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