Back to the roots

Getting back to the city is always so difficult. You know you are soon in for several traps that include human desires, loss, petty politics, broken relationships and even broken sense of self. You sense these ominous cycles more so right after you are back from a trippy visit to a small tribal village in the hinterlands of Bengal.
Jhilimili village, in Bankura district, around 12 hours drive from Calcutta, was a perfect getaway for my jaded, depressed mind. The village was captured by Maoist insurgents some years ago.
The entire region seemed to be perennially intoxicated with its dense cluster of mehul trees, from which a local alcoholic drink — mahua — is brewed. I sensed that intoxication everywhere — in the way the local tribal women in their cheap colourful sarees flirted with tourists in local haat; a herd of goats jumped around the cliffs; and also in the way a group of urbanites from Calcutta smoked up mariuana by the side of the river and gradually lost themselves in its universe-winning beauty. There were vast tracts of green farm lands on all sides; forest of shaal, shegun and mehul trees; lakes with tranquil, pellucid water; and beyond all this, green hills.
At some areas, the roads laid with red soil had beautifully painted mud-houses on either side. And at some other areas, the winding roads bordered with huge colourful trees looked like the illusory road to renunciation.
The air had a faint nip and was fresh. We lived in a beautiful bungalow at the corner of the village. Everyday we woke up to chirping of unknown birds and rustling of leaves. The cook delighted us with homemade rural breakfast of luchi (deep fried flatbread) and vegetables. The villagers seemed to have everything in their favour — the vast intensity of nature, calm and peace and love.
“Then what is lacking in your life?” I asked a 65-year-old farmer on a rain-soaked morning. “Paper notes. We do not have cash,” he said quietly.

Meghna Maiti

Unsafe Zone

Have you ever felt a sense of loss — a sense of losing everything, including your integrity, reputation, wealth, friendship, relations and pretty much everything that defines you as an individual? Have you ever had the fear of falling or the fear of burning? If so, then perhaps it is the right time to shut your eyes, trust your instincts and throw yourself with a greater force into an even dangerous space.

It is also the time to tread on the edge of surface with ‘pure awareness’. Just as you are writhing and wriggling with an intense sense of pain and suffocation, you need to come out of your shell into the bigger, brighter world. When you don’t try to break the shell, no new possibility will ever come. Also, unless you expose your vulnerable self to the attacks of the outside world, you do not grow as an individual. This is also a process of breaking our karmic cycle or habitual pattern of existence. Whenever you feel hemmed in or disgusted, you must pause and try to think about your way of leading your life so far. And in case you are seeking revolutionary changes or great transformation in life, you must change your way of doing things in a radical manner.
Maa Kaali, an avataar of Parvati, is considered to be a great anarchic and taboo-breaking force in the universe. She is supposed to be the slayer of all illusion and the harbinger of transformation. In mundane terms, when you discard your, say old, ragged phone, the possibility of getting a better one increases.

Or, when you have an extra-marital affair with say, a socially-disapproved person, you might be liberating yourself from all the conclusions and notions you had set for yourself. And living in an unsafe zone with all sense of awareness is perhaps far more fulfilling and intense than any other kind of emotions. You start living with a higher sense of purpose. And such level of consciousness leads to creation of your own destiny.

Meghna Maiti

Kalaghoda festival 2014

MEGHNA MAITI

Mumbai

An eighty-year old Parsi gentleman slings his arm carelessly around
his famous artist friend and flashes a toothless grin for a
photograph. At a short distance, a group of flimsy chiffon-clad south
Mumbai homemakers crowd around a Man-booker nominated author to extend
an invitation for their next arty party. And even further away, at
David Sasoon Library garden, Mumbai poets join on 'Hope Street ' to
celebrate their annual reunion. Several such instances float through the cold,
slightly supercilious air of Kalaghoda art festival in South Mumbai
and touch people in a cosmetic spirit of cultural networking with a
dash of nostalgia.

For the nine days of Kalaghoda festival , a better part of Mumbai
flock to Kalaghoda art fair to mingle in the open space, linger in
galleries where world cinema and short documentaries flicker across
the screens. The fair has always been as much about glamour, glitz as
cutting edge alternative art- more like a multi-media,
multi-locational experience, meandering through the island city. The
venue is tucked in an enclave bounded by Mumbai's dockyard, Fountain
and Oval Maidan, near the cacophonous Colaba Causeway in an affluent
South Mumbai business district.

"We have seen around ten lakh visitors so far. The response is indeed
enthralling," said a person who is a part of the organizing committee
of Kalaghoda art fair on condition of anonymity.

However, this time around, the fair has not quite lived up to its
standard. Kalaghoda fair does not have much to offer in terms of
quality of products, movies, literary sessions or theatre. The ethnic
wear and artifacts available in the numerous stalls dotting the street
are ridiculously overpriced. "We have to pay almost treble the price
for most of the products," said Sutapa Maitra, a school-teacher based
in Mumbai. Similarly, the films being screened at Max Mueller Bhavan
are far away from the high-culture space. "Who would like to watch
Goliyon ki Raasleela Ramleela at Kalaghoda art fair," sniggered Alima
Tigga, a budding documentary film-maker and ex-student of Pune Film
Institute. Some of the other films being screened at Kalaghoda
festival are- Go Goa Gone, Aanhkh ki Sharam, Ghatothkach.

The art installations at Kalaghoda festival dealing with the idea of
changing perceptions and momentum are also not of remarkable quality.
However, the first installation titled Mithya (Hindi for illusion),
has drawn enough attention. It is a sort of a path where at each step
a walker realizes the illusory nature of his reality. Another
installation captures the multiple images of the festival. The third
one is a walk that recreates the experience of walking on a quiet road
surrounded by trees on both sides.

As far as the literary sessions are concerned, we mostly see the same
old faces every year- to name a few- Adil Jussawalla, Gieve Patel,
Sampurna Chatterjee, Sridala Swami, Arundhati Subramaniam. In fact, in
one of the interesting literary sessions exploring the idea of
'Renewal of the Journal' with Hemant Divate, Chandrahas Chowdhury, Ram
Manohar Reddy and Ranjit Hoskote, a peeved man from the audience
pointed out how we see the same old Mumbai writers every year, despite
the reach and resources of the organizer.

Also, the fair, having shifted its music and dance venue to distant
locations (Cross Maidan and Asiatic Steps) due to legal issues,
remained a little listless in its essence.

Around 22 dance genres were
displayed in the festival through 38 performances of the nine days of
the festival, representing various Indian states such as Punjab,
Gujarat, Maharashtra, Kerala.

On the last day of the Kalaghoda festival, the area is throbbing with
the elites and the ordinary, the air is alive with soap bubbles, the
pleasing tune of the flute and the drum, hushed conversations about
business deals, new job opportunity or even invitation to a party.
People are awaiting eagerly for the interesting literary session with
'William Darymple- the great historian. It will soon be the hour of
sunset and the end of a few sunny days of sublime pleasure.

meghnamaiti@mydigitalfc.com



ENDS

Success, glory

How long does it take to fulfill one’s ambition? I mean, how many
years of struggle? In case of Nawazuddin Siddiqui, the Bollywood
actor, the time spent to reach a level of stunning greatness from the
depths of social abyss was almost a decade. Perhaps, that’s the time
the universe needs to give shape to one’s dreams. Its the time
required to bring out the greatness from the core of an individual to
the public eye- because greatness is not something one acquires over
the years through toil and perseverance. If you are destined to be
great, its something usually there in you, deeply embedded- ever since
you are an adolescent flirting with life, a teenager wallowing in
self-pity, a child in awe with the world or even before that- when you
are an unforeseen, pathetic creature swimming in your mother’s womb.
Over the years, the time taken to reach that state of magnificence
definitely depends on your action (karma) and ‘purity of purpose’. You
might well be living in utter misery for years and constantly at the
receiving end of everything and then something clicks for you and you
are showered with praise, success, fame, fortune and all that. All the
great cities of the world- Mumbai, Delhi, Hong Kong, New York drive
you towards your personal dreams. In the process, you sometimes become
too single-minded as a person. In a world where success and fame seems
to be the only yardsticks of a happy life, you sometimes get trapped
in the illusory worlds created by these cities. And in the process,
you forget that there are other worlds, other kinds of dreams, where
human worth is not measured by their achievements alone. Hence, I
personally feel one should never stick to one city; it often makes you
narrow in your perspective. We must all try to switch cities, houses,
areas of interests and broaden our outlook. If success and fortune
comes knocking our door, it will, but we must not get blinded by its
artificial arc lights.


Meghna Maiti

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