Come festive season and a new Yuletide spirit casts its spell over Homo sapiens every year. A spirit of outwardly cheerfulness and goodwill prevails. Fresh rays of hope penetrate through the dense clouds of gloom. Concerns of eking out a living fade away, giving way to a transient resurgence of happiness. Relationships get nurtured afresh. Networking concerns reign supreme.
Kolkata, the erstwhile second city of the British empire, is no exception. For those enlightened souls who are already well-versed in the seasonal predicament that plagues the illustrious Park Street in Kolkata, no further elucidation is necessary. On the brightly lit street, one is apt to see spirited pedestrians deftly trying to avoid colliding with the ones coming from the opposite side, thereby re-affirming Nature’s law that a given spot on a given plane shall at a given moment of time be occupied by only one body. One can spot hassled drivers manoeuvring shimmering limousines as well as old jalopies which are crawling along at a speed which would make a tortoise glance at them in a supercilious manner.
In brightly lit departmental stores, befuddled customers can be seen getting lured by hefty but deceptive discounts. One may feel a sense of pity for the hassled husbands hidden behind a huge pile of shiny gift packets dutifully following their wives to the nearest billing counter. Lobby managers in hotels and restaurants can be seen perspiring, trying to manage the queue of weary shoppers pouring in, looking for something to put down the hatch.
Those peddling street foods of all kinds can be seen doing brisk business. Amidst all the razzmatazz, one can see quite a few pavement book sellers sit idly, having a forlorn look in their brooding eyes, as if contemplating the divine. Kolkata may pride itself on being a city of intellectuals but perhaps there are times when the festive cheer takes over the collective spirit of its inhabitants, suppressing their innate yearning for intellectual upliftment.
As opposed to the infernal din on Park Street, the ambience inside the hallowed establishment known as ‘Kwality’ was serene and cosy. If the government ever instituted an award for a successful and victorious entry into the equivalent of the Drones Club of Kolkata, its first claimants would surely be the five brave souls who could make it on the occasion.
Those turned up included a prominent beak who, had she been cast as Aunt Dahlia in one of Plum’s theatre adaptations, would have been spectacularly popular, a school principal in the mould of Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, a senior educationist in the realm of milk of human kindness, an IT expert who is devoted to his family as much as Bingo Little happens to be, and yours truly.
All those present were punctual, jovial, and exhibited a proclivity for rolling on the floor in fits of laughter (figuratively, of course). The gleeful yelps emanating from them often made other patrons seated on the nearby tables raise their eyebrows a quarter of an inch. Their indulgences were not limited to the culinary delights of Darjeeling tea and delectable fish fingers. Their minds were nourished by scintillating conversations and an abundance of references to literary treasures dished out not only by Plum but also by many others. Movies steeped in a Wodehousean spirit, or the ones inspired by his works, came up for discussion.
They spoke of Wodehouse and his influence on all of them. The challenges of translating his works were discussed. Surprise was expressed when one spoke of some creatures who do not like him, primarily owing to the language being a bit dated and many plots appearing to be copy-and-paste jobs. Information about the Bengali film Rajat Jayanti directed by Pramathesh Barua, which was an adaptation of Money for Nothing, was shared. Sakher Chor by Uttam Kumar, which bears a significant resemblance to A Gentleman of Leisure was mentioned.
The beak spoke with great enthusiasm about the famed Bengali cuisine and about her meetings with other fans located in Bengaluru and Delhi. The eminent educationist shared the kind of work he does to uplift the intellect level of his students at one of the premier institutes of management in India. The principal, who has just published a book of short stories, spoke briefly of challenges of taming lions and lionesses in our liberal times. Bingo Little gave a detailed account of works in Bengali literature and movies which happen to be inspired by Plum.
They listened with some interest to a brief account of my recent pilgrimage to Dulwich College. This made them recall another famous alumnus of that esteemed institution, Raymond Chandler, which took them to Humphry Bogart and Philip Marlow.
Suffice it to say that it was a feast of Reason and flow of Soul which was never punctuated by intervals of uncomfortable silences which arise when all the members are meeting each other for the first time.
Who says that joy cometh only in the morning? It also comes in the evening, especially if it is an occasion when fans of Plum meet, that too in a metropolis which is often alluded to as the City of Joy.
(Inputs from Ms Indrani Ganguly and Mr Suryamouli Datta are gratefully acknowledged.)
What happens when you are made to feel like a celebrity, that too, someone of the stature of Shashi Kapoor, the role model of many amongst us who admire movies and theatre?
Well, you feel as if you are walking on cloud nine. You think you must have done something creative of a remarkably high order to deserve a treatment of that kind. Looking inward, you wonder if your limited supply of creative juices could have ever enabled you to dish out something juicy which could merit a recognition comparable to that of the famous actor-director.
I confess that, unlike Shashi Kapoor, nature has not bestowed me with the kind of charming personality he had. Nor do I sport an impish smile. In fact, rare are the occasions when you would spot me smiling. As an honorary vice president of the International Society of Morons, you would find my shoulders stooping owing to the troubles of the entire world weighing on the slender frame. Smiling does not come easy to me.
As to acting, my endeavours in that field have never met with any success, since I believe in what quite a few of our Indian scriptures preach, that is, to have an alignment between our manasa-vacha-karmana. In other words, to have a harmony between what we think, what we speak, and what we do. But in acting, one has to be exactly the opposite. One may be very sad internally but may have to do a comic scene in front of the camera. The biggest back-handed compliment I ever got in my life came once from a lady lawyer who was defending my employer’s case where I was supposed to face the firing squad as one of the witnesses. She advised me not to appear in the court, lest all the untruths proposed to be advanced by her in her arguments to help the company win the case may be rendered null and void. When it comes to theatre, the closest I have ever come to a stage is when the director of the play being staged thought that I was fit enough only to perform the function of drawing the curtains in and out.
So, how did I feel getting treated like Shashi Kapoor by a worthy cousin of mine? Well, the credit for this goes entirely to her.
The Cousin
Now, this cousin of mine happens to be a girl of medium height, with jute-white hair which remind one of freshly driven snow on the Himalayas. During her long sojourn on this planet, much rain has fallen into her life, but has failed to dampen her spirits. She maintains a cheery disposition.
I am not an expert about girls’ eyes but can vouch with confidence that hers are as shiny brown as a November sky when the sun has just completed its obligations to humanity for the day and is heading for a well-earned reprieve for the night. Her eyes are eyes that look straight and often challenge one. The gaze is occasionally intent, as if powered by a laser beam. At times, it could be a piercing gaze which expresses an icy anger, annoyance or contempt, possibly directed at her bitter half. It could also be one which conveys either a dumbstruck admiration and wonderment or a deep concern for the welfare of a fellow human being. When in a compassionate mood, the eyes could thaw to the light brown of the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, where it splashes about the coast of Monaco in Southern France. Even though her eyes do not thaw for everybody, they surely thaw for a cousin like me who comes visiting her lair once in a blue moon.
Having been a teacher in her working life, I am certain that she would have had a sound reputation as a tamer of lions and lionesses amongst her students, somewhat akin to that of Miss Tomlinson of Bertie Changes his Mind fame. But many of her students would have possibly loved her as well. On occasions, she might have been like Emerald Stoker. You know, one of those soothing, sympathetic girls you can take your troubles to, confident of having your hand held and your head patted, bringing some solace to the bruised soul.
Of Shashi Kapoor and the Business of Staring
A few decades back, this cousin tagged along with her illustrious husband who was then an editor of a premium Bollywood magazine to an interview with the famous star. He was late owing to a tight shooting schedule, leading to a long wait during which she noticed the dull and drab surroundings of a makeshift room in a studio. However, when the charming and radiant person came in, in a sharp contrast, the whole place lit up. Introductions were made but she was overawed, dumbstruck and tongue-tied to say anything. She simply sat soaking in the brilliance and charisma of Shashi Kapoor, staring at him with an unwavering eye. You know, the kind of steady stare Piggy and her friends kept giving Bertie Wooster when he was trying to address the girl students at the school near Brighton. When the interview got over, the star got up, turned to this cousin of mine, and quipped:
“Hope I look as good as I do on the screen?!”
Embarrassed, the cousin suddenly realized her folly – of having been so brazenly staring at him all the time!
Being Made to Feel Like Shashi Kapoor
Cut to the present. One of my habits is to go out for an evening walk. I believe it keeps the good old pump in a better shape. Also, it is never a bad idea to grasp the topography of the neighbourhood, exchange courteous nods with some other strollers who view me as a harmless creature and are open to making eye contact, besides, of course, trying to be pally with the dogs in the area. The last mentioned take a jaundiced view of strangers venturing into a territory on which they believe they have exclusive rights. Some would bark when they notice me, whereas others would simply treat me with dignified apathy. Some of them who suspect I could be offering them a morsel of some interest might even wag their tails tentatively. However, once they sense that I have nothing to offer, they follow one of the key principles propounded by the Bhagavad Gita, practice the art of detachment, and quietly melt away.
On a particular day, it so happened that the ambient temperature was more than 34 degrees Centigrade. By the time I got back home from my walk, I was a bit breathless. Rather than going straight back into my room, I simply turned the fan on and parked myself in the drawing room itself.
It was the work of a moment for my concerned cousin to swoop in. With deep lines of worry lining her face, she stood nearby, intently staring at me for quite some time. After some time, I gave her a sheepish smile, and teased her by saying:
“Nothing dramatic is happening. Not to worry. But do I look like Shashi Kapoor?!”
We both had a hearty laugh. But her piercing gaze cast at me then did make me feel like the star in question. It chuffed me no end. After all, one does not get to feel like a celebrity every other day.
Of SisterActs
In fact, looking back, I find that most sisters fuss over and pamper one no end. One look at the Anatole-ish spreads laid out on the dining table, and greed prevails over prudence. Concepts like diet control sound like the esoteric propositions of theoretical physics which appear to have no relationship to the reality around us.
I realize that sisters operate with a dash of motherliness which comforts and soothes one. An angelic disposition is surely their forte.
Right after this visit, I raided the home of another cousin. She and her husband also spared no effort in showing me around almost all the important places in their city. One could get a whiff of the history and the culture of both the places and even gorge on the exotic cuisines on offer.
The care and attention I received at both the places merely reaffirmed the importance of sisters in one’s life. Sisters are truly special.
Of course, Lord Emsworth, who is often found shuddering at the prospect of facing his sister, Lady Constance Keeble, may not concur with my views.
It was a splendid night that would have made even Jeeves put on his dancing shoes. I was decked out in my finest outfit, ready to make a grand spectacle of myself. It was Navaratri, or as we Bengalis call it, Mahanavami. A time of joy, abundance, and piety. Unlike the Scots, who celebrate the autumn season with kilts and bagpipes, we in India observe it with a spiritual and cultural extravaganza. The festival of Mahanavami is a time for revelry, worship, and artistic expression.
Ah, what an evening it was! We Bengalis, being people of culture and taste, celebrate Navaratri with a tradition called “pandal hopping.” We erect temporary temples – pandals – all over the city, and people go from pandal to pandal, offering prayers and admiring the artwork. And let me tell you, my fellow readers, the artwork is simply something to die for.
The best part of pandal hopping, of course, is the company. I was with a group of seven friends, and a wizened elder to keep us on the straight and narrow. We were all in the ninth grade then, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, excited to explore the city and its many pandals. We did not have a care in the world. A rather reckless mood prevailed, much like that of Bertie Wooster and his pals on the night of the Boat Race night.
All of us were merrily going from one pandal to the next, wonderstruck at the kind of magnificent sculptures of the mighty Goddess on display and taking in the finery worn by the bhadra lok. Wherever the gaze went, one could spot the glittering jewellery put on by the members of the tribe of the so-called delicately nurtured, duly draped in that six-meter enigmatic wonder called saris, that too of a mind- boggling variety, like Baluchari, Gorod, Murshidabad silk, Tusser, Tangail, and Tant.
As and when our wizened elder was looking elsewhere, our eyes would invariably get busy casting some furtive glances at the many giggling and merry-making girls who happened to be in the immediate vicinity. After all, at such a tender age as that of ours then, who could miss a chance to indulge in what is euphemistically alluded to as birdwatching?
However, my sense of wonder was brief as I realized after a couple of pandal hops that I was separated from my comrades. It was like a scene from the Odyssey, where the protagonist finds himself lost in a strange and unfamiliar land. It was as if I’d been spirited away to a strange, unknown land in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, the other musketeers accompanying me were nowhere to be seen. Allow me to remind you that we lived in simpler times then. Internet had not been heard of. Mobile phones were yet to arrive on the scene.
Now, most people in this situation might have panicked or given up hope entirely. But not me. We, the Dattas, are made of sterner stuff. Seldom do we panic or despair. Howsoever challenging the circumstances, we believe in maintaining sang froid. We possess a chin up attitude. We are a spiritually enlightened lot. We believe in acceptance and surrender. I confess that unlike Bertie Wooster, I never won a prize in Scripture Knowledge while being at school. I simply accepted that I was lost, surrendered myself to a higher power, as it were, and that was that.
You see, there are two types of people in the world: one, those who search for lost things, and two, those who let lost things be. I fell into the latter category, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. What I needed was a little motivation to keep moving forward, even if it meant moving alone.
And so I found my motivation: food. I stumbled upon a shop and, being the intense budgeteer that I am, found I could only afford a bottle of Coke. I paid the restaurant owner and left, content with my meagre rations.
But oh, dear readers, what happened next was truly the stuff of legends. As I quaffed my Coke, I noticed a bus moving towards my destination at a pace slower than that of a funeral procession. It does not require one to be a Sherlock Holmes to realize what my next steps were, but dear readers, just to get the facts clear, I would like to inform that I first checked my pockets to ensure that I had sufficient funds for the ride. After all, one does not wish to deprive the government of the day of some revenue. Boarding the rickety bus which was bursting at the seams with people of all sizes and shapes was then the work of a moment. The ride was less comfortable than the milk train ride undertaken by Bertie Wooster to intercept a letter before it got delivered to Madeline Bassett, but I finally reached my destination on time and avoided the raised eyebrows of my parents. Soon, I had a sumptuous dinner prepared by my mom followed by a good night’s what-you-call-an-activity-that- knits-up-the-raven-sleeve-of-care. It had been a long day, after all.
But the real story unfolded the next day, my dear readers. As I sat at home, basking in the glow of my achieved objectives, and sipping from a cup of aromatic Darjeeling tea, my friends arrived, with a sheepish looking wizened elder in tow. They were all in a tizzy, recounting their spine-chilling ordeal of trying to locate me in the jostling crowds from the night before. The sudden disappearance of yours truly from amongst their midst had left them shaken up from the base of their toes to the top of their heads. You know what I mean. They were all baffled, bewildered, confounded, confused, fazed, flummoxed, mystified, puzzled, and stumped. The hair-raising mystery of my disappearance from their midst had led to sleepless nights for most of them.
‘The august guardian’, having circumnavigated the sun some twenty-two times till then, appeared to have aged considerably overnight, what with the emergence of dark halos beneath his ocular organs. It did not require the supreme intelligence of a Reginald Jeeves to figure out that his soul had been in torment, primarily owing to the thoughts of facing the firing squad waiting at home to pounce upon him for dereliction of duty. He was tongue-tied, reminding one of Bertie Wooster being presented to Sir Watkyn Bassett in a court of law. His relief, upon being told that I had made it back home in one piece relieved him instantly. His brow ceased to be furrowed. His visage soon adorned a toothsome grin. He perked up like a flower which had just been watered after a gap of few days.
Indeed, the way they went about trying to trace me and the related incidents narrated by my friends invoked a feeling of being a part of an ‘edge of the seat thriller’ amongst all of us, even though I or my parents were not a part of it.
By Jove, the account of my chums’ efforts to trace my whereabouts was nothing short of a gripping thriller! Their narrative of the numerous challenges they encountered during the hunt kept us all on tenterhooks. Sure enough, their skills of narration were no match to the sparkling way Mr. Mulliner would recount the experiences of his nephews and nieces to his companions at the Angler’s Rest. But while my sister acted like the erudite Miss Postlethwaite, ensuring a steady supply of piping hot tea to all those assembled, we listened in rapt attention to the trials and tribulations of my friends when I went missing from amongst their midst. Apparently, they even sought the help of a rozzer to locate me. Unfortunately, he was busy taking his own family around the multitudes of the pandals so all they earned was a stern rebuke for distracting him from his familial ‘duties’. Although my parents and I were absent at the time, we felt like active participants in the dramatic turn of events!
I believe that the festival of Mahanavami is a wonderful reminder that culture and tradition can bring people together, even during difficult times. It is a time for us to celebrate our shared heritage, enrich our spiritual leanings, enjoy the fruits of artistic expression, and gorge on the delicacies on offer. And it is a time for us to remember that even when we feel lost or alone, there is always a way forward with a little bit of humour and ingenuity. Above all, festivals happen to be subtle reminders of the values that we cherish the most – values of togetherness, caring, compassion, and empathy.
So, there you have it, my dear readers. A night to remember, a tale of adventure, and a bottle of Coke to make it all possible.
An experience that tried my soul occurred on the day of the cultural meet during the celebration of Durga Puja, the much-revered festival of my community. I was all of a twitter, plagued by the kind of anxieties that Gussie Fink-Nottle had felt in Right Ho, Jeeves when he was asked to deliver a speech at the Market Snodsbury Grammar School. In the absence of a jugful of orange juice, duly laced with a tissue restorative liberally added by such well-wishers as Reginald Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, dreadful thoughts consumed me. The brow was furrowed. The grey cells were abuzz with worries regarding the potential mishaps that could ruin not only my own performance but also the efforts of my fellow thespians while staging a play named Dampoti (Eng. Couple).
A Trauma of Titanic Proportions
It all began a few moons prior when I was somehow persuaded, against my better judgement, into playing a befuddled middle-aged man who strays from the straight and narrow path of a matrimonial alliance for a romantic tryst with his ex-girlfriend. Without question, this character could proudly proclaim to possess an impressive degree of superiority over many others from the tribe of the homo sapiens in matters of courage. All of us are aware that pulling off a feat of this nature needs not only nerves of chilled steel but also fortitude, aptitude, and an unwavering composure. For someone like me who has a strict moral code and is configured along the lines of a docile male rabbit, playing a role of the kind on offer was indeed an experience which left me shuddering from the base of my feet to the top of my head. My experience was akin to that of Bertie Wooster when Aunt Agatha was about to descend on his flat to retrieve her dog Bartholomew who had just been ‘gifted’ by Roberta Wickham to Kid Blumenfeld.
Picture further, if you will, the quagmire of complications that are bound to ensue when the said character finds himself caught by his on-stage-wife, red-handed, whilst basking in the sunlight on some picturesque sea beach with his ex., all the while blissfully unaware of his wife’s covert surveillance, duly facilitated by means of a pair of binoculars! The intense feelings of acute embarrassment, distress, shock and surprise this character would have felt in a situation like this would generate the kind of heat which would be sufficient to melt any nerves of chilled steel he might have boasted of. To someone like me whose nerves are merely made of wax, playing out a scene of that kind was bound to send a shiver down my spine of cottage cheese, inducing a veritable cascade of goose bumps upon my person.
An empathic reader would undoubtedly comprehend the titanic predicament I faced in enacting a role of this nature in the said play. Quite a tricky (if that is the term I am looking for) situation for the guy indeed! Initially, I did have reservations. But with no escape route in sight, I had little choice but to say ‘yes’ and embark upon tireless rehearsals to bolster my confidence for the impending performance.
The Challenge of Casting Romantic Glances
As things transpired on the dreaded “D-Day,” a snag emerged. Together with our director, we, the cast, conducted an extensive review of our rehearsals so far and surmised that a romantic exchange of glances between myself and my on-stage wife was conspicuous by its singular absence!
Now my dear chaps, those privy to my rather perplexing quirks and eccentricities would be acutely aware of the uneasiness that a person like me would feel when I come face to face with the daunting task of making eye contact with a lady with whom I am neither married nor romantically involved. We, the Dattas, are a chivalrous lot, you see. We have a code. Of course, like many of those who belong to the tribe of the so-called sterner sex, one is not averse to casting a surreptitious sideways glance or two at the curvaceous profile of a lady passing by. However, the prospect of making eye contact leaves one rather baffled, bewildered, confused, disoriented, fogged, flummoxed, mystified, nonplussed, perplexed, and puzzled.
The situation was further compounded by the presence of my better half and my on-stage-wife’s bitter half, both frolicking about in the same production. It was a predicament akin to the one faced by Aunt Dahlia when she was camping at Totleigh Towers. Either she could continue to avail the services of Anatole, God’s gift to our gastric juices, thereby keeping the lining of Uncle Tom’s intestines in the pink of health, or willy-nilly consent to a 30-days-without-the-option jail term for her nephew Bertie Wooster. A Hobson’s choice, indeed.
Regrettably, I had no recourse but to seriously ponder on the directorial demands of generating an ‘on stage chemistry’ with my on-stage-spouse, for it was much too late to summon a substitute.
So folks, this was the concatenation of circumstances leading to my real-life undertaking of a Gussie-like role, mired in trepidation and consternation. One of Jeeves’ trademark pick-me-ups might have been of some assistance, but alas, the opportunity never presented itself. What my ailing disposition also craved for was at least a few drops of Mulliner’s Buck-Uppo, which would have ensured my facing the impending doom with a jaunty sang froid. But an opportune moment for such indulgence never presented itself! Somehow, merely a couple of drops of a fruit-laden elixir found their way to my parched lips, though these did little to soothe my frayed nerves.
The Curtain Goes Up
Eventually, the gong was sounded, the curtain went up, and the show commenced. I set my foot on the stage with the eternal Shakespearean dilemma: ‘To be or not to be’ there. The prospect of rotten eggs and tomatoes being hurled at me by some familiar faces (I knew close to 80% of the audience which was from my own community) left me shuddering uncontrollably.
The parts that I knew well sprung forth from my person like cheese and coriander chutney from a sandwich, but the decisive moment rapidly approached, threatening to expose my inadequacies. My co-actor excelled with aplomb, executing her part with finesse, even dealing with the minor mishaps that normally accompany any live performance. However, the intriguing question of how to convey a romantic gaze still befuddled me. Of course, as a conscientious well-meaning person, I had made appropriate preparations after listening to my director’s demands (the reader might recollect that the issue was identified on the D-day itself). In the interim, I had practiced a number of facial manoeuvres before the mirror in my bedroom.
But my attempts at perfecting “love at first sight” were woefully inadequate. You know the lot — dreamy eyes, faint smiles, even excited hand-waving, et al. The harsh reality of being on stage ended up evaporating whatever self-confidence I had built up till then. My quest to develop a romantic connection (through glances) with someone of the opposite sex on stage seemed as challenging as learning a completely foreign language. Despite my fervent efforts, I found myself continuously circling around the idea of radiating the ‘perfect glance’, often getting reminded of a phrase from the ‘Holy Bible’:
Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.
Indeed, I must confess that I was badly in search of a George Bevan (Damsel in Distress) or Arthur Mifflin (A Gentleman of Leisure) to play the role of The Buddha who can show me the path to ‘enlightenment’ (if that is indeed the right term I am using here). In short, what I faced was a Himalayan challenge, that too in full view of the assembled patrons, scrutinizing my every single move with wide eyes.
But my Guardian Angels appeared to be in a benign mood. As the final act started playing out, my co-actor bestowed upon me a magnificent, scene-stealing ‘gesture’ that I yearned to applaud as a maestro would a stunning grand performance. This bolstered my confidence no end, and I was left with no option but to reciprocate the gesture in a similar vein. I felt like Esmond Haddock, who could eventually find the courage to stand up to his five overbearing aunts. Just as I was teetering on the brink of my ignominious debut as an untalented thespian, a startling revelation dawned upon me: I realized that my nerves, which were hitherto behaving as if made of wax, suddenly metamorphosed into the kind which comprise chilled steel instead. Galvanized by this newfound understanding, I swiftly took action to restore the esteemed reputation of the illustrious ‘Datta’ clan. Summoning all the courage of my illustrious ancestors, I let out a timely exhalation that could perhaps be described as a well-placed-sigh in response to the boiling anger and huffy demeanor of my on-stage-better-half. Apparently, this resonated most ardently with our esteemed spectators, particularly those of the masculine persuasion, who found solace in witnessing the so-called “most romantic” retort to a wrathful wife. The rest of the performance went along like a song rendered with effortless gusto and we succeeded in holding the audience spellbound till the time the curtain slowly descended.
A Lesson Learnt the Hard Way
The audience reaction was positively spiffing, though it was not the only reason for my uplifted spirits. All said and done, I had managed to pull off another remarkable feat. I had managed not to ruffle the feathers of two most influential stakeholders in this production – my wife and my co-actor’s husband. Surely, a consummation devoutly to be wished for.
Had you been present on the occasion, you might have noticed my humming a tune from the Bollywood film Jugnu:
A song sung to define the fact that a cluster of innocent children far surpasses the transient beauty of Diwali’s flickering lights. For a while, the latter may shimmer and shine, but the radiance is momentary, whereas the former’s charm lingers on – a melody that tugs at the heartstrings and evokes an enduring joy.
Likewise, theatre, a fleeting flicker in the grand performance called life! Like the ephemeral glow of festive crackers on a joyous occasion, these performances lit up the stage with brilliance. And when executed with precision, they etch indelible memories in our hearts, as everlasting as the laughter of children. In the words of Khushwant Singh, ‘Theatre is life; cinema is art; television is furniture.’ So let us relish the transient magic of theatre, for it brings us joy and keeps our sofas from feeling neglected!
All is well that ends well. It turned out to be a jolly good show, and I could not have pulled it off without my fellow actors and the entire team backing us up.
Many of us may deride and ridicule Bertie for his pumpkin-headedness. Jeeves may hold him to be someone of negligible intelligence. But there are indeed times when what he says turns out to be a precious lesson for life. Consider this:
A short while ago, the air was congested with V-shaped depressions, but now one looks north, south, east, and west and discovers not a single cloud on the horizon…Well, this should certainly teach us, should it not, never to repine, never to despair, never to allow the upper lip to unstiffen, but always to remember that, no matter how dark the skies may be, the sun is shining somewhere and will eventually come smiling through.
For someone like me who has been brought up on a healthy diet of movies since my tender years, it is not easy to visit a new place and the mind not veering off to recollect a movie which the place reminds me of. Besides, anything connected with movies in any way – be it a Walk of Fame, a theatre where the prestigious Oscar awards get presented, or even a drive past either Sunset Boulevard or Rodeo Drive and Beverly Hills – acts as a strong magnet, drawing me to it the way a moth would be captivated by a candle. Luckily, the analogy stops there, since, unlike a hapless moth, I do not perish. On the contrary, I live to tell the tale, merely in the spirit of sharing my experiences with those who are likewise besotted by the science and art of moving images.
Recently, an opportunity came up whereby I could visit the South-Western part of the United States of America. Here are some of my experiences.
The Grand Canyon
Irrespective of the viewing point one decides to visit, the stark beauty of raw nature here holds you mesmerized. Just like the many fjords in Norway, these unique rock formations would have taken millions of years to take their present shape. As one reads about the aboriginals who inhabited this area, believing in the forces of nature which protect them and guarding over the famous gold deposits which ended up sounding their death knell when those who consider themselves as ‘civilised’ ended up suppressing their rights, one wonders if there would ever be an end to human greed and avarice.
As the sun continued its journey in the clear blue sky above and the shadows of peaks falling on the opposite side of a narrow valley, my mind went back to Mackenna’s Gold (1969), with Gregory Peck and Omar Sharif chasing a pillar’s shadow to find the gold.
Meeting Some Orcas
A visit to Sea World, a large aquarium-cum-amusement park in San Diego, enabled me to have a close look at a herd of pink flamingos, some sea lions, penguins, besides other sea creatures like orcas.
The last mentioned may be baby whales, but their immense size does not fail to impress. As they glide past you with effortless ease, making some sounds which normal human beings like me would not be able to interpret, the awe and admiration which follows holds you in thrall for a long time. I was recalling the movie Free Willy (1993) which showcased the bond which develops between Willy and Jesse.
It Happens Only in Las Vegas
The ‘Sin City’ is famous for its unique tourist attractions. An ode to many European cities such as Paris and Venice, it even boasts of a small volcano which displays the fury of fire and red-hot lava when a show takes place. A shopping mall which is designed to make you feel as if you are in Venice, what with a meandering canal on which you could enjoy a gondola ride and a blue sky above with white clouds flitting by.
Many other attractions dot the landscape, including a yet-to-be-commissioned Sphere which is said to be an auditorium with a seating capacity of 16,000 persons, equipped with the latest audio systems. The external surface of this structure offers enchanting displays which often leave one mesmerized at night.
The musical fountain outside Hotel Bellagio ended up reminding me of the series of Ocean’s Eleven (2001 onwards) movies.
The Dolby Theatre
The Dolby Theatre (formerly known as the Kodak Theatre) is a live-performance auditorium in the Ovation Hollywood shopping mall and entertainment complex, on Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue. This is where the annual Academy Awards ceremony takes place.
The Hollywood Walk of Fame
One may not expect to run into either Julie Andrews or Anne Hathaway here but walking over more than 2,700 five-pointed terrazzo and brass stars embedded in the sidewalks along 15 blocks of Hollywood Boulevard and three blocks of Vine Street in Hollywood, California leaves one in awe of the kind of multi-faceted talent nurtured and showcased in Hollywood offerings over the decades. It is a motley mix of actors, directors, producers, musicians, theatrical/musical groups, fictional characters, and others. Of course, it is a challenge to see many of these clearly, partly due to the sheer length of the walk, and owing to the jostling crowds which tread over these with gay abandon.
There is also a separate portion next to the Chinese Theatre where concrete slabs carrying either the signatures or the handprints of such yesteryear celebrities as Peter Sellers, Sophia Loren, Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Tom Hanks, Susan Sarandon, and many others can be seen.
Hollywood and P G Wodehouse
Fans of P G Wodehouse are well aware that he had used Hollywood as a setting for some of his novels and short stories. He wrote a series of Broadway musical comedies during and after the First World War, together with Guy Bolton and Jerome Kern, which played an important part in the development of the American musical. Sometime during the 1930s, he began writing for MGM in Hollywood.
One may be disappointed to not to either find the offices of Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation or run into Montrose Mulliner and Rosalie Beamish in Hollywood. One may merely surmise that the couple might be quietly enjoying a peaceful time somewhere in Loas Angeles these days, listening to the prattle of the feet of their many grandchildren who are forever eager to sit around them and listen to them recounting the details of their marriage in a gorilla’s cage.
Likewise, Wilmot Mulliner, having retired as a manager of the affairs of a famous Hollywood celebrity, may be entertaining his grandchildren with some bird calls, at times fondly remembering Mabel Potter.
Wannabe starlets struggling to catch the eye of producers and studio owners would still be learning a few lessons from the case of Minna Nordstrom.
I did not come across any swamp of alcohol during my travels. In any case, running into Sister Lora Luella Stott, the woman who is supposed to be leading California out of the swamp of alcohol, was not on the agenda.
Some Lifelong Memories to Cherish
Travel is highly educational, said Jeeves. It is also a source of happiness, one may add. It is about experiencing the sights and sounds of a place. There is the sheer pleasure of soaking in its ambience.
When one passes by Hollywood, one feels having had a platonic brush with the many talented celebrities who, over the decades, have added all the glitz and glamour for which it is known.
ashokbhatia 