A Sin To Be Born

The rains came down just then.
First drop by drop, and then all together,
Washing off the vermillion from her parting
As minute streams of blood.

She stood there by the river
As the levels rose and the current grew stronger,
Not caring about whether she'd be washed away by the fierce lashes of the heartless Ganges
Her only concern, her.

Sound asleep she lay in her arms
As she shielded her from the ruthless pours
Using nothing but the end of her sari,
While she soaked to the skin.

The sun by now was hiding behind the clouds,
And it went well, the situation,
With her life's journey
As she went for a walk down the lane of horrid memoirs.

She remembered the day she first got news.
Her home sounding shrill screeches of joy and ecstasy
As family circled round her and celebrated
The coming of a son.

The wonder of nine nights lasted nine months
Until the day arrived
When the little infant born out of a mother in excruciating pain.
She named her Aziza.

Suddenly, the reassuring cries of happiness
Transformed
Into wails of sorrow
Unheard of.

Some suggested murder, while others
Spoke about setting her afloat
In the hands of the mighty river that would take her
To the Heavens to repent her sin.

Back she came into the world she was in,
The mighty river in front of her,
As lightning struck
Somewhere close.


Unknotting the end of her sari, she then,
Threw away the bunch of keys
That were they keys to her home
And her world.

She then looked at the Heavens one last time
And cursed her self for being the woman and bearing another.
And then, she slowly walked towards it,
As the mighty Ganges swept her away into oblivion.

Rendezvous with the Ice Maiden

Through the glass it looked beautiful,

The picturesque city drenched in the first rains.

The setting went well with his mood,

His mind flashed a thousand images.

Turning, he looked at her again.

On the cold floor she lay

Staring blankly at the ceiling.

 She was cold too. 

He knelt down beside her

Running his fingers up her arm 

Until he reached her neck. 

He stopped to glance at her necklace.

It was a present from him.

He remembered that fateful day.

Roses decked up her house

While she sat with him on the couch

And he knelt down and then looked at her.Then, he gave her that.

A sudden noise brought him back

And he smiled at her.

A smile not of a sinner, but of a lover

Honest and true.

 Then a look so menacing,

Rarely did a lover look so.

He clasped the pendant once again

And ripped it off.

An emotion of calmness then set upon his face,

As if it were a job swell done.

He got up and walked across the room

And heaved himself upon a chair.

There, he slept till morning.

Ere the big ball of fire rose again.

The rays struck his eyes to bring

Him back to the world again.

And then, he glanced at her once again.

A heavenly face so pristine,

He fell in love with her

Once again and over.

He then got up from his throne

And walked up to the ice maiden.

There, he dropped his gun

And turned to leave.

Just then, he stopped.

Turning, he went back again. 

Kneeling, he took out his knife

And struck it six times.

Finally he got up to go

And his phone rang. 

'Are you coming, honey?' said the voice.

'In a minute!' As he wiped his knife.

Euphoria

His right hand was dead,

Blood oozing out through his vein;

He felt numb 

And contented. 

His whole life flashed by 

In euphoria unparalleled.

The long walks down the dimly lit lane,

The fleeing when time had crossed its bounds.

The graffiti on his arms he cherished. The smile,

Breath-taking to say the least. He believed

She and he were meant to be.

Together and forever.

And then, he came back, 

To the world that now knew no pain.

By and by, he shut his eyes

Never to open again.

Yet, his heart still beat,

For the woman for whom he paved a bed

Of a colour richer than a Marshal Niel.

He remembered that day.

The fireworks shone brilliantly,

Welcoming a new year to oneself.

And this was a new year that'd be the worst 

For all the hopes he'd piled on, were shattered.

And he had not the courage to build them again.

Days post, they met again, her smile

Lit him up. An emotion

So strange it were

To cry and smile together.

A week that'd been the most magnificient of all, 

And yet on the day it was last, she broke him

Her heart was for someone else: the person 

She loved. And he stood there, yet again, dumbstruck.

Tears rolled down his eyes as 

A smile he braved for her

To be happy was all he'd hoped 

For her.

Since then his eyes and heart

Craved for once a sight of hers.

A futile wish, he knew, for

She didn't care at all for him.

And thus, his wrist bleeds

A red that's not just his blood

But an ocean of emotions and pain engulfed.

He shuts his eyes for ever.

The Value of Unimportance

The day isn't at all different. 

He gets up, like he always does,

From the dilapidated sheet of plastic

And stares. 

There's a brilliant spark in his eyes, 

A bottomless ocean of many

Experiences, memoirs and happiness. 

Men and women walk by in apparel,

Bright.

The weather suits his mood. 

He is happy, for new clothes shall he wear

The tattered old rags. 

Drums beat with an unsual mix of rhythm and raucousness.

The music brought by the cool winds

That kiss his beardless cheek,

A cold, yet pleasant kiss.

And then, he stares

Into moments of time faded into oblivion.

Happier times, perhaps, they are

History, we wish,

But illusion, alas!

He stares, yet, eyes fixed

On a memory that existed, Or

Probably never did.

And then, he thinks of other things, 

Memories he shall not like to recall. 

They're events and circumstances that have led to this futile life,

Humiliation and shame filling the void of the soul.

A hand so soft, then touches his face.

A touch so heavenly that takes him to a world unknown

Yet, wished for, in his dreams.

The nimble fingers wipe off something from his cheeks

As drops of dew fall on his cold, weak arms.

The universe he now belongs to is above

And beyond all that man hath perceived. 

You and I shall never know

Realisation might never dawn

Was it God or Nature 

That took pity on this unimportant creature

And released him from a life so used to humiliation and torture?

The little boy remains there, holding on to the man

Father, he called. Streams of realisation flow down his tanned cheeks

Of loneliness dawning. 

The man now looks not towards the Heavens,

Or the life of the Chanel clad lady in red.

Yet, there's a smile unparallel. An expression

Truly worth this futile life.

An ode to the Unsung Hero

Draped in a white sari she looks

A lifeless glimmer in her eyes. 

She sits on the sidewalk as thousands

Of feet pass her.

Today is a special day, she recalls

A day that changed the world. 

The eye has turned chaste, years of memories

She recollects.

She remembers the day she felt

Worthwhile for once.

Having fled from a husband abusive

She sat by the street.

That day it poured, as if

Heavens seemed in accordance with her.

The first rain of the year, a concoction

Of happiness and grief.

Exhilarated as she was, quite obvious the emotion,

 She named the child Jim.

The sound of tears that made her smile

Was a sound unforgotten.

On and on years passed by,

The first words he spoke.

Her elation knew no bounds when

 'Maa,' she had heard.

Henceforth life went on,

To school the little boy went.

Yet, the mother stayed back on that pavement

To make him his lunch.

And then came the day that changed

The lives of both these beings.

A letter from a boss that took

Jim away and afar.

Hurt she had been, yet took immense pride

At her son's successes and the beginning of a new stride.

She dabbed her moist eye with the tunic

As she bid him goodbye.

Since then, years have passed,

Life has moved on. 

She has been asked to leave 

The room she called home.

Today as she remembers her son's birthday bright

Deep down, she hopes that he would

Once at least call on

A mother missing the glimmer of her son's eyes.

She still recalls his darkish skin,

Hair rough and eyes light a brown.

And today as she keeps his birthday,

It's a sea of emotions that fill

A tear drop from her eyes.

Noukadubi: A Review

Noukadubi - Rituparno Ghosh has and can do a lot better. An immense let down on his part.

          Noukadubi is essentially a story of love between individuals borne out of mistaken identity. A boat wreck leads to two people, absolutely unknown to each other, living together as man and wife, thinking that they are indeed with the one they got married to. How the two main characters realise that mistake and how it affects not just them but also the man's prospective lover and the woman's actual husband forms the crux of the story.
         

         Noukadubi, as by Tagore, was from Kamala (the part essayed by Riya Sen)'s point of view. I don't know WHAT happened to him that made him twist the plot to turn it into Ramesh (Jisshu Sengupta)'s perspective. That kind of injected all the romanticism out of the plot.

         It does not work because once you switch the plot to fit the perspective of Ramesh, a LAWYER, of all people, the very tenderness and romance and fondness is missing. It would have worked had it been from the perspective of Kamala, a village belle. She's someone who'd work on the nuances well and they'd come out naturally, simply because sincerity and conviction on her part would have been better noticed which would have brought about the things that I stated out. I'm not saying that they were underplayed. They were missing from the story. That made it fall flat.

        There are, in addition to this, a few technical glitches that annoyed me at times. Picture them.

One. Were Tagore's pictures ABSOLUTELY necessary? They did not help in any way. That just made me believe that it wasn't something based in the 1930s (Noukadubi was based in the 1920s) but rather, today.
Two. The SAME newspaper was used on two different dates. HOW is that possible?
Three. The manner in which Kamala faints and falls ill is very repetitive. Same applies for when she lands up on the banks of the rivers.

CHARACTERS: 

As Ramesh, Jisshu Sengupta is very convincing and sincere, but I wished he emoted a little more, especially when in conversation with the woman he loves, Hemnalini.

As Kamala, Riya Sen too, does a good job. What a relief to know that she can actually act! However, when in a scene with someone else, it's the other character that rules celluloid and not her. One's eyes shift away from her very easily.

As Nalinaksha, with the very small role that Prosenjit Chatterjee has is commendable and he performs it to the T. In every scene that he is in, whether as the singer who brilliantly performs Sanga Chadma or the doctor who goes around prescribing medicines even when not called for, he is excellent and is completely convincing in his role. The icing on the cake is when his mother cries and the way he tells his mother 'khete dao'. That is just awe-striking. 

But, by far, the best is Raima Sen as Hemnalini. The sophisticated Bengali is brilliantly essayed by her and every emotion is perfectly conveyed across to the audience. The little warmth that is there in the movie is largely due to her performance. When on screen, she is in control, even if the character accompanying her is none but Prosenjit. She gives him a run for his money, especially when the scene about the 6 steps and not taking the seventh one happens, or the way she comes to meet Nalinaksha's mother (reminded me of Chigusa's role in the Japanese Wife) is breath-taking. Whether low and dejected or cheerful and high-spirited, she is convincing from one frame to the other.

All in all, Noukadubi is an average film. Rituparno's ode to the Bengali Bard isn't as up-heaving as it should have been.

Rating: 3/5 (Average)

Strange Land, Stranger People

Truly, when one thinks of India, does one really think of Incredible India? I'd rather say they think of a few basics:
1. The 'Common-wealth games'
2. Food and Money
3. Naxalites

The Commonwealth or Common-wealth Games 2010
CWG 2006, Melbourne: A dainty Aishwarya Rai performs an eleven minute dance sequence as she welcomes the world to witness the Commonwealth Games 2010 to be held in India's national capital, New Delhi. 4 years since, and let's have a look at the exquisite condition the stadia are in with just 31 days to go before India rolls out the red carpet for her guests for the Commonwealth Games 2010. Well, let's just hope so.
Indira Gandhi Stadium and Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium: Do these places even look like stadia that are due to host a series of international events in just about 30 days? I'd rather say, and I'm very sure many would agree, that they look pretty much like Canning House and Dalhousie House and other such warehouses flanking the Strand Road in Calcutta.
Commonwealth Games truly seem to have turned into a Game to loot the Common's Wealth. All hail Suresh Kalmadi, officially, indeed; and unofficially, the many top bureaucrats, who, along with Mr. Kalmadi, sometime or other, have been part of this wonderful act we term as 'under-the-table conversation.'
Some Rupees 40,000.00 spent on hiring toilet paper and umbrellas? Honestly, I had never even heard of 're-usable' toilet paper until our honourable Government decided to invest 5 grands per roll renting it. Well, let's just hope 'Atithi Devo Bhawa' lives up to serving it's guests from the Commonwealth of Nations and other countries and is not corrupt too.

Food and Money
Madame Tussuad should have considered opening up a museum here in India too, considering the fact that we have prestigious jewels whom we can immortalize for ever, and one of them is our food and agriculture Minister, Mr. Sharad Pawar
What have not heard about this marvel? First, his link ups with the IPL scam, and now this - the height of 'responsibility' on his front when it comes to the people of India. He is a Cabinet Minister, holding a key portfolio that precedes every portfolio, as man cannot munch on currency notes.
Tonnes of food grain have been wasted over the past decade, and an approximate value of Rupees 50 crore is spent every year in order to protect these food crops from damage.
According to the guidelines laid down by the Government of India, every Indian family below the poverty line is liable for 450 kgs of ration a year. I doubt whether they even receive 4.5 kgs of it in a year. Most people are dying of hunger, and the food which is produced for them is damaged and destroyed thanks to the poor preservation methods. Where exactly is the money going then? Are we really dumb enough to believe that we spend so much over food protection only so that all of it goes down the drain? I think not.
Where is it all going then? Well, it's all draining, but into pockets - pockets of the rich and 'honest' citizens of India who aspire to lead us 'unto light from darkness,' while Mr. Sharad Pawar gleefully states that he has to 'look into the Supreme Court order to check whether he is allowed to distribute the damaged food crops at times of drought like these.'
And then, we talk of price inflation. Not of daily articles, however, but our Members of Parliament. Areas of Bengal are drought stricken. The 3rd farmer suicide took place in two weeks on Tuesday, 31st August, 2010. How are we( the MPs) bothered? All we need is our money and whether we come to Parliament or not, whether we 'serve' the nation and her people or not, is absolutely optional; and often voted against. So much for 'Satyamev Jayate.'
When people across the country are dying due to lack of finances and lack of food, our MPs storm the Parliament and cause its adjournment numerous times a day, all in thought of the 'servants' of the country - our politicians. As if a 300% pay hike was not enough, they need 200% more, excluding all allowances. Agreed that our MPs still receive a lot less as compared to international standards, but aren't they wise and sensible enough to realise that at a time like this, when one's own brothers are killing themselves, one should atleast be considerate enough to be termed human? Well, I don't think such sensibility will ever dawn upon our 'men who lead from the front.'

Naxal Problems
The Media talks of and to the Maoists. We see footage of them on our television sets and pictures in the newspapers. Despite that, our Government cannot track them.
The Home Minister, Mr. P. Chidambaram tries his best to arrange for a conference with the Chief Ministers of all the states undergoing Operation Green Hunt, but some of them just don't seem to turn up.
The Minister of Railways, who is touted to be the next Chief Minister, puts forward her ideas, "There are no Maoists in India."
So basically, the problem lies in  the fact that as usual, we are divided in opinion, and that is quite natural.
The Chief Minister of Bihar has always sided with the Maoists and as a result, 2/3rd of Bihar is under Maoist control. The Chief Minister of Jharkhand never bothers to turn up for meetings with the Minister of Home. His reasons are valid enough, he himself is touted to be one of the Maoists.
The people want the Army in, the politicians don't. Why would they? After all, switching on the local news channel would give them unending entertainment.
The Maoists have open jan-adalats in the forests. A prominent news channel even telecast a live session of a jan-adalat on their prime time, and still our politicians are fighting over their very existence.
What more do they need? Thousands of police massacred in the long run, trying to regain democratic control over the Maoist areas; four police men nabbed from Bihar this morning, and they are still waiting for more. The only thing that they can do is pose with their picture-perfect faces with the cliché statement: "The situation is under control." Obviously, it is under control - the security forces are under control.
"Money, Money, Money, It's a rich man's world!"

-Rrivu Banerjee