Four years ago

Yesterday, I didn't even remember that it was 11 September, anniversary of the New York attacks. I had a board meeting yesterday morning and I was thinking about that. It was also a friend's birthday, so I was reminding myself to send her greetings. And I was thinking about the peace march that covers 28 kms from the city of Perugia to Assisi.

It was only after the meeting, after lunch and after the afternnon nap, that Nadia told me that they were showing a Chinese film on the TV. I love Chinese films. She said that it was about children lving near a brick kiln.

I had immediately hoped that it was the film where Gong Li plays the mother of a deaf child. I had seen it on TV in China but since it was in Chinese, I hadn't followed it properly. But the film on the TV was about a teacher wearing a chador, trying to explain to nursery kids about bombings in New York and when children could not understand the meaning of "tower", she took them out to look at the chimney of the brick kiln.

It was that film where different directors have made short films on the theme of 11 September. The Isreali film was about a suicide bomber and a journalist who wants her story.

Mira Nair's film is about Salim, an American born in Pakistan, and the film was called "Terrorist".

"The exiled man" from Chile, was bitter about the American double standards.

The director from Lebanon has made his film about a dead American marine, his lebanese girl friend and a Palestinian suicide bomber.

The dream of boys in the film from Burkina Faso is to catch Osama Bin Laden and get 24 million dollars' award.

But my favorite film was about the deaf French girl, who has a fight with her boyfriend in New York, and is hoping for a miracle.

My own memories of that 11 September 4 years ago, seem an episode from the same film. The waiting at Milan airport, shopkeepers suddenly closing their shops and running away, the unbelievable images on the TV in the bar, my cancelled flight to Beirut, the journey back to Bologna and all the while, thinking about my mother who was travelling to Washington DC that morning. Her flight was diverted to somewhere in Canada and for few days, no body could tell where she was.

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Another Rakhi

Two days ago, it was rakhi. Like every thing else, only emails and e-cards remind of things that are no longer alive. Rakhi is just another memory with a vague sense of what it is supposed to mean.

Marco wants to send a rakhi to his girl friend. I explained to him that it wouldn't be right. No, he said, it won't be a normal rakhi that a boy gets from his sister, it will be something else, something very special.

Shweta telephoned and said that I will get my rakhi next time we meet. Perhaps, this is good, not just celebrating a festival but accepting the spirit behind it, and it does not really matter when we actually do it.

In our Indian association of Bologna, we are already used to this. Holi and Deewali are celebrated according to the availability of the hall, possibly around the actual dates that these festivals are being celebrated in India, but if that is not possible, we are not unduly bothered!

Manish, Sonia's husband, will be coming here on 24 September. Cynthia and Aniket (Mithoo) say that they might plan a holiday in Italy. Recently Riju had come to visit us and I had taken him to Venice.

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Finally Holidays in Bibione

Finally the holidays in Bibione.

In my opinion, this is the saddest part of the holidays when they actually begin, since it means that soon they will be over!

I have a long list of things to do during these holidays. I want to start with the second draft of my book, write something in Hindi, make some interactive animations with the help of flash and a graphic tablet... For my birthday, I asked Miriam for a graphic tablet and it is wonderful to design with a pen on it and see the designs on the computer.

I am sitting on the terrace in Bibione and it is raining and there is a cold wind. I am back in Bibione after two years. Last time I had come for a couple of days with Meghna in July 2003. Nadia and Marco have gone to the supermarket. In the afternoon when we had arrived, it was sunny and warm. Marco had fixed the long beach chair and I had plonked myself on it with the newspaper, saying that after half an hour I will go the beach for my first swim. I think that I fell asleep after ten minutes. Two hours later, when I woke, the sky was already covered with clouds.

On the way to Bibione, near Portogruaro we had left the main road to go to Brussa, a small village lost among a vast area of green fields, small canals and lovely house, to an old restaurant called Mazorak, where they serve wonderful fried fish. You can also go there by boat and there is a Mazorak boat stop. I must have gone there for the first time with Miriam and Lino, probably in 1982 or 1983, before Marco was born. It was a simple place, eating there didn't cost much and food was superb even if their menu was limited. The menu is still the same, the food is as good, but the place is not so simple or cheap any more. It is now really famous with people travelling 50-80 kms to come and eat there.

The owner of Mazorak, once he knew us all. He would greet us like long lost friends. Marco, a small baby at that time, played with puppies in their house behind the restaurant, while his wife cooked polenta with corn flour. Now his children are all grown up and his grandchildren work in the restaurant. Today, his wife was no where to be seen and the owner, he looked old and sick, while a line of cooks worked like an assembly line production in a factory to produce roasted polenta for the thronging crowds. I am glad for their success but it made me feel a little sad.

Then, Nadia said, "One day we will come here with Marco's wife." I said, "May be we will come one day with Marco's children! While they will eat, we will take out the children for a walk." "You remember that time in Connaught Place, when Marco was crying so much, that you had to take him out and we had to eat by turns?" Nadia asked. Marco rolled up his eyes, he has heard this story hundreds of times!

Suddenly it is wonderful to be on holidays.

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Black memories

I suddenly thought of the man and his daughter. I was writing about the daily "Sofie's choice" that you make as father or mother, when you don't know if you are going to eat that day, when you decide which of your children is going to eat and how much, if you can take your child to the doctor... and I thought of them.

He was from Rajasthan, he had said. His thin sun-burnt face was creased with lines. He had come to Delhi to break stones on the roads because there was nothing to eat in their village. His wife and two children were dead. Only that girl was left. 8-9 years old, thin with wise eyes. She was sick, swaying slightly. She had diarrhea and vomiting. And she was dehydrated.

It was Sunday afternoon and I had promised Nadia that we would go out. I gave him some medicines for his daughter and told him to come back next morning. There was no other way.

I saw him after a few months. How is your daughter, I had asked. She died that night when we had come to see you, he had said simply. Without any hint of resentment or anger in his voice.

Every now and then I think of that woman, the mother of five daughters, whose husband wanted a son. In the servant quarters. Blood was soaking her sari. I was sitting there with blood on my hands, unable to do any thing.

She still comes in my nightmares, making me wake up with my heart pounding in my chest. Her daughters must be grown up and married. Wonder what kind of lives they had? And did her husband remarry?

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Perceived insults to religions

It is so depressing to look at Indian news and every other week find some news about a group of Indians who feel that their religion has been insulted by this or that film or that song or that dress.

Hindus in USA seem to be particularly sensitive persons, getting offended very easily because some body has used a Gita shlok inappropriately or has dared to put a Ganesh picture on a pair of jeans. Remove it or else .. they threaten. This is their assertiveness, they say, we need to protect our religion. I think that it is only a sign of their own insecurity. Ganesh ji or Gita don't need protection of these fundoos.

I had thought that Christians were above it but the Catholic protests over the film "Sins" or the Sikh protests against "Jo Bole So Nihaal", all seem equally pointless. Bengalis protest against someone daring to show their Subhash babu as married and want the film to be withdrawn from cinemas. Shiv Sena persons are already well known for their attack at attempts to "corrupt the Bhartiya sanskriti". The saddest thing is that Government seems to cave in every time, in front of any such protest. I wish someone would tell all these moral police to go to hell and if they don't listen, put them in jail.

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In the park, I was eating some shahtoots when Brando pulled me away. The branch in my hand slipped and went up, showering a rain of dark shatoots on my head, leaving purple marks on my shirt. It reminded me of eating jamuns at Badri Vishal pitti's house in Hyderabad. Thinking of Hydrabad made me think of Mr. Rock and his wife, our neighbours in N.Rajendra Nagar. Their twin sons, Jeremy and Stephan. Mrs. Rock's nephew had come from Secundrabad. In the evening we would sit together on the wall in front of our home and chat for hours. He was working at a car workshop in Sindhi house. After the Rocks left for Australia, he too went away. Can't remember his name or his face!

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Doing Yoga netis at the Brahmchari asharam

I had never thought that dogs can eat grass. But that was before, we had Brando and before I started taking him out on morning and evening walks.

Evening time in India is Gaudhooli in my mind, the dust raised by cows coming back to home from pastures lit by the rays of sinking sun. In our park, the evening time is kukur-pakhana time, all dog-owners are out with their dogs, no matter if it is raining or snowing. Coming back to vegetarian dogs, I felt amazed to see Brando munching green grass. Nadia explained to me that it is some mechanism for him to clean his stomach since it would make him vomit. So, if he eats lot of grass, that means we must search in the house for his vomits, to clean-up on the next morning.

Eating grass to vomit reminds me of going to Dhirendra Brahmchari's ashram near Gol daak-khana in Delhi in the early seventies. The yoga classes started around 5 in the morning. I used to go there by bicycle from Rajendra Nagar. There we had to do the netis - all the different techniques for cleaning the body. The first neti to be learned was that of vomiting for cleaning the stomach. Everyone there drank a few glasses of tepid water and then cheerfully vomited in the round space delimited by a low wall. Just watching others vomiting made me feel a wave of nausea initially.

Do proper vomiting beta, Bhramchari ji's assistants extorted. So fingers in the throat, I used to go ga-ga-ga, till tears came out of my eyes, trying to vomit. However, with practice, things had got much better. Just standing near the vomiting place, a quick contraction of tummy muscles, brought out every thing inside my stomach in a generous bout of vomit.

There were other netis to learn like taking strings of clothe, putting them in one side of nose, taking out of the other, swallowing the clothe-strings, meters and meters of it, and then bringing them out again (probably by mouth I think!). I never came around to doing those other netis, never progressing beyond the vomiting neti.

Just writing about it, has brought a bit of nostalgia for healthy vomiting. Wonder if I can try it again one of these days, may be when I am alone at home with only Brando (who I am sure would approve!).

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Uttam Kumar, Suchitra Sen and Durga Puja

Watched the DVD of "Nayak" with Uttam Kumar and Sharmila Tagore. Ray had made it in 1966, just a year before Uttam Kumar had himself produced "Chotti si Mulakat".

Nayak is a stereotype of how we imagine the rich and the famous must be living their lives - it is all a façade. Nice smiles, cars, autograph hunters in the day. Nightmares, loneliness, people trying to exploit you all the time, to fall into alcoholic sleep. In that genre, both Uttam Kumar as Arindam Mukherjee and Sharmila as the feminist journalist with heavy glasses and sans dimples were stereotypes in the film. Yet it was Uttam Kumar's charm that raises the film's interest.

His nightmare with banknotes and skeleton hands holding ringing telephones may not be very imaginative but he makes every thing look effortless. The cliché seemed plausible. Reading his biography it is easy to see why people feel that this film was autobiographical about Uttam Kumar's life.

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I remember watching Chotti si Mulakat in Alipur Dwar. Vyjayantimala and Ya Ya Hippi Hippi in technicolor. Upperstall says that "He produced 'Chhotisi Mulaqaat' in 1967 starring himself and Vyjayantimala. The film was adaptated from Agniparikhsha and had music by Shankar-Jaikishen . The film however was a dismal failure at the box-office leaving him with a pile of debt and probably leading to his first heart attack. Though he recovered and returned to full time acting, thus clearing his debts, he was never to produce a film again."

The Bangladeshi DVD shop owner has so many Bengali films. The DvD with Nayak has 11 of his films, including different films with Suchitra sen.

It made me remember the Durga Puja in the park in R-block, where they would show all those emotional films - Deep Jale Jaye, Saptpadi,...

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Nostalgia killing by fresh fruit & Vegetables

On internet, I watched the songs from the film "Morning Raga" this morning. They are really beautiful. Shabana Azmi looks great. Perizaad Zorabian also. But it is the music that gave me goose-flesh. I had listened to the cassette of this film in Delhi in December and had thought that it was monotonous.

Back in Bologna, I had tried playing it in the car while going to work a couple of times, and then given it up. And then today, watching the songs is completely different from listening to them. Listening to the cassette now will be another experience. Yet it is still the same cassette!

Morning Raga brought memories of Malati. Renu's friend in NPL. In our home, everyone was didi-dada, but not in Rahul's home. There Renu was just Renu. And Malati. Her voice was heavy, almost like a man's. She practiced Carnatak music. Heavenly. Thinking of Malati brought in mind her sister in law, Vatsal's wife, and their twin sons. I remember her crying desperately in the corridor at Wellingdon hospital, the blanket dirty with blood. I didn't know, how to console her. What do we men know about loss of some thing that grows inside you?

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I have cooked bhindi today. And some arabi. It makes me a bit sad to find all these vegetables at the Bangladeshi fruit and vegetable stalls in Bologna. Till two years ago, I would wait for months to go to Delhi, mentally tasting arhar ki daal, bhindi, karela, mooli ... Now every thing is there in the Bangladeshi and Pakistani shops, very convenient but not so good for the nostalgia.

The Bangladeshi girl in the store had packed bhindi and arabi for me, and then asked me, if I wanted some fresh mangoes? It made me shudder. All my nostalgia, longings and memories killed by fresh fruit & vegetables that come every week from Bangladesh.

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Live radios from Delhi

I love going to work on my bicycle. While on my bicycle, I simply love looking at people in the cars, stuck in the traffic, waiting with impatient faces, perpetually angry at the world for not moving fast enough.

Part of the way to my workplace is through Ghisello park along the Navile canale. In the park, watching children with their parents or grand-parents makes me feel warm and gooey inside. The ducks with shining green necks, the steel-gray of the water in the canal, the canopy of tall trees with green leaves, transparent with sunlight filtering through, everything looks lovely.

As I work, it is good to listen to Hindi music on internet but sometimes, I wish there was a live radio-station from New Delhi that I could listen to. There are other live radios with Indian music but I want a live station from Delhi.

Italy has hundreds of web-based radios. Any radio worth its salt has an internet version. Why can't the Indian radios do that? Why is website of All India radio without live broadcast for last 2 years or so? I wonder if Delhi B still has Forces' Request with old songs from 1950s and 1960s?

I would love to hear a radio talking about traffic between Maalcha marg and Moolchand or about some accident near ITO, or the procession blocking Patel Nagar, while I sit in my office, look out at San Luca on the top of the verdant hill and imagine that going out, I can get out at Shanker Road, walk towards J block, pass behind Manav Sthali school ...

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Ramayan in the subconscious

Today it is raining and Nadia insists on putting the "raincoat" on Brando before we go out for the evening walk. The raincoat is something that mainly protects his back from getting wet, and it has to be put around his neck and and around his legs. As soon as Nadia uses the word 'impermeabile' or "raincoat", Brando tries to hide under the table. After calling his name repeatedly, he slowly comes out, his head hanging low, his tail between his legs, looking miserable. I call it his "Sita maiyya" look, as if he is imploring the mother earth to open and swallow him.

In the park, he sometimes decides that he has had enough of following me and refuses to move, holding on tight to the ground, looking at me defiantly. This one I call his "Angad ji" look. Today while walking in the park, I thought about this going back to personalities from Ramayan. Of course, it is all between me and him since here no one else, including Nadia would understand what I mean by Sita maiyya or Angad ji. However, I am a bit surprised how some things can remain alive deep inside the mind and come out suddenly like that.

Another example is the involuntary "hey Ram" when I saw a bad accident. The words came to me when I had looked at a boy's body covered with blood. Later, the words 'hey Ram' kept on echoing in my head for a long time.

Yet, if anybody asks me if I believe in Ganesh or Ram or other Gods, Hindu or from any other religion, my answer would be an emphatic no. I don't feel that praying before a statue or saint is going to change any thing. Yet, I know, I will go on using words like Sita maiyya and Angad ji and hey Ram.

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Tourist-guide in Bologna

Last year was really good. Writing the book, working on the web page, months of writing and creating without feeling tired, all the online courses exhibitions, etc. on the AIFO web page.. Then suddenly one day, the energy seemed to disappear. The days pass meaningless. Lost in translation, don't know what that means exactly, but it sounds right.

Suddenly this desire to write is back. Not the crazy energy that poured out all the time. More tired energy. Wonder, how long it would last. Had a look at new blog pages at Blogger.com, where Mukul has his blog. I like the colours of Mukul's blog. But how many blogs are there about confused thoughts, random thoughts, wandering thoughts, fragments, confusion.. So many persons not knowing how to express themselves and to whom!

Pam left back for London yesterday. It was real fun to have her here in Bologna. I was her tourist guide, taking her around.

It is so good to have someone who is interested in arts and history, and who does not get bored if you talk about museums, paintings and the histories of churches. Most people do not want a real tourist guide, they just want someone to point the "important" things that are worth visiting so that when they go back, they can say that they saw them and show the pictures to prove it. To have guests who are more interested in shopping malls leaves me frustrated. Pam was not like that!

She is a wonderful person. I went to meet Prof. Pampiglione with her, in his 7th floor apartment that has wonderful views of the skyline of Bologna. They were together in Mozambique thirty years ago.

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Clouds, Triveni Kala Sangam and Farhat

I love the clouds. And the vibrant greens and dark browns of trees against the gray sky. It makes me feel like singing. And it brings back memories of long walks with Rini didi in the Janaki Devi college grounds, of the concerts of Pandit Jasraj and Bhim Sen Joshi, of the chudela dance...

Suddenly I am thinking of the first time, I heard Mehndi Hassan. His song Awargi. His voice soft and smooth like velvet. In the Triveni Kala Sangam library in Mandi House. Pinki had taken me there. Black vinyl records. The first time of hearing Prabha Atre sing, Tan man dhan tope varun. The first time of hearing Farida Khannum.

Last year when Farhat had come home for dinner, I had made her listen to Farida Khannum. She had taken the urdu book given to me by Nabeeha so many years ago and had read aloud some poems. 

She was sitting on the sofa, her face glowing with poetry. It is already one week since she died. Not even six weeks from the day they had diagnosed the tumour. This time, I hope to go home to see the kids before the next dose of chemotherapy, she had written in her last message...

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