Christie’s night

Christie’s auction sale night at Taj Mahal palace in Mumbai, that saw record sales of paintings by Gaitonde, Tyeb Mehta, seemed to represent the polar opposites of existence- otherworldliness and blatant materialism; light and darkness; creation and destruction. The aggressive bidding for the paintings was almost tantamount to crass commercialism driven by boorish insensitivity and profiteering motives. And the more frightening fact is that death and destruction is always so much stronger than life and creation. The divine creations of the super-talented artists are perhaps destined to be valued by sloppy-minded amateurs. Thankfully, some of these great painters like Gaintonde who solely pursued ‘art for art’s sake’ are not alive to witness the fate of their creations. Gaitonde, especially, was said to be completely averse to the idea of selling art for the sake of business. Paintings should only be sold to patrons who truly understand it, according to Vincent Van Gogh. Nevertheless, some of these legendary artists apart, largely the lot of them are ever so dependent on rich patrons for survival and acclaim. For a fact, it is one thing to be born with a great gift, and quite another thing to give the product of ‘the gift’ its right place in the world. And, then again, it is a completely different thing to know what one stands for and the real value of one’s creation. Sadly, artists, in the course of their lifetime and after that, once they are proven and acclaimed, no longer remain isolated individuals. They then belong to the world, to the public and largely to the collective wishes of the people. Hence, they end up at the mercy of institutions, companies and so on and so forth.  French wine-swilling Christie’s night too faded into collective memory of the public as just another elitist event, out of the grasp of the common people, what with all the mindboggling prices of paintings such as Rs 23.7 crore for a Gaitonde painting, even when the mist lay cold and white along the sea-side road outside Taj while the paintings called out for a starry starry night.

Meghna Maiti

Lying on the sand

Last Sunday I was lying on the yellow sand of a beach, in the
afternoon blazing sun, sensing froth, coral, mermaid and quill. The
strip of land around formed a kind of lagoon where kingfishers pecked
and rapped, drinking noah of the bay. A turbaned man crossed the
narrow expanse of water bare feet while whisking boys splashed water
at each other. Beyond all these there was the fisherman’s village
where sea-farer slept deep and sound on rickety cots after an entire
night of ocean-exploring while their wives went away to the city
market to sell fish. As the fierce, molten sun faced me directly like
a king with all its glory, the sea took on its golden hue and the sand
absorbed its heat. I shut my eyes and listened to the silent crashing
of the waves against the shore; the distant buzz of the cicada; the
faint drone of a helicopter flying up above the sky. I felt a dry,
cool warm air rising up from the sand like misty fumes which seeped
into my being. The weather reeked of yearning and desire; soul and
spirit and everything primitive and instinctual. Some urchins were
playing cricket at a distance. In close proximity, a middle-aged
couple consisting of a firang man and an Indian lady was lying on the
sand, soaking in the solar silence and the sea. A sense of calmness
descended in me as my ever-craving, troubled soul seemed to be in
unison with the intense longing of the mid-day sun. A hullaballoing
group shrieked in joy at a bunch of balloons in the air. The migratory
birds flew away over the sky into their nests in the distant horizon.
The hibiscus sun was slowly setting as a newly wed couple got their
photo clicked against it. The sun probably blessed them with an
eternity of love. A bunch of sea-side food sellers were trying to
allure people into their stalls. There was blaring hindi music from
radio, tape recorder. I breathed deeply and observed the day slowly
winding away, leaving its footprints on many-coloured minds.

Meghna Maiti

The night of the Goan kinda awakening

MEGHNA MAITI

Mumbai



It doesn’t take long for ghoulish, cavernous fiery eyes to assert
themselves through the wild carousing of the Goan hippies and the
creepy darkness of the night. As they come closer and closer I see a
pair of those beady green eyes assuming form and shape to turn into a
colossal demon or Narkasura of pre-Diwali night. Standing around Goa’s
bustling Panjim area at 12 0’clock in the night before a gigantic
effigy of Narakasura I feel a sudden sense of smallness as the demon
seems to howl like a hot wind and demands obeisance. I wait dumbstruck
like a deer in headlights. Meanwhile, at one of the retro pubs along
the sea shore in North Goa, after a fair dose of drinking and dancing
people are all set to party till the wee hour of the morning to dispel
the gloom of their souls and usher in collective hope.



On the sultry end-October night before Diwali in Goa, people in
general are not horrified or repelled by the demons in every nook and
corner of the main city. The night is not merely about the huge
effigies of the demons filled with grass, waste paper and crackers but
that where evil could always be overpowered by good. Thus on this
night, Goans wait till the crack of the dawn to burn the effigies of
the demons. They light lamps in their houses to mark the end of
darkness and the beginning of light in their lives. They also come out
in hordes to be part of the celebration of goodness. Viva La Goa, a
reveller wishes me from his open- hooded jeep in Panjim, cordially
passing on his bottle of Fenny as a gesture of goodness. I refuse him
bluntly and move on, yet again fearing the ire of the demon.



Legend says Narakasura is the son of the earth goddess Bhudevi and
Lord Vishnu and is said to have grown to be a demon through his
association with Banasura. Drunk with power, he turns into a
control-freak and a womaniser who steals the earrings of Aditi, the
mother goddess and usurps some of her territory and also kidnaps
around 16,000 women! He pursues devi Kamakhya for marriage, solely
motivated by his carnal desire. However, soon lord Krishna comes to
the rescue of the hapless women. During the wee hours of Naraka
Chaturdashi, he kills Narakasura. The overnight festival of Narakasura
in Goa has a sort of soul-cleansing impact on the common people with a
significance of a larger life outside the narrow confines of humdrum
existence.



On Diwali eve, a part of North Goa is almost flooded with people from
all across India and the world. A flock of tourists gather around the
majestic Panjim church, wearing Hawaiian shirts and cowboy shorts or
loose white cotton pajamas, hissing and hooting the slow traffic and
cheering brightly-lit Narakasuras on the back of the trucks. Right
across the church, a big poster claims this is one of the big
festivals of the state and this is only going to get bigger from next
year onwards. A group of chirpy blue-eyed women hula hoop backwards
and forwards to the tune of a Goan remix while a gentleman donning a
floppy straw hat goes all bleary-eyed with the swirls of smoke from
his tobacco pipe. The place becomes a carnival magic, resonating to
everybody. It lifts the burnt-out spirits of everybody. It disappoints
nobody.



This time around, Goa welcomed me with an air of festivity and
promise. The Goa Tourism Development Corporation hotel in Panjim where
I put up is a modest accommodation which provides basic amenities-
clean sheets, water among others. Nikhil Desai, managing director of
GTDC says the company plans to portray Goa as monsoon wedding,
festival tourism destinations. It has also invited private players for
activities such as hot air balloons, segway tours (guided city tours)
and horse trails. They are planning to start helicopter services in
the state as well.



Later that evening, I attend an exclusive Diwali-special mid-night
cruise on Santa Monica. From the deck of the boat, Mandovi River looks
like a dark, sinister terrain forming an illusory world with the
floating casinos on one side, small steamers on the other side, the
sight of flickering ships far off- on the horizon and the neon glow
signboards of the city away on the shore. Gavin Dias, deputy general
manager of GTDC inaugurates the programme on the boat.  The local
dancers put up a colourful performance of Goan folk dance, Divli
dance, special UV Diwali act while the audience too joins in to play
fun couply games. Hale and hearty evening ends with much cheering,
clapping and laughter over bottles of beer and Bacardi Breezer. To add
to that, the dinner spread includes wholesome Goan delicacies such as
prawn xacuti, chicken balchao, fish amboli among others.



The following afternoon, I stroll along the narrow, clean lanes of
Fontainhas; peep into the neat, elegant interior of the Portugese
villas on either side, most of which have been converted into hotels.
I also visit Mario Miranda gallery.



On the last night of Goa, I go to the retro pub on Baga beach. The air
is thick with the ebb and flow of smoke, the changing waves of gritty
rock numbers, the boom of the microphone. The deejay slowly increases
the tempo of the music to pull people to the dance floor. While some
people hit the psychedelic dance floor, others romance along the
moonlit beach till the wee hours of the morning…soon it would be time
for another sunrise- the end of darkness or illusion and who knows-
even a new kinda awakening.



meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com



ENDS

Of Newsrooms

Back in the 1970s-80s up to late 90s, Indian newsrooms for print media started as glorified
havens for ‘righteousness’ and ‘independence’ where some high-minded
retards constantly raised their voice decibels to change the essence
of the truth. They all had their own versions of truth, driven by an
overarching story line, which influenced the opinions of the masses.



Reporters, in those heady times, used to be glib and clever but never
rigid or morally stringent because there would always be another right
side to the story. Essentially newsrooms used to be open and free
spaces where journalists could be spontaneous, playful and at times
‘flirtatious’.



No one would be dragged to court for being a little ‘inappropriate’ or
‘bawdy.’ The best of the editors mercilessly hurled abuses or
unheard-of slangs at the copy editors and no one would mind. The
spontaneity and the chaos would in fact add an interesting layer to
writing or reporting. There was a sense of looking at the world in a
playful, curious and creative way which fostered ‘out-of-the-box’
thinking, innovation. Editors in fact encouraged junior
journalists to be open to all kinds of ideas, to explore, cross
boundaries and never ever take anything at face value.



The newsrooms would be full of interesting people- idealistic,
neurotic, fantasists, truth-sayers, denialists – the only common
thread perhaps being their openness to the world.



Newsrooms would also be full of archaic furniture, cubicles and table
stacked with old magazines, books, files, typewriter or teleprinter. Some
journalists failed to write without the constant clatter of the
typewriter. Typically, their day would start in the afternoon and go
on till mid-night. The daily routine of some of the best of the
editors of our country would consist of reading, going through
newslist, deciding the content of the paper, having a hearty meal,
taking a nap and then writing, taking occasional tea or coffee breaks
which kicked their minds.



It all seems like a dream now because newsrooms have changed to a
great degree. While the journalists no longer have time to sweeten
their tea, the bearable lightness of being is long gone!



ENDS

Best companions

Nov 04 2013, 2115 hrs IST

“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking” — Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

At times, when utter despair gets to me and everything in the world seems meaningless and empty, it’s only the love of books that cheers me. From a very early age, my relationship with books is visceral and intense. A familiar shiver of thrill creeps up my spine as I turn the pages of my favourite books. The words seem reassuring, even if they do not exactly address my immediate issues. They seem to create that small window in Alice in Wonderland’s world, which opens out to a big, bright world.

I have spent many a summer afternoons in my hometown Kolkata hiding inside the fantastic world of books. I would be enamoured with what was likely my fresh experience with strange lands, strange people and strange customs. I loved the fancy illustrations on the cover page. Each time, the experience would drive a rivulet into my brain that pushed me past what I’d known was possible and into a place I had not known existed. Stories were in a way a form of escapism, running away from the real world, real issues, and real people.

Yet books would always be a sort of a healer and take me towards my essential self. They would help open up blockages of my being and teach me to breathe deeply. They also made me more inward-looking as a person and more connected with my soul. I would always write my name, date, time and place of a new book on the first page and sometimes leave a note too explaining the situation in which I bought it. Years later, I would always read those with a lingering feeling of nostalgia. I would be amused by some weird circumstances in which I had to buy that book or an unlikely place from which I picked it up. I can’t imagine my life without books now. They are my best companions and partners in crime.

Meghna Maiti

Space

Space

Meghna Maiti

Fog, thicker and thicker, oyster-colored, like another time; drumbeats and sullen durga-ma idols, as if end of something poignant, the end of everything, the beginning of winter……As the Kolkata-October faded away before my eyes, I saw a harsher Mumbai skyline pushing itself upward with a sinking feeling. It was one of those times, when I felt a sharp tinge of pain slither up inside me and remained coiled in a dormant state near my throat. There was an icy, cold feeling everywhere, a sense of emptiness. The only respite was my languorous attempt to cling on to a sense of ‘space’ that Mumbai offered to me and kept me going.

All my life, I have explored the world in terms of space, sound and images and I intend to do more of that. This has, in a sense, helped me tide over the crisis formed by time and distance. Why do we live if we cannot learn and absorb everyday from nature, live intensely and freely, with all our senses alive? While Kolkata somewhat sharpens these dimensions of life, it somehow attaches you with people, places, buildings because it is the city of relationships, love, warmth. I constantly hear voices, feel touch in Kolkata until it takes all my space and leaves me with a yearning to run- far and far away to the wilderness.

It is perhaps the only hope that gives me the courage to leave everything and everyone behind in my hometown Kolkata for quest of the unknown, the exploration of the world with all senses, crossing the boundaries and breaking away from barriers. The space becomes bigger and bigger when I realize the vastness of the Arabian ocean, the detached population of Mumbai, the multitude of people from different communities and walks of life.

Hence, I love my hometown from a distance and do not let it drown me in its vicissitudes of colours, love and immensity. And I feel it strongly in one of those lonely evenings in Mumbai when a sharp spell of rain washes the city and rejuvenates its trees.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

ENDS

Art of novel writing

I have always treated authors with a sense of awe. The best of them are undoubtedly the shadows that guide us to the centre of our lives, give us perspectives and vision. They remain fiercely alive in our minds; inspiring us forever with their worldviews, words and distinct voices. I always get back to different pages, chapters and underlined sentences of my books during darker moments of my life to regain strength and gumption. At a time when everything seems to fall apart, my favourite authors such as Somerset Maugham, JM Coetzee and Ruskin Bond appear like angels — comforting and pampering me — clearing the signs of rain-heavy clouds of my life.

Yet I am sometimes astounded by their conviction; their complete submission to a divine calling. What could possibly be the skills required to be an imaginative novelist? According to Orhan Pamuk, the Turkish author, an imaginative novelist has to be childlike, irresponsible and playful. “Whenever I lose that child in me, I find it difficult to proceed with my novel. It is the biggest weapon of an imaginative novelist,” said Pamuk. Only such state of mind takes you to the centre of things, Pamuk believes. A romantic author also needs to be open to his desires and wants; open to dark recesses of his mind and new experiences. There should be no sense of boundary. An aspiring novelist gradually moves through life like a voyeur, living his half-baked yet intense life, not participating in life yet relishing every moment of it, till the end.

All authors struggle, at some point, with the problem of balance between individual and society, temptation and self-control, reality and fantasy, materialism and pragmatism, attachment and detachment. After all, the secret of those life-transforming tales is the secret of effective storytelling — to provide, slowly, the illusion of immensity; the uncanny sense that something fundamentally different is going to be revealed. In other words, it’s the art of stripping all virtues to redefine them.

Meghna Maiti

Spinning of the Soul

genre: fiction

NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental. 

Meghna Maiti

The days were becoming increasingly long and the nights- stretched to eternity. The seasons were passing by, unnoticed, un-loved. The hours were but deadened awakening of mundane routines. The weather inside the small apartment No. 13 at St. Ellis Road located in a sleepy suburb of Mumbai always remained the same. The untended, unmoored pallor of its furniture, walls was strikingly similar to the mind of its chief inhabitant- Maya. Its grey walls, boxed furniture made of teak-wood, ever-drawn brown curtains cast their illusory eyes on Maya as they weighed on her intensely, perhaps deeply. She looked exhausted to the core- with her swollen- puffy eyes, dark circles, and misshapen eyebrows. Even the sight of her angelic, giggly two-year old daughter- Rishima would not clear her mind or cheer her up.

The clock struck 10 pm. Maya sighed and started preparing food for her daughter. As she got busy mixing vegetables, lentils and rice with adequate ghee (clarified butter) and sugar to make it palatable for the baby, she knew Harit- her husband would not return home tonight. He had not been home from his workplace for almost a fortnight now. 

Harit ran his own business venture related with artist management and supply of paintings and artefacts to the galleries and retail shops. He worked from his business partner’s apartment in Mumbai suburb, around an hour’s drive from his own house.

Harit often disappeared from home for days citing work and deadline pressures. He shirked household responsibilities leaving his wife with no means or support to run the house. Yet he expected everything to function smoothly and effortlessly with no complaint whatsoever.

“Why don’t you come home early and take us out? We never go anywhere,” Maya would sometimes raise an issue. Harit remained as unmoved, calm and composed as ever as he answered, “I am setting up a big business, darling. My work does not allow me to be home early and out. We have to be disciplined, work and prosper for our own good. Everything else is a waste of time.”

Maya would frown and yell at him in exasperation, “You are talking about work and all that. But I am the one who is paying all bills. How long will this go on? We don’t even eat out or go for fun-trips. We don’t party like other couples.”

-“It’s all in the mind, Maya. True to your name, you are all full of illusions. Clear yourself of it. Don’t be so materialistic. Have patience.”

But Maya was indeed losing patience these days. She would lose temper, throw tantrums and be rude to people. Her world was becoming narrow and narrower till it could almost be passed through a crevice. While her boss at her workplace- an advertising agency was getting difficult by the day, most friends had started avoiding them for whatever reasons. Her only respite was painting- which she clung on to like a mental patient to a therapist. She often drew portraits of girls from her neighbourhood or colleagues from office. She would paint sceneries, interesting incidents on the road. Unlike her life, her paintings stood out brilliantly- those were large, vibrant, colourful and forceful- etched with love and nostalgia. Though she was merely an amateur painter, the photographs of her art on social networking sites drew huge appreciation from critics and friends.

Of late Maya had been thinking of Harit with a strong sense of bitterness- she would resent the way he was inattentive to her needs, irresponsible to his own family- how he would return home only to spend time with his daughter- chide Maya for coming in late from her office parties- and depend on her for his finances. Even his gestures of kindness and freedom were more out of gratitude than love, she felt.

Such unsettling times called for adventure, even dangerous love, bordering on insanity that could either lead to creation or destruction. And especially a person like Maya needed just that potion of abyss abandonment to find her lost self. After a bad fight with Harit on an evening, she felt her mind whirring with a million bees. She made a random call to a person who had been stalking her for days and returned home the next day from a one-night stand with the stranger- she swore never to meet again.

Thus she built her secret, crazy, meaningless life, in the space between vice and oblivion, beyond the glance of one and all. She started singularly spinning around the world with her multiple selves.

And then, what kept Maya in the marriage? Why wasn’t she leaving him for good? She thought over it umpteen times yet held herself back. Hadn’t that blue-eyed tarot-reader girl whom Maya trusted with all her heart told her that her husband was her karma. She had to be in the relationship to pay off her karmic debt- a Hindu religious concept of basically- action and reaction. Hadn’t her mother who now lived in an ashrama in Kerala told her repeatedly three years ago when she wanted to separate from her husband, “Isn’t it your dharma (moral duty) to stay with your husband? You cannot leave him if you want to be happy.” And what would happen to Rishima?- her closest friend from college had asked. “Your life would be ruined if you leave him. Where would you go? Would you find another person?” her father had warned who also stayed at the ashrama. She stared hard into clouds of darkness as she listened to the ceaseless droning of all voices and wandered about the road ahead.

“Relax! You are an awesome person. You will be fine,”- sweet words of consolation from Maya’s friend and colleague- Nishant- brought her some relief. Her grief and emptiness took their friendship to a more intimate level. On a week day, after work, they caught up at Nishant’s place to share a joint. The slow drags of hash reddened her kohl-smudged eyes and consumed her being.  She loosened up and felt much lighter, like a maze of soap bubbles. Her failed attempts at catching it left a smirk on her face. Then they broke into a peal of laughter, laughed and laughed till the house echoed of their bitter-sweet nothingness; the air grew thick of the pleasure-inducing smoke; till the night turned abnormally silent apart from the heavy breath of the lovers. They got drawn to each other like two moths to a flame and made love till the break of the dawn, listening to the repeating romantic track from the movie- “The Roman Lord”- which means- “The depth of these moments could only be measured by our feelings….”

“What’s up? You look too excited?”- Harit asked Maya after a sudden appearance on a breezy morning. The dazzling sun of the day lit up their faces. “Yes, why not? I was born on this day. I don’t expect you to remember though,” Maya retorted. “Oops, I’m so sorry!” Harit quickly edged forward with an apologetic expression and hugged her “Happy Birthday!” “I totally forgot, its August 13! I promise we would go out for dinner tonight.” Harit kissed her goodbye.

Maya remained cheerful throughout the day, took an off at work, stayed at home and stitched her embroidered top for dinner that Harit had bought from his office trip to London, years ago. Those were the initial years of marriage when Maya was blindly passionate about him. She would wait to slip into his arms, make love the entire day. She had wanted to remain loyal to him forever.

Maya took pains to dress up beautifully for their birthday dinner together- she curled her hair, wore bright-red lipstick, cream eye-shadow, mascara and her pink pearl-set to go with her skirt-blouse.

The wait turned out to be a tad longer as usual- the clock struck one am- Harit had still not returned home. She felt a surge of exasperation and ferocity that almost drove her to frenzy. In a fit of rage, she called up her playboy single man she had a fling with long ago. Maya told him she wanted to meet him in an hour’s time. She stormed out of the house after entrusting Rishima to the care of the nanny. When Maya returned the next morning, Harit had still not come back.

The intermittent episodes of infidelity and the shutting down of all other voices eventually gave Maya the strength to see the truth. Perhaps this was not the best way but this was undoubtedly a unique path to freedom and independence. She finally decided to separate from her husband and liberate herself from the fallacy of action and the path of righteousness. She learnt that karma was after all in the mind and in the end what mattered was how truly and freely she lived her life- how true she was to her innermost desires. And she felt happier than ever.

ENDS