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

Here comes ganpati

If you are exhausted by the give and take and hurly-burly of Mumbai city life, take a walk around the numerous alleys and chowks to get a glimpse of the pot-bellied, friendly hindu god- lord ganpati; sense the soothing fragrance of jasmine and marigolds. And I can vouch for the feeling of happiness and optimism his company would bring to you. He is the eliminator of obstacles, the patron of arts and sciences and the deva of intellect and wisdom. 

Ganpati is a hard-core foodie which he devours with his elephant trunk. He offers you delicious ‘modaks’- those Indian homemade sweets made of rice flour, coconut and jaggery, which is undeniably good for your soul. During his ten-day visit in Mumbai, you see the city changing its hues and shades, by drawing colourfully-clothed people out in the streets, around the pandals- the incessant beating of drums- smokes of incense sticks filling the fading afternoon light- the twinkling festival lights garlanding the roads- the arrival and departure of emotions, lost times and romance.

Also, religious skits are performed around legendary tales of politics, history and mythology as people stand and applaud.

However, despite all the hoopla surrounding the popular god, it is sad that the biggest festival of Mumbai is increasingly turning into a crass commercial venture. Most of us would have noticed the ganpati pandals these days are more about the advertisements on the banners. Every year, the celebration seems to become grander as political parties and neighbourhood associations try hard to outdo the next guy, remaining true to the spirit of the city. The dons commission huge pandals and expensive lightings, to gain the loyalty of the masses while the small-time goons use ganpati festival for extortion from hawkers, small-time shopkeepers. Many people believe that the festival should be less about religion, social unity and devotion and more about commercialisation, politics and business. And, I am sure if we don’t change our attitude and engage with the lovely god in a more intimate and warm manner, he will surely leave without his blessings.

ENDS

Meghna Maiti

Audacity of hope

The ruthless sacking of employees across the media sector reveals the signs of ominous, black clouds engulfing freedom and courage of millions of journalists. Take for instance, the overnight slashing of around 650 employees and four eminent editors across esteemed publications and websites owned by a rich business baron. This treatment was meted out to people who served the companies loyally for years, worked like dogs and didn’t complain even when the group’s fortune dived and there were no increments or promotions.

The reason- management says- cost cutting- cut the excess flab- free market economy- hire and fire policy. To top it all- there is also a need to increase the profit margin- it has to soar and soar like a vulture till it swoops down and sucks blood out of common human beings. It doesn’t matter whether the bunch of journalists are left philandering in a market crippled by economic woes and plunging rupee, with no fresh recruitment or opportunities whatsoever. Instead of showing empathy to the rest of the lot in the organisation, the editors are now strictly instructed to threaten them with more job losses until they become completely docile and submissive. And with hardly any union presence, they are left with no choice but connive at everything and carry on with their daily drudgery.

Moreover, journalists don’t want to protest lest their next job prospects are hurt by it. The entire industry is slowly devoured by a big shark.  It is crippled by vested political and economic interests of media owners and leading journalists. And we dare not write about these issues.

Perhaps, we can avoid this state of beings by establishing more independent and autonomous private bodies for alternative journalism run by strong editors.  These organisation should become a sort of platform and legal ground for fair diversity and competition among the private outlets. There should be more equitable distribution of wealth, more concern for the well-being of journalists working for their passions. It should be less about cut-throat competition, ego-wars. People outside should have the right to know what they want without any interference from commercial interests. The organisations should be more liberal and progressive in their outlook. We also need to form unions to voice our opinions without fear.

Meghna Maiti

Break all barriers; break all boundaries

Meghna Maiti

Mumbai

“Imagine all the people, living life in peace, you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one……”- John Lennon

Long after the days of idealists and activists such as Lennon, Rabindranath Tagore, we still imagine and entertain visions of liberation, democracy, peace, progressivism. The world might have changed to a great extent by now, but it is still quite the same when it comes to these ideals. Hence, freedom and liberation has remained elusive concepts and wishful thinking. 

We especially realise this when we see all around us painted, tainted fascist zombies, waiting in queues for the next deal which would make them richer, saner and firmer. Most of us like our daily lives to be governed by set of rules- discipline is the keyword- life has to be governed by the hands of clock. There is no sense of democracy anywhere- we are not allowed to speak unless we get permission from a supreme authority. And in most cases a higher authority lets rules do all the talking. Most of the time vested interests are de-stabilising the expression of people’s choice. We are increasingly becoming afraid to speak out, to live freely, to be happier. We feel our convictions challenged by phobias, different viewpoints. 

We do not want to venture into unfamiliar territory and unknown lands. And slowly and undoubtedly, we are heading towards a paralysed world. Then what would happen to our much-cherished dreams of progressivism, liberalism, enlightenment? How do we express ourselves freely if we are constantly monitored, attacked and threatened? 

A day has to come when we gain enough strength to break all barriers, boundaries and just fly infinitely, endlessly. We should have purer, unconditional relationships. We could become as spontaneous as a sea-mermaid and as timeless as the vast Arabian sea. Individuals should get ahead rather than rules. And then with the yarns of light we will spin tales of freedom. Slowly, we will become untouched by temporary defeats, failures, success. We will listen to our own voices and slain the devils coming our way. 

ENDS

A Pure Life

A Pure Life

“So help me god it gets more and more preposterous, it corresponds less and less to what I remember and what I expect as if the force of life were centrifugal and threw one further and further away from one’s purest memories and ambition….” – John Cheever- The death of Justima

In Somerset Maugham’s “The Moon and Sixpence”, Charles Strickland- the protagonist- stockbroker turned painter who pursues his true calling from the age of thirty-six, reveals a strength of character that borders on the inhuman- a sense of being possessed by a demon. While his betrayal of family, duty and honour gives him the freedom to achieve greatness, his decision leads to an obsession which carries severe implications. On his single-minded pursuit of liberation, there is no space for any kind of distraction apart from some comic reliefs in the form of alcohol, women (what else?).

Sometimes when I shut my eyes, I think of the genius painter- Paul Gaugin- on whom the character of Strickland is based. I see him, with my mind’s eyes, on his rocking chair in  his small bungalow in Tahiti island, away from the eyes of humanity, wearing nothing but a pareo; going down to the reef to catch small, coloured fish that Ata, his wife would fry in coconut oil; I see him going for long walks, painting and reading in the evening; and at night, when the simple, rural folks of the faraway village sleep away peacefully in their humble huts, when the intensity of the silence is as deep as forbidden love, I see him clearly with Maugham’s eyes- dancing to some divine, wild tune, in ecstacy, under the blue sky, the starry night and the Pacific Ocean.

My idea of a pure life also comes from the vision of a primitive existence- peaceful, away from the malice and hostility of common, urban folks- in close association with nature- a life of utmost conviction in an idea led by deepest instinct- a sense of intense fulfillment.

How difficult it is to stay rooted in our most unpretentious dreams, not to be swayed by the diluting waves of civilization? How do we get the courage of spirit to go where we should ideally be? How much longer and when?

Meghna Maiti

ENDS

Dance Bar girls

MEGHNA MAITI

Mumbai

Ominous red neon lights, mysterious tunnel, nasty stares above the overflowing beer bottles- strange music from looming speakers and even stranger dance movements of the bar girls, like a ritual dance around a crowd in which even a mighty will turns vulnerable. The view of the constantly passing dance women by their rupee-flashing clients grows so magical that it cannot hold anything else. It seems to be there beyond everything; and behind the bars; creating a different world.

One might expect such an illicit world in Amstardam, Pattaya or Los Angeles. But this time it’s Mumbai- the dimly lit masti hubs that were shut down by the state government. Almost a decade later, to be more precise- eight years, the Mumbai dance bars are mounting a comeback, the Supreme Court announced on Tuesday. The court upheld an earlier Bombay High Court order that allowed dance bars to reapply for licences.

Industry experts say the dance bars revival is largely tied to the soaring popularity of Mumbai night life and employment of women as dancers, waitresses and singers. “Mumbai night life had lost its lustre because of moral policing. This move had also come in the way of tourism in the city. The permission for re-opening would make way for may other colourful aspects of Mumbai night life,” Kamlesh Barot, past president of Hotel and Restaurant Association of India (western India) told Financial Chronicle.

The government of Maharashtra in 2005 banned performances in dance bars, mainly watering holes and taverns where owners pay dancers. The Association of Dance Bar Owners, the Bharatiya Bargirls Union and The Indian Hotel and Restaurants Association were among those who challenged the state government’s ban in 2005. The state government said there were 307 licensed dance bars in Mumbai with around 4,300 women employees. 

"This was an example of government's hypocrisy, and the Supreme Court has proven that. Has anyone cared about those girls who lost their jobs?" Manjit Singh, president of the Mumbai Bar Owners Association, told CNN-IBN news channel.

In Mumbai, night life had shifted to small pubs, discotheques and one-off rave parties, illegal spaces, according to industry experts. “This would help all those women who have lost their livelihood. It will definitely bring in more international tourists,” said Dinesh Naik, restaurant and banquet manager of Fern Meluha Residency, a Mumbai-headquartered hotel.

Following the top court’s ruling Tuesday, restaurants and bars will have to apply for new licenses before they restart dance performances, Veena Thadhani, a lawyer for the Indian Hotel and Restaurant Association told Wall Street Journal.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com

ENDS

Early Morning

This morning I woke up to looming blueness of the Mumbai night sky that was slowly paving way to a clear, rain-soaked day with blurring boundaries. The first hour of the dawn appeared like a cicada against the evolving sky- filled with a whiff of fresh desire. A sharp spell of overnight rain slowed to slight drizzle around the orange glow of the streetlamp. I could hear the patter of cold rain on the corrugated sun-shade of my window; the swish of an empty, polythene bag on the wide, wet road; the cawing of a drenched crow on the telephone wire as it tumbled out of it and streaked against the grey sky.

The soaked cat laid swelling on the pavement beside the drain. Water ran freely through man holes on the tarred road, the symphony of navigating water through a dozen channels merged with a sound of a stray dog urinating onto the corners.

Behind the surreal cobweb, the buildings looked abandoned, something melancholic about their streaked windows. The limping beggar squinted against the grime and dangled his muddy bare feet from the cemented staircase across the museum. An old man waded through water and leaned against the lamp-post with a cup of tea, all eager to settle the dust of his life when the rain trickled in.

The hissing and hooting of tiny, wild creatures seemed like a giant whisper. The tall gulmohar trees lining the street looked as bright and effervescent as newly-wed brides. The entire area turned a soothing green. The wildness of the entire wide, deep Mumbai universe spread out wild feelings- memories unbounded by wild memories like dark, cavernous clouds. It swooped down suddenly into my mind space. And just as easily broke the existing chasm between time, space dimension to let a deluge of memories flow through.

Meghna Maiti

 ENDS