Books, Theater and Grapes

Last weekend, between the 7th and 8th of October, we watched a play, stole grapes from a vineyard, and walked through long corridors lined with books from all over.

The play – “3, Sakina Manzil” – was by Ramu Ramanathan, a Mumbai-based playwright. It was brought to Frankfurt as part of the events surrounding the Frankfurt Book Fair, where India was the “Guest of honor” this year. Such events are rare in Europe, and I chose to add this evening at the theater to our weekend itinerary (Blogger Alpha and her friend S were visiting us on their Europe tour, and had to put up with such indoor events in their weekend sight-seeing agenda).

SakinamanzilA play with two characters, “3, Sakina Manzil” is set in the 1940s, and centered around the Bombay dock explosion that took place in 1944. As I watched the spotlight move from one character to the other, as I heard them speak in that English we Indians have adopted and made our own, as I experienced the story unfold in the Bombay atmosphere with names, expressions, images that spoke of an Indianness I’ve known since childhood but miss now, I felt a wave of nostalgia flow through me, a wave that held me in a trance throughout the play. Later, S mentioned that it could have been shorter in places, but I had been unable to notice any of that. To me, it filled a large vacuum created, on the one hand, by limited opportunities for such “authentic Indian experiences”, and on the other by the increasing scope my work (an occupation that has little to do with the world of art I long to be a part of) is having on my life these days.

After the play, the author spent close to an hour answering questions. The audience was predominantly German, and it conveyed a warm appreciation for the play, significant understanding of the art and a great deal of curiosity towards the specifics of Indian culture and theater scene in India: “The woman in the play was shown as a strong character – were Indian women like that in those days?” ; “Why did you choose an unhappy ending? Wouldn’t it have been more popular among the Indian audience had it been otherwise?” ; “How many such plays are staged in Mumbai? What is the infrastructure? Is it possible to make a living out of theater?”.

Ramu Ramanathan answered all questions with a simplicity and clarity that reflected his down-to-earth nature. It was surprising to hear that although he had been writing plays for many years and staging them in India, none of his plays had been published (He spoke of an ongoing attempt since four years, with the manuscript going back and forth between him and the publishers who were asking for one change after another ). However, a Dutch translation of “3, Sakina Manzil” was on the pipeline, and it was hoped that this would spur further interest among foreign audiences (This was the first time they were staging it outside India). He spoke of the strong theater culture in Maharashtra (“There is a joke amongst us: you only need to scratch a Maharashtrian and he’d end up writing a play!”), and of a lifestyle that sometimes involved staging three plays in different theaters in the city on the same day, which meant the props had to be simple enough to be disassembled within minutes and packed into a van, a vehicle where the actors and playwrights lived while on the move.

All this served only to enhance my nostalgia; I consoled my mind telling myself that this intensity of experience would not be possible had I been able to watch Indian plays every other weekend.

* * *

Cottages

Earlier that day we drove to Sasbachwalden, a small town in the Black Forest region.

We walked through mostly empty streets lined with pretty tudor cottages, crossing now and then a bubbling brook. Soon our path wounded around a small hill and ended next to a vineyard full of ripe grapes. The girls made most of the opportunity; I wouldn’t be surprised if Germany reports a small dip in wine production for the year 2006.

* * *

On Sunday afternoon we visited the Frankfurt book fair. The “India” theme was splattered all around: on posters, brochures, giant wall hangings displaying authors from the sub-continent, events with famous Indian personalities (we narrowly missed a press-conference with Mira Nair; other events, like readings from authors like Vikram Chandra, Pankaj Mishra, Vikram Seth, Shashi Tharoor, U.R. Ananthamurthy etc had been held through the week).

We had only a couple of hours before the event closed, and as I wandered through the halls the familiar feeling of cultural density enveloped me: I could not imagine another situation where one could get a glimpse of such a wide array of cultures in so small an area. It made you realize how much more there is to be seen, experienced.

Each year I come back from the fair with a list of books (only a list, as books are not typically for sale at the trade fair). This time one book caught my attention: Privacy, a collection of stunning black and white portraits of families in Delhi, by Dayanita Singh.

* * *

It was an eventful weekend, one that passed too soon. Alpha, true to the traits one sees in her writing, was full of humor. Her enthusiasm is infectious: there wasn’t a single dull moment throughout the weekend (which, with someone like me around, is quite a feat – you only need to ask my sister). She left behind plenty of laughter, and a book I’m beginning to love: Vikram Chandra’s Red Earth and Pouring Rain. Thank you, Alpha.

Reality in movies: Manufactured or Captured?

Yesterday at the library I found, among the stack of New DVDs, the “Apu Trilogy” collection from Satyajit Ray. I picked up the first one – Pather Panchali – and watched it later in the afternoon. It left a deep impression, and my mind kept going back to the scenes in that courtyard with Durga and Apu, their mother, father, the old lady, the kittens, the dog. It was as if Ray had opened a window into life in that family, for us to see, understand and empathize. Realism on the screen couldn’t be more real. And more poetic.

There is one aspect about movies portraying realism that has intrigued me for a while now: the impact of the movie seems to depend on whether the reality depicted on screen is manufactured – or seems manufactured – or simply captured. Watching Pather Panchali, I rarely got the feeling that people were acting: events unfolded at a natural pace, nothing seemed forced or exaggerated, and the characters – especially the children – seemed like those you encounter in street: ordinary and commonplace (and yet, through the magic of Satyajit Ray, very endearing).

I’ve felt similarly with Abbas Kiarostami‘s movies. Watching Ten, I could not for the life of me imagine that the child in that car complaining and fighting with his mother was acting. The feeling was stronger in A taste of cherry: if you’ve seen it, you would’ve probably asked yourselves if the director shot the whole movie ad hoc, with the driver picking up strangers on the road and filming their interaction through a hidden camera.

The power of such depictions of “captured reality” is immense; it disturbs you, and leaves you with a lasting impression. Which is very different from the impact of a “well-made” movie with healthy doses of “manufactured reality”. One may like such a well-made movie (an example that comes to mind is a movie I watched a couple of weeks back: Sophia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides, which dazzled me, in a way), but in the end somewhere deep down you cannot let go of the feeling that all this is made up – manufactured for the benefit of your viewing pleasure. To me, this prevents a good movie from being great.

Kurosawa is another example. The villagers in Seven Samurai appear like real villagers, and their pathos seems real, not manufactured. One cannot say the same about the villagers in Lagaan. Again, the difference between good and great.

I watched Deepa Mehta’s Water some weeks previously. Thinking back, the parallels to Pather Panchali are noticeable, and so are the differences. The relationship between the little girl Chuhiya and the old woman who craves for sweets isn’t dissimilar to the one between Durga and her grand aunt; both movies revolve around a courtyard: one within a house and the other within an ashram. But Water, although delicate and moving, seemed manufactured in places, and the casting of Lisa Ray as a widow was inappropriate (Nandita Das would have fit better into the doleful atmosphere of the widow’s ashram).

How does it work ? What techniques do you apply to make a scene not seem manufactured ? When is it okay for a scene to appear manufactured ?

I need to learn to watch movies better.

US Diary

The immigration section at Newark International airport was empty when we entered. The passengers arriving by the late evening flight from Frankfurt fell into one of the two lines: the US citizens and residents to one side, the rest to another. A flat-screen television nearby displayed images of violence in Iraq. Most passengers, like me, looked tired and sleepy: it had been a long flight. When my turn came I walked up to the immigration officer. Bald and bespectacled, he seemed the serious sorts, not too interested in casual conversation; he collected my passport and inquired about the purpose of my visit.

“I’m here to attend a conference in Las Vegas.” I replied.

“What kind of conference, sir?”

“Its a conference where we’re meeting some of our customers and partners.” I had gone through this routine before: the officer usually asked a couple of questions – as a formality, it always seemed – and let me pass.

“Sir, if I were to tell you that I was attending a conference to meet some customers, how much would you understand?” he asked, looking at me straight in the eye.

Half way through that sentence I realized this wasn’t going to be as simple as I had orignally thought.

“It’s a technology conference. I work for a software company – ”

“Indian?” he interrupted.

“No, a German software company.”

“What kind of customers are you meeting ?”

The speed of the interrogation threw me off balance. I tried to think of names, but only two came to mind.

“Kimberly Clark…. Pratt & Whittney…”

“Look sir, if you continue to be answer in generalities then I’m going to have you sent to a different section for further questions.”

I stared back at him, unable to say a thing. I could feel my pulse racing.

“Are these customers individuals, or companies?” he asked.

“They are companies, like Pratt & Whittney, Nike, Kimberly Clark…”

“How long do you want to stay in the US, sir?”

“One week.”

“When was the last time you were in the US?”

“In May this year.”

“For how long ?”

“One week.”

“Could you please place you right forefinger over there, and look straight into the camera ?”

I placed my finger on the fingerprint sensor and looked at the round webcam-like contraption that stood nearby. The officer stamped my passport and returned it.

“Have a nice stay, sir”

“Thank you very much.” I collected my passport and walked outside.

* * *

I spent the weekend at New Jersey with my in-laws. On Saturday we visited a temple nearby for the annual Onam celebrations; all Malayalis in the region seemed to have converged there, and the atmosphere was almost what one would find back in Kerala: people in traditional costumes (arriving in Japanese and German automobiles), South-Indian delicacies (served on plastic plates by people wearing synthetic gloves on one hand), hot and humid weather, dance and music programmes from people of all ages. There was one item by a group of boys and girls dancing to a medley of Hindi film tracks. Watching them – the girls dressed in long pants and shirts that covered most of their arms, and the pairs trying to maintain minimal contact as they danced across the stage – I couldn’t help thinking that this generation growing up in the US was probably far more conservative than their counterparts of similar ages growing up in Indian cities.

The next day we went shopping. My mother-in-law, who religiously collects coupons that offer discounts at various stores, asked if I wanted to benefit from a discount coupon she had. It was from a saloon – “We are getting a discount, so why don’t you make use of it and have a haircut?”

* * *

The four days at Las Vegas seemed to pass by like a blur. This was my second visit to the city; the novelty of the casinos and the fancy hotels had worn. The only banners that caught my attention were those advertising shows: “The Blue Man group” and “Phantom of the Opera” were running at The Venentian – where our conference was held – and I decided to watch “The Phantom” on the last evening. It was performance studded with stunning special effects, and the music was spellbinding. I now intend to watch the movie (something I have been putting off for quite a while, for no apparent reason).

That evening I won a hundred and sixty dollars at a slot machine. Next morning, before leaving for the airport, I tried my hand again – on the same machine – and lost a hundred. When I mentioned this to the taxi driver on my way to the airport, he replied that you are a winner if you leave Vegas without losing anything. He’d made me feel good, and I tipped him generously.

For most of the return journey I was lost in the dreamy world conjured up by Haruki Murakami, in “The wind-up bird chronicle”.

The chic and the banal

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The Saturday market in Lausanne is a fascinating place : on a street lined with trendy stores displaying the latest in style, the vendors setup stalls to sell vegetables, fruits, flowers, spices – things you would find in an ordinary bazaar. This juxtaposition of the chic and the commonplace is one of Europe’s many charms that keeps me enamored.

Trains

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The woman sitting across me in the ICE from Basel to Karlsruhe wore dark glasses and was reading what appeared, through the edges of photos that flashed across as she turned its pages, like a culinary magazine. She was large – she occupied one and half seats – and once she’d settled down she didn’t move an inch.

A short while after Basel, few uniformed men entered the compartment and announced for “der Ausweis“. There was a rustle among passengers who opened their bags, purses, wallets for identification papers; the lady in front seemed puzzled by it all.

“Ausweis?” she asked, turning towards me. “Aber warum? Ich hab kein Ausweis.”

She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to check identification papers in a train; she shook her head and opened her handbag, looking for papers. The officer checked my passport and moved on; the lady was spared an explanation. For the time being.

Next came the ticket collector, a middle-aged man in blue uniform. This time the lady took out a card, but the collector shook his head.

“This is an ICE.” he said, in German. “You can’t use your local train pass – you need a ticket.”

The lady seemed not to understand. “So this won’t do?”

“No. But I can issue you a ticket.” He pulled out a small machine from his bag. “Where did you start your journey?”

The lady hesitated a bit, and then replied: “Offenburg”.

“But we haven’t reached Offenburg yet! It must have been Basel, right?”

“Was it? Let me think… yes, it was Basel.”

The collector punched out a ticket, took money from the lady, and moved to the next row. I couldn’t detect any emotion on him; such incidents seemed part of his daily routine.

* * *

In July 2001, six months after we moved to Germany, I got my company car. That put an end to our train travels: car journeys were faster, more comfortable and less expensive. But travelling by car is like carrying a wall around you – you have privacy, but you limit encounters and meet fewer people. So when Wife moved to Switzerland for her MBA earlier this year, I decided to make my weekend trips by train.

These train journeys took me back to my early days in Germany, to my fascination for the many elements surrounding trains: the punctuality of arrivals and departures, the reading habits of Germans (I’d never seen so many people reading in trains before, and it was fascinating to watch my fellow passengers in their own worlds, absorbed in the book in their hands), the politeness of Germans (people alighting from trains would always get preference; people would always ask if a seat was free before taking it; people would greet you while taking a seat next to you, and bid goodbye while leaving).

Around May, I began to notice an important change: announcements in German were followed by a shorter, truncated version in English – thanks to the Football World Cup. The intention was laudable, the consequences sometimes hilarious. New words – creatively constructed – would crop up, and literal translations into English would result in sentences with the verb at the end:

“The train destinated for Köln you will in platform 8 find.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen… in a few minutes we arrive in Basel SBB. This train ended here. Thank you for driving Deutsche Bahn.”

On a few occasions, even fellow German passengers couldn’t help noticing the bloopers and would laugh out loud. A promising beginning, though. I hope it doesn’t end with the world cup – practice makes perfect.

* * *

The seats in front are empty, and I scan the faces of passengers as they walk across looking for suitable places, stopping next to some before walking past. A lady with a brown bag stops next to the seat across me, and moves on. The seat remains empty until everyone has crossed. Then the lady returns, asks if the seat is free – I smile and nod – and sits down. (I cannot help reminding myself that this practice of asking if a seat is free before taking it is diametrically opposite to the practice in India, where the place you are holding for your fellow passenger taking a toilet break can be usurped by anyone. “No reservations allowed here!” , “Baap ka seat samajh ke rakha hai kya?!” “Adjust kar lo sir – there is place for three here.”)

She must be in her mid thirties. She has blond hair, and is wearing a green top over a knee-length black skirt. As she sits down, her eyes – keen and intelligent – search for the title of the book I’m reading. She pulls out a set of papers and a pencil from her bag, and begins to read what looks like an essay. I can only make out the title: “Rom/Berlin Achse” – probably an essay on the axis forged by Mussolini and Hitler in the nineteen thirties. She underlines some lines as she reads, and occasionally scribbles a few words in the wide margin on the right. Is she a teacher? Or a student of History? What does the essay describe? I want to begin a conversation, but I am unable to do so. Language is one barrier (I’ll have to start with the question “Sprechen Sie English?”); the crowded compartment with people all around us is another. And there’s the issue of interrupting her while she is working. I do not like to struggle too much with such doubts; I simply let it be.

Suddenly music fills the air – violins playing Vivaldi – and then, after a few seconds, stops abruptly. We look up, our eyes lock, she smiles for an instant and I smile back; then she gets back to her papers and I to my book. It is a strangely beautiful moment – as if we were sharing a little secret, unbeknownst to the passengers around us.

When the train nears Karlsruhe, I get up to leave. “Tschüss!” she says, and I reply with a nod: “Tschüss.” At the end of the compartment I realize that I’ve forgotten my bottle of Coke – I walk back to my seat. As I reach for the bottle, she looks up, and seeing me pick up the bottle she smiles – a wide, wonderful smile. I smile back and turn around.

Leysin

Leysin

I’m presently vacationing in Switzerland, using Lausanne as a base to explore the nearby mountains through day hikes.  Yesterday I was in the Vaud Alps region, and the weather was perfect for the walk from Leysin to LeSepey.

Lunch


A short while ago I was walking up and down my apartment, wondering how to get over this barrier that keeps me from sitting down to write. I had a topic in mind – “The Freedom Slave” was to be the title of the post – and I had thought it through many times over, but I couldn’t get myself sit down and create a structure around my thoughts. It seemed more like homework (“Write an essay on ‘the freedom slave’ you met in the US last month”) than an act of exploration, which is what writing should be. The mind then drifted towards the facets of life in Iran I had seen in a movie some hours before (“Crimson Gold”), and the book I had begun reading yesterday (“Persepolis 2”). Simple things about life in a foreign culture can be so interesting; what about my life here could someone be interested in? I then thought of the lunch this afternoon, and the conversation with the couple who had invited me – yes, that was it. It would be a simple act of describing a Sunday afternoon spent at a friend’s place. Years later, the lines I put down today would take me back to those few hours, and convey a glimpse of life “back then”.

* * *

On Tuesday, I run into S & V at a restaurant. It has been a while since we’ve met, and at the end of a brief chat S suggests I come over for lunch on Sunday. I gladly accept the invitation.

On Saturday, I remember to pick-up a box of chocolates. (Since Wife is not around this year, I have to make a conscious effort and not forget such things). S has suggested that I come around noon, so I leave home at noon on Sunday and drive towards Heidelberg. The dial on the car shows 33 degrees Celsius, and it makes me wonder why anyone would want reams of data as a proof of global warming when the signs around us are so obvious.

I climb three floors to get to their apartment. It is a lovely apartment, airy and full of light. S is his relaxed self, and V looks stunning, as always. I am offered orange juice, and we start with the topic on everyone’s minds: the football world cup. S thinks it is fixed – Germany is winning too easily. I think Germany is playing good, attacking football.

The TV is on, and images from CNN keep floating by: forces kill Taliban militants in Afghanistan; US plan to move troops out of Iraq seen as too optimistic; violence in Gaza strip; Indians perform the ritual of a frog’s wedding to induce monsoon; Germany and Argentina move into quarterfinals; Arcelor shareholders will decide on Mittal’s bid…

For lunch, we have jeera rice, aloo mutter, baingan bharta, and raita. It is delicious, and spicy; I have to use my napkin often.

Throughout, the conversation flows freely; we are never short of topics. We talk of travel (Scandinavia is a part of Europe yet to be covered; taking a cruise would be fun; planning a trip to Spain later this year); German perception of India (which varies from some colleagues who travel to India each year and find it fascinating, to those who come back from one business trip to our Bangalore office and are exhausted by it all); parents in Hyderabad (how S suggested they visit a yoga class so that they could meet others to socialize with); ISKCON (how some brilliant students went into spirituality early on and lost those precious years); Shashi Tharoor (his nomination to the post of UN Secretary General; his novel “The great Indian novel”); Western resistance to eastern ownership (as exhibited by the initial reasons for rejecting Mittal’s bid for Arcelor, and other cases in the recent past); inter cultural marriage (how we had to win over parents opposing the alliance); future plans (of Wife after MBA, and in general).

S & V have been here since three years, and they agree that the years have flown by. They know that they do not wish to settle here, but moving isn’t easy: change in location implies change in work, and there is also a good amount of inertia. I mention that my dad keeps referring to his four years in Ghana as the best period in his life, and I have the feeling that I am presently living through what I will later refer to as the best years of my life. S & V wholeheartedly agree to this: S also thinks of this phase in Germany along similar terms. And yet, there is a desire to move on….

I leave around 3 pm. On the drive back, the temperature display shows 35 degrees.

* * *

There wasn’t anything extraordinary about this lunch. But what would I not give to bring back memories of a perfectly ordinary lunch I had ten years ago: memories of the company, the mood, the cuisine, the conversation, and of course, the temperature.