalore
in an entirely new avatar. As the Marketing Manager for Montblanc over the past
two years. Miss India 1976 and
possibly India’s
first supermodel is now the Swiss mega-brand’s ambassador in our country.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The century-old Montblanc, in the
popular eye, makes the world’s most superior writing tools, bar none. Over
time, it has added watches, leather goods and accessories to its range. Anna
was in Bangalore
recently with a mission to accomplish ~ to highlight Montblanc women’s jewellery
in the competitive Indian designer market, as part of a worldwide launch.</div>
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Can Montblanc, one of the world’s
top high recall brands, make an impression? “We realized that 50 per cent of
the walk-ins into our boutiques were women, who come in to buy gifts for the
men in their lives, for corporate occasions, for trousseaus. Montblanc has
always been perceived as a masculine brand. So is a Jeep or a Mercedes, but
women still drive them,” explains Anna, referring to Montblanc’s exclusive
boutiques at Mumbai, New Delhi, Hyderabad,
Chennai, Ahmedabad and Bangalore.
“Since we had a ready platform, we decided to diversify, put out something for
women.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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What’s on offer? Three collections
in 925 sterling silver, rhodium-plated and platinum finished, to allow for
price accessibility. Ranging from Rs. 5,700 for a charm to Rs. 28,000. </div>
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<br /></div>
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No one can think of Montblanc
without recalling their distinctive white star. This motif takes pride of place
in their Star collection. As a necklace with a dangling pendant that can be
re-linked to form an elegant waist chain. Or cycle-link style chains that offer
a silver star pendant for day wear, flipping to a mother-of-pearl facet for
glamorous nights out. Wrist bands in pink, blue-grey and black are adorned by
star cutouts in silver, while similar neck pieces dangle the reversible
pendants. Tuning in to the teen and college segment, the collection presents
tiny silver pendants ~ a heart, a guitar, a bloom. What better way to
commemorate an unforgettable date, a dream concert, a declaration under the
full moon?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Montblanc extends the concept of
its square Profile watches with a matching jewellery line. With cosmopolitan
accents, these pieces offer silver with a twist. Such as star-ended links that
transform into necklaces or bracelets. Or two interlocking rings that can be
twisted around to form new designs. A Montblanc promise of magic accompanies
the ring: “Make a wish, turn the ring and your wish will come true.” But there
is no company assurance of the time frame signalled!</div>
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Boheme is its most innovative
collection. Some of its soulful pieces include rings with amethyst, topaz,
crystal or citrine that flip over, Rubic cube-like, revealing moods as varied
as those of the wearer. Or cubes of silver that form an elegant chain or
locket, each allowing for transformations, cued into our ever-changing, globalizing
world.</div>
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“We have jewellery that’s right for
the young young look, but also with serious undertones for sari-wearers,” Anna
stresses, a look she demonstrates in Bangalore
in a sheer almond green sari. “Outside India, the feedback has been very
promising because white metal is always so in over there.”</div>
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The next day, recast in a white
shirt over tailored jeans and jewellery to match, Anna proclaims huskily, “Our
belief at Montblanc is that jewellery should be worn daily, not stashed away in
a safe deposit locker. It only comes alive when it’s worn. The idea was for it to
be your constant companion, like our pens. That’s why our jewellery is not over
the top.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlS8KtdJrhGPYt-9hCQqS5cK4M1WvVhsuNCmpvWHGtpdkpd59GVAg8SCIuLt6bDisIBm3eXmCxHG_LJyrCwOUysbX37R2PD8uW3294Boa_fw53xg3IMym4zNpHTRKJD74841m1V9piyLh/s1600/Montblanc+jewellery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlS8KtdJrhGPYt-9hCQqS5cK4M1WvVhsuNCmpvWHGtpdkpd59GVAg8SCIuLt6bDisIBm3eXmCxHG_LJyrCwOUysbX37R2PD8uW3294Boa_fw53xg3IMym4zNpHTRKJD74841m1V9piyLh/s400/Montblanc+jewellery.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What drives this range? Longevity.
Catching consumers young, allowing them to grow into the brand. “Over 10
million users around the world use Montblanc products,” she declares with
pride. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Can Montblanc take on the Indian
market, where established players like Tanishq, Oyzterbay, Damas and Orra have
been wooing customers for years? “At our headquarters, they have studied the
potential before deciding to venture into this. I do believe that once people
come in, touch and feel our jewellery, they will be convinced. Because when you
buy jewellery, you’re basically buying it on trust. Quality is what you want,”
Anna reiterates. “Montblanc has always given that in the past. We don’t want to
compromise our 100-year reputation by launching on impulse.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What does this brand offer that’s
outstanding? “There are other players, different looks, so much variety. But I
don’t see why people wouldn’t take this because it’s not over the top from the
price point of view, yet it’s giving you good value for money,” she says in
defence of the range. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Given the Indian mindset, would
Montblanc consider venturing into the gold segment? “Normally, when we look at
gold here, it’s 22 karat. Abroad, it’s always 18k. So, it wouldn’t be an
investment, probably more of an impulse buy. So, I’m not sure if we’ll go in
that direction in a hurry,” says Anna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Has Montblanc found the Indian
south a conservative market? Anna agrees, “It’s a different mindset. We’re
treading very gently. In Chennai, over about seven years, we find it’s slow but
sure. But the sales from the boutique will need to justify a large
representation to an extent.” </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She continues, “Hyderabad, on the contrary, has been
excellent. The people I interacted with seemed so rich from a cultural point of
view. Whether with our limited edition pens or other products, they seemed to
understand Montblanc. People there are into traditional jewellery, but they’ve
been coming in to buy ours, too.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
An unusual facet of the stellar
brand surfaces during our encounter with Anna. We learn that the Montblanc Arts
Patronage Award is now an established cultural fixture in ten countries. And
that part of the profits from their Donation Pens, commemorating famous
musicians and composers, goes to specially selected arts projects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Montblanc has come a long way since
it entered India through its
New Delhi
boutique at the Maurya Hotel 11 years ago. It is targeting Chandigarh and Pune in the immediate future,
followed by at least 12 exclusive prototype boutiques over the next three
years. That’s besides 25 pan-Indian retailers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Given the globe-trotting Indian
today, perhaps the Montblanc jewellery range will soar to the heights of the 4810-metre
snow-capped peak from which it takes its name. It all depends on whether its
star signet will find a mindset to match within the urban market. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>(The Hindu Business Line, 2003) </i></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bangalore, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.594562712.724026199999999 77.2787057 13.2191712 77.910419699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-61167589827238182862012-09-11T08:17:00.002-07:002012-09-11T08:17:49.636-07:00Lifestyle: The base line on Botox <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXSYfhcM3ANUx70a4u0aFMPuLmYq2E3gWl50XraEefJuBEeh_ojbeK0xGZV4r5y9QNnnIqB8Ei20aMjkNdDdWcf_ilpXx1cFBAwN16YZjQ1uvksWIhfJ1jOkSOxvzz5k7hVxGDseFxjFE4/s1600/George+Clooney+image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXSYfhcM3ANUx70a4u0aFMPuLmYq2E3gWl50XraEefJuBEeh_ojbeK0xGZV4r5y9QNnnIqB8Ei20aMjkNdDdWcf_ilpXx1cFBAwN16YZjQ1uvksWIhfJ1jOkSOxvzz5k7hVxGDseFxjFE4/s400/George+Clooney+image.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ahem... George Clooney, of course. </b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
BOTOX today is one of the most
closely-guarded secrets among the beautiful people who throng Page Three. But
what is it all about? Is it medically beneficial? Does it lift both the sagging
of the spirit and the face? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dr. Stefania Roberts, an Australian
doctor of Italian descent, married to an Indian IT professional, provided some
vital answers in an interview in Bangalore.
A sclerotherapy specialist, she currently works as a cosmetologist with Dr.
Greg Goodman in Toorak, Melbourne. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She was in India recently for six days for training
sessions on Botox in Mumbai, Bangalore and New Delhi, followed by a
symposium in Jaipur. The trainees included plastic surgeons, dermatologists,
cosmetologists and ophthalmologists. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“We’re looking at artistry with
Botox, its application to the muscles to create a different look,” Stefania explains.
“We’re trying to bring in uniformity in Botox applications across the globe. I’m
here to share the American and Australian perspectives, so that the Indians can
adopt Botox to suit their needs here.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What is Botox? The drug, which
first came to India
in 2006, is a trade name for botulinum toxin type A, a neurotoxin produced by a
bacterium, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clostridium Botulinum</i>. It
has been used to treat neurological disorders over the past four to five
decades, according to a press note. As a therapeutic or cosmetic injection, it
works on the neuro-muscular junction to stop the release of acetylcholine,
known to cause excessive contractions. Originally, it was used to treat, say, cerebral
palsy. Now, gastroenterologists even use it to ease a tightening at the base of
the eosophagus. It is even said to work in 75 per cent of migraine cases. Botox
is currently being tested for use in prostrate problems. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But what of its cosmetic usage? In
1981, <span class="article-articlebody">Canadian pediatric ophthalmologist and
ophthalmic geneticist Jean Carruthers joined her dermatologist husband,
Alastair Carruthers, on a fellowship in California.
They proved that Botox could be used to </span>ease frown and smile lines,
brown spots and skin creases. Besides, it seemed safe in the long run, with
temporary effects from three to eight months. The couple now practice in Vancouver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
An Indian angle? “The Indian
population ages very well,” explains Stefania. “In the 1970s, we had quite a
bit of migration to Australia.
With Botox, what we’re addressing is a very non-invasive technique where we’re
injecting a purified protein to relax the muscle. It takes only five minutes to
do. We treat mainly the glabella or frown lines, or crow’s feet. Or the muscle
imbalances in the lower half of the face, like the sagging corners of the mouth,
or the neck muscles to give the jawline more definition. It’s all about looking
good, feeling good, and going out into the world.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What of culture-specific
applications? She points out that in Korea, there is a huge demand for
Botox shots to decrease the squareness of the jaw. In Australia, it
is often injected for people who clench or grind their teeth. The Europeans,
she stresses, come across as well-dressed, confident, sometimes with subtle
cosmetic enhancement, including Botox.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
But, of course, its side-effects on the individual
are still cloaked in incertitude. Rare, spontaneous reports of death have
occurred, sometimes associated with cardiac arrest, allergies, or even
pneumonia.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Stefania’s practice mainly covers Botox fillers, operating
on vascular lasers, and treatment of varicose veins in a private hospital. She
is a Botox trainer in both Australia
and New Zealand
. </div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ve been using Botox for the last ten years. The
worst complication I’ve had with it would be a bruise. Or an eyelid could
potentially drop, which usually lasts one to three weeks, then reverses itself
because a little Botox has gone into one of the little muscles that elevates
the eyelid,” she says. “In one or two cases, it has led to a crooked smile for
two to three weeks, but it reverses itself. This is the safest procedure that I
do. With my vein patients, I’m actually scared I could create a deep-end
thrombosis while treating them intravenously.”</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Stefania earlier worked in general practice. So,
she makes out a case for children as young as three who have been treated with
Botox for cerebral palsy. She reiterates the importance of updates in the use
of the medication.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
That brings us to the glamour value of enhancement
by Botox, collagen or other methods. Say, in the revamped features of Michael
Jackson. “Personally, I think that’s cosmetic surgery gone wrong,” Stefania
says. “I think we need to learn from these people who have taken surgery too
far. Jackson’s probably
had some Botox along the way, but it’s surgery that’s altered his appearance.
That’s facial restructuring. He looks nothing like he used to.”</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“In my practice, the procedure is non-invasive. The
patient looks refreshed. We don’t change their appearance,” she reiterates. </div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
As larger numbers look to natural therapies for
alleviation, where does Botox fit into the overview? “I think there’s a place
for both,” stresses Stefania. “If people want to choose a more natural path,
it’s certainly there. There will be many who will prefer to age naturally.”</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Perhaps with Demi Moore, Sharon Stone or George Clooney
in mind, she adds, “We have to learn from the Hollywood
stars. The effect of gravity and time leads to sagging. At the end of the day,
they will continue to age. Is that a good look? Patients often say: I don’t
want to look like that.” </div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
As the global urban individual searches intently for
the forever young look, what would her focus be? “I’d be concerned that the
cosmetic industry is growing by the minute. There are new procedures happening
to reverse the signs of ageing ~ laser to Botox, different forms of lifting.
It’s like technology. We can’t reverse this trend,” she says.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
As more men join women in seeking out botulinum
toxin, there is a yearning to lift the face, and thus the spirit. That would be
the base line on Botox.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<u>(I wrote this piece for The Hindu Business Line in 2003)</u> </div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0Bangalore, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.594562712.724026199999999 77.2787057 13.2191712 77.910419699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-62147701333186137452012-08-02T23:36:00.000-07:002012-08-02T23:36:26.188-07:00Art: M Reddeppa Naidu ~ The magic of the Mahabharata<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJefl5GbKY6BbE4A5BEYaUzY8ltbAyYxL2o3MmTR-7qTblAL27ElWhmfBFfJ8Ajkcdh34NW6S2HZeZ9yJXWeMaNuK4xGntGgKw8kAAp74D_1crKMSgmsVNjJH_mp9ZxSbEHX1hl9f3FML/s1600/Reddeppa+Naidu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJefl5GbKY6BbE4A5BEYaUzY8ltbAyYxL2o3MmTR-7qTblAL27ElWhmfBFfJ8Ajkcdh34NW6S2HZeZ9yJXWeMaNuK4xGntGgKw8kAAp74D_1crKMSgmsVNjJH_mp9ZxSbEHX1hl9f3FML/s400/Reddeppa+Naidu.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>(1932- 1999)</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<u>(Note: I interviewed Reddeppa Naidu twice ~ once for Indian Express in 1985, then for The Independent in Mumbai in 1990. This piece is a composite of the two sessions. I haven't been able to source visuals from his Mahabharata series so far, but promise to share them with this piece as soon as they come my way. )</u><br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> THE <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">MAHABHARATA </i>is open to interpretation by
each individual Indian. What does it mean to you? An ageless epic? Classic rock
sculptures in ancient caves? A popular television serial? A much-discussed,
internationally-cast theatrical presentation? A tale related episodically by
your grandmother?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> If you were a
Madras-based painter named Mopuri Reddeppa Naidu, now 57, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata</i> would spell a series of 18
large canvases, one for each <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parva </i>or
canto of the epic, executed between 1972 and 1974. It would also mean a
burgeoning friendship with M Deendayal, akin to him in age and social
background, who encouraged the series as an admirer, patron and art gallery
owner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Deendayal first
exhibited Reddeppa’s impressive and stylized work at the Ashoka Hotel in New
Delhi in 1974, then at his own Aparna art gallery in Madras in 1983. More
recently, he hosted a retrospective of Reddeppa’s work in Madras. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> How did the great
epic come to be captured on canvas? Naidu, relaxing at his modest home in
Madras, replies, “Around June 1972, Deendayal read me a poem from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stree parva</i> ~ the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Samsara Grahanam</i> ~ which was translated into Telugu from Sanskrit
in the 3<sup>rd</sup> century AD by Nanayyabhatt. He then requested me to do a
painting based on it. I did one, which both he and his wife liked very much.
Deendayal then suggested that I might like to do one for each <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parva.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Reddeppa is one of
the most respected contemporary painters in south India, a winner of the
coveted National Award in 1962, a student of D P Roy Chowdhury and K C S
Panicker at the Madras College of Arts and Crafts. He is currently Deputy
Director (Design) as the Weaver’s Service Centre (WSC) at Madras (now Chennai).
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Does his work in
textiles draw him away from art? “There are no two ways about it. An artist
remains an artist. He never goes completely into any other work,” replies
Reddeppa, thoughtfully. “But the creative mind is common to both the artist and
the textile designer. One complements the other. So, my primary object in
taking up this job ~ besides the fact that it helps monetarily ~ is that it
doesn’t affect my creative painting. It never distracts me from my canvas.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Does the WSC
re-connect him with Indian tradition? “If I had not joined the WSC, I would not
have known the greatness of our tradition because our art schools are so
western-oriented. Re-doing through the mind forms done by past people helps to
contact the living mind of the past,” he responds, drawing lines in the air.
“Contact with such textiles greatly benefits the creative artist. He is used to
free-thinking on a canvas. The same application on paper ~ a bird or a flower
or a design ~ is given the same aesthetic expression and gives the same joy. No
doubt, in conceiving a complete plan for a saree, an artist cannot design as he
likes. He has to think of how it will go on the loom. But after years of
working towards this, he can finally bring his personality into the saree ~ in
its colour, border, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pallav,</i> its
totality. Ultimately, he may achieve a simplification of the process, as in a
painting.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Here are excerpts
from an interview with Reddeppa, done in the context of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata </i>series:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> How have your techniques and
idioms evolved to bring you to this point in your art?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> In the early 1970s,
most south Indian painters were going through a romantic phase, greatly
influenced by the French school of thought. This was reflected in my first two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata </i>paintings. Earlier, in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deity</i> series which I began in the 1960s,
I used dull colours, sensitive lines of modern expression and bright patches
for emphasis. In their midst, I scripted relevant Sanskrit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">slokas</i>. These were authenticated by a pundit, Ganesa Sastri, hired
by Deendayal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> After the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Samsara</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grahanam</i>, Deendayal suggested the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sauptika Parva</i> as the next subject. After the final destructive
battle, which nobody really won, Asvatthama watches an owl entering a crow’s
nest and destroying all the young ones while the other surviving Kauravas ~
Kripa and Kritavarma ~ were asleep. Inspired by this, Asvatthama steals into
the Pandava camp, encounters Shiva and obtains his sword, with which he kills
all the sleeping Pandava sons. Then, he accompanies Kripa and Kritavarma to
tell Duryodhana of the enemy’s annihilation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pausing to gather his thoughts</i>) These
first two paintings in the series continued in the style of my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deity</i> series. The artist has to find a
vocabulary and colours of his own for the characters, and a philosophy for each
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parva.</i> The question of the entire <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata</i> doesn’t arise. I had to
choose an interesting poem from each <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parva
</i>and decide how to depict it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> In the third
painting of the series ~ the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sabha Parva</i>
~ I needed to depict Duryodhana, Arjuna and Bhima pictorially. At this stage, I
moved away from my earlier romantic paintings and my colours became brighter.
While doing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sabha Parva</i>, I had to
search within for a way of portraying the attempted disrobing of Draupadi. I
drew her praying to Krishna, and then a thought came to me. I drew Krishna’s
Sri Chakra around her sari to protect her. It’s not very cinematic, but it’s
very satisfying to have found such a solution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <i><b>You’d studied
Telugu and Sanskrit when you were young in Andhra Pradesh. Have you always been
familiar with the Mahabharata?</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Not really,
although I had read it in bits and pieces since my schooldays, seen it on stage
and in films. Which edition did I finally use for the paintings? One I borrowed
from Deendayal ~ a Telugu translation of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata</i> by Sri Mantri Lakshminarayanan Sastri.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata</i> elevates and takes the mind
to great heights. When you read all that philosophy, it is reflected in your
lines, your colours. My challenge was to read the epic, yet to be free of the
epic. Only then could I do a creative painting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Look, I didn’t
merely read the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata</i>. I lived
in it. In recreating it in a different medium, I lived through it. Today, I can
talk consciously about the line, the colour and composition of the paintings.
But, while I was working on them, it was all<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>unclear in my mind. I was trying to bring the unknown to reality. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Silent for a minute</i>) Normally, one
begins a venture with some expectations. The mind always works with a purpose,
but I had to set myself free. I wasn’t painting for an award, or even for a
customer. I could rise to the creative challenge because my mind was free of
all preoccupations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Was Deendayal responsible for
setting your mind free?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> He gave me
absolute freedom. I was totally responsible for giving of my best. For each <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parva</i>, I chose the incidents or episodes
to be depicted. He didn’t interfere, not even to check on the progress of each
painting, though I did show him a drawing on paper before I began each canvas.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> After each of the
18 paintings was completed, he’d send a vehicle for it. Then, we’d sit together
and discuss it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> How did you first meet
Deendayal, an unusual patron in our competitive world?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> In 1979, Deendayal
came to see a mural I had done for the industrialist T. T. Vasu, in Madras. He
appreciated it so much that he began to share with me his joy in Tanjore
paintings and other art objects from his private collection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We became friends. His faith in my talent saw
me through the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata </i>series.
There was no commercial aspect to this, but total mind-to-mind communication,
such as there is when you like a person very much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Strangely enough,
both Deendayal and I were about 40 when the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mahabharata
</i>paintings began in 1972. I feel that was the right age to get to know the
great epic. By then, we already have some experience of life. Like me, he holds
the conviction that the series should remain intact. He will never give away
the series or break it up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUBsMvavOFtkWq7scbBMHFewS5afIMyRg11bF3yW3F5UFmnSKO53jVcrGPR43E4dPpm0hr6YOoyZ2UE2JFrjZR2R2U8ZxMktzEMrxaskOMnLEZi1IPGtrRsDvUYs3vit5Qaalnd7lBW1A/s1600/Reddeppa+Naidu+musicians+series.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUBsMvavOFtkWq7scbBMHFewS5afIMyRg11bF3yW3F5UFmnSKO53jVcrGPR43E4dPpm0hr6YOoyZ2UE2JFrjZR2R2U8ZxMktzEMrxaskOMnLEZi1IPGtrRsDvUYs3vit5Qaalnd7lBW1A/s400/Reddeppa+Naidu+musicians+series.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>From his 'Musician' series</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> What were your first
encounters with religion-based paintings?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The inspiration
first came from a Muslim friend, Wazir Rahman, my classmate at the Kakinada
High School. He wrote Telugu poetry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
day in 1962, he said to me, “Look, Reddeppa, Balaji at Thirumala draws millions
of devotees every year. I’m surprised that he does not seem to mean a thing to
you.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I began to paint
Lord Venkateswara with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sankhu,
chakram</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">naamam</i>… I realised
that there was immense material in Hindu iconography, waiting to be exploited
by a serious and responsible artist.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>(This piece is included in my 2004 book, 'Articulations: Voices from Contemporary Indian Visual Art, published by Rupa & Co.) </i></span></div>
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<br />ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com1Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India13.060422 80.24958312.8129375 79.933726000000007 13.307906500000001 80.56544tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7215753289645621804.post-3238569907342160032012-06-14T23:50:00.001-07:002012-06-16T19:13:14.118-07:00Books: Jan Nordstrom's photo essays ~ Every breath we take<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0ulwgE812ETKRbK-xuuXqB0TZN1U4ujUV0oQpskyqfkmKmyF4RKBFQP2QI1pJjdTBA8CvUzi9po-LlNzVxA2UJww9owCEmXHjA6tA8KH9ZjylVxCB3DVQwJE-4im1PXlywtL2gzH6xNc/s1600/Jan+Frihet+front+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0ulwgE812ETKRbK-xuuXqB0TZN1U4ujUV0oQpskyqfkmKmyF4RKBFQP2QI1pJjdTBA8CvUzi9po-LlNzVxA2UJww9owCEmXHjA6tA8KH9ZjylVxCB3DVQwJE-4im1PXlywtL2gzH6xNc/s640/Jan+Frihet+front+1.jpg" width="569" /> </a></div>
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A book is a book is a book, did you say? I thought my
definition of a book were formed enough, until the postman rang my doorbell
some weeks ago ~ and four books by the
Swedish photographer-painter- poet Jan Nordstrom waltzed into my life, making
me redefine what books are all about.
I’m still trying to figure out all that makes his books special. </div>
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Jan’s books have his poems, and his photographs. But they
are not glossy, touch-with-care coffee table books. Nor are they standard-sized
volumes that you pick off a bookstore shelf, scan, then toss away.</div>
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For there’s a certain fine-tuned sensibility underlying his books
that blew me away. Completely. This includes the brilliant photography, the edgy
design, the focused intent, the subtle paintings, even the text in translation.
It all comes together in undeniable harmony.<br />
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Take my favourite of the four, to begin with.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Freedom</u></span></i></div>
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<i>Frihet </i>(Freedom)
teases me with its cover blurb in English translation: “The story of Erik, Mona
and Ruben. For those who live close. About the people who nurse and help. For
those who carry hope as an inner world.” </div>
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I open the book. And I stumble upon Eric, just 10, in a
wheelchair. He’s at Kalmar country hospital with his mother Marina and his baby
brother Axel in a pram. This is a
poetic, pictorial document of his life from 2002-2004.</div>
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Eric has been battling leukaemia. He has been through chemotherapy. He dreams,
one day, of playing football with his friends again. And so he does. </div>
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A few pages later, I enter the world of Mona. A sweet, smiling couple dance in a living
room. Who are they?</div>
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In Jan’s words: “Tuesday, November 19, 2002./ The living
room./ Dance for a while./ Love each other. / Mona Iveby, 59, and her beloved
Bengt Ohlsson, 64./ Mona has neoplasm./ It can no longer be cured./ Only
curbed./ Love and the will to live carry them now…”</div>
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Through sensitive, gentle pictures Jan makes us look through
lenses we have never tried. We follow Mona’s journey. As a nurse helps Mona
with a shot of morphine to tackle her pain. As Mona dabs on lipstick, a gesture
of self-healing. As she paints every Wednesday, for little things gain great
meaning as dusk comes knocking at life.
As the couple drive away to a fairytale island cottage on Oland. By
2003, Mona and Bengt fly away to a cottage in Madeira. It almost makes you
believe in miracles in real time. </div>
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With courage, with infinite grace, Mona says, “I believe
that you need to take risks if you want to live life to its utmost.”</div>
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And then there’s 79-year-old Ruben who, post-surgery, realizes,
“So little is needed to make someone happy. A smile…”</div>
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Jan’s images speak even more eloquently than his text. An unforgettable hug between Mona and her
Bengt, their first in two years, his eyes closed in remembrance. A part-portrait of Ruben rowing, the deep blue
of the sky backdrop in sync with his eyes and his shirt. Eric, back with his
peers, his infinity smile a promise of sunshine days to come.</div>
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This is a moving testimony to the human spirit ~ and to trained
caregivers who heal with their gentle touch, their presence, their ability to
understand.</div>
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I can understand the
impetus for this book only because I’ve met Jan Nordstrom. Way back in the fall of 1999,
at Kalmar in southeast Sweden, by the Baltic Sea, where he lives and swims in
the icy waters at dawn. The city has a population of over 36,000.</div>
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We met when 20 of us from Asia, Africa and Latin America were
chosen to participate in a seminar on ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Women
in Journalism’</i> in the idyllic small town.
Jan was the official photographer and course assistant ~ and we returned home with portraits that we
still look back on with wonder and tenderness.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Loveness</u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAt5ggBqxhdZRtNs11BOUiOSEKy6zXd_Pcukr1S69Cuf8iFOj3fFGuAQFri51gr9m_4vV_KxD9WGjP5J3A6O4voJs3SqIT6sPISDB5R701BfEp8Az-N7mXTNlPEySTzVteD121WNQ8_2L/s1600/Jan+Loveness+cover+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAt5ggBqxhdZRtNs11BOUiOSEKy6zXd_Pcukr1S69Cuf8iFOj3fFGuAQFri51gr9m_4vV_KxD9WGjP5J3A6O4voJs3SqIT6sPISDB5R701BfEp8Az-N7mXTNlPEySTzVteD121WNQ8_2L/s400/Jan+Loveness+cover+.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
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<i>Karlekheten</i>
(Loveness) left me just as wonderstruck. For, through poetry, photographs and
paintings, Jan evokes l-o-v-e. </div>
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I catch my breath over a semi –blurred, full-cheeked,
soft-lashed baby in profile in the right-hand corner of a double-spread. He
draws my eye in, as gently as a caress. On the blank page opposite, ant-like
words crawl into the stillness: “life
cannot be put on hold.”</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaasM0rzTVsEx2WZ3XdypPzlp56IIBBFxX7TLdIhxo4gNzoDdm3AQfQpF6Qf7Iet3FcuvDqHXVO5t6SlFxa0vQys_8znOVmlHkB1irxeUW4QvOMkImRtGbNP8DjMbLXCdsXeWDVKag7F9d/s1600/Jan+Loveness+detail+within+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaasM0rzTVsEx2WZ3XdypPzlp56IIBBFxX7TLdIhxo4gNzoDdm3AQfQpF6Qf7Iet3FcuvDqHXVO5t6SlFxa0vQys_8znOVmlHkB1irxeUW4QvOMkImRtGbNP8DjMbLXCdsXeWDVKag7F9d/s400/Jan+Loveness+detail+within+1.jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>An image from 'Loveness</b>'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Jan’s books are as much about his personal talent, as they
are about what we’ve come to associate with a Scandinavian sensibility: teasing
minimalism, deliberate restraint, evocative layouts that enhance. </div>
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What illustrates this in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Karlekheten</i>? </div>
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~ A faceless, dramatic black-and-white painting, with the
words: ‘you touch my inner being/ in the dreams I have hidden.’ </div>
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~ A hand emerging
from a shirtsleeve, its fingers touching gnarled bark: ‘what do we leave
behind?’ </div>
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~ The love story of Astrid, 84, and Sven, 95, immortalized
in a photo-essay, through arms wrapped protectively around each other as they
lie side by side, through the tangible love in their eyes as his hand touches
her cheek. </div>
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It is in the unspoken, the unwritten, the internally
visualized that come to life through Jan’s visual and verbal prompts. Each
enriches us in intangible ways. That’s what makes this book so precious,
priceless beyond counting.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Glow</u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3swKekuD_8fqGIG2DRz1bCbKwojAcUqcFKwCb7jDW-sdaMEv5y8P0-yre4swNSAV00v-iy4YInGgqHdNuS1My9uHH7_evRi89b3vncYnRzJ78_zjgAJtlxEQi20dpBiZLJoldRAThyphenhyphenIkV/s1600/Jan+Glod+Glow+cover+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3swKekuD_8fqGIG2DRz1bCbKwojAcUqcFKwCb7jDW-sdaMEv5y8P0-yre4swNSAV00v-iy4YInGgqHdNuS1My9uHH7_evRi89b3vncYnRzJ78_zjgAJtlxEQi20dpBiZLJoldRAThyphenhyphenIkV/s320/Jan+Glod+Glow+cover+.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
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<i>Glod </i>(Glow)
visually shares Kalmar’s luminous past, its glassmaking traditions. As Jan
couches it, “So I returned/ Back to the land of glass./ To the knights and
wizards of my childhood./ To those who blow life into glass./ To the pride in
their eyes. / To the glow./ To the treasure of glass.”</div>
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The accompanying visuals are stunning. Black at the centre
across a doublespread; to the left, a figure enters the building; to the right
is a slatted gate in front of an orange wall, a street lamp lights all. A hand
in focus between two fiery panels, as the molten glass is gathered. Lush green leaves; in the top corner of the
frame, a man in a red shirt sips from a glass. In the last quarter of a pitch
dark frame, Michael blows the slender beginnings of a vase.</div>
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Each frame in this mainly non-textual book is lyrical, even
painterly, culled with tenderness. This photo-essay truly glows from within
with imagination and insight. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Together</u></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQVvBQ4Cz0C0wIswmIv5W6pThKRYSbQTHQLM-SI5eMSiI6xrudoWLzXZ7opabN9dlnb5dfCWuoVKGES-rw4DppfytWYVifZSA3lHncjDDX4M4hwTPJUIg4jVtKj9G6todaZvCU5IznxW1/s1600/Jan+soccer+book+cover+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQVvBQ4Cz0C0wIswmIv5W6pThKRYSbQTHQLM-SI5eMSiI6xrudoWLzXZ7opabN9dlnb5dfCWuoVKGES-rw4DppfytWYVifZSA3lHncjDDX4M4hwTPJUIg4jVtKj9G6todaZvCU5IznxW1/s400/Jan+soccer+book+cover+.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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In Jan’s fourth book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Tillsammansheten</i>”
(Together), I did not have the benefit of an English text. Over its pages, he
follows Kalmar FF’s A-league footballers through the season of 2010-11. Being a
football fan like him, I was enchanted by it.</div>
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For not a single frame would fit into a sports magazine or
football reports in a daily. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dagens
Nyheter</i> , Sweden’s biggest morning paper, chose it as one of the best books
of 2011. </div>
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Here’s a teaser trailer of what we see on his pages:</div>
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Black, hazy figures jumping in the air against a fogged skyline
and skeletal trees…</div>
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A huddle of
red-kitted heads with a pearl grey backdrop…</div>
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The toss onfield,
viewed through a sea of football-boots with long socks on…</div>
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A tantalizing double
frame: half a male face in profile looks in from the right edge; facing him is
a smudgy maybe-face at the edge of the left. ..</div>
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A feathery blue sky;
at its base is a tiny player in red; two balls bounce ~ one above his head, one behind him…</div>
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The drama of the locker
room, the nitty-gritty of coaching sessions…</div>
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The beautiful game comes alive in a million aspects through this
poetic, singing tribute from Jan. The power. The joy. The glory. And the
sadness of its flipside alike.</div>
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Until these books arrived at my door from Kalmar, I knew Jan
Nordstrom as a gentle, caring soul, a fine photographer. But the sheer span of
his undeniable talent has swept me off my feet.</div>
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Now I know for sure that a book is a book is a book, often predictable
and recognizable, but not when couched through the eyes of Jan Nordstrom. </div>
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<i>Skol </i>to you, my
friend Jan! </div>
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* *
*</div>
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More information on Jan’s books, mainly in Swedish:</div>
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<a href="http://www.jannordstrom.com/">www.jannordstrom.com</a></div>ADITI DE is a writer, traveller and daydreamer. She loves the arts, crafts, textiles, books, and conversations that last until the sun rises.http://www.blogger.com/profile/07874978302475860310noreply@blogger.com0