An afternoon in Calcutta

Last week, en route to my hometown, I had to stop in Calcutta for a few hours. With nothing to do, and an entire afternoon to kill, I wasn't quite sure what to do. Despite my intentions to take time to explore this city , I have somehow never managed to. My visits to Calcutta are always stop-overs for a a few hours in which I travel from Dum Dum to Sealdah or the other way round. There was the other matter of having to deal with the June heat and I was already regretting not taking having booked a connecting flight to Bagdogra as I stepped out of the air conditioned comfort of the airport to the thick humidity.

In proper tourist fashion, I put on my headphones and set my pod to the recently re-discovered Amelie soundtrack by Yann Tiersen as I got into one of the city's famous yellow taxis. My destination, Park Street could not have been more touristy, either. It was my accidental choice of music that proved to be a masterstroke, as it not only transformed my until then sour mood, but also as the day progressed, I discovered, proved a perfect backdrop for this most romantic of cities. The music often blended with the sounds of the city, most notably in Soir de Fete where the sound of footsteps made me turn around to check if there was a horse-tonga behind my taxi. 

You can tell a lot about a city from its taxi rides. Bombay has its ancient Fiats - uncomfortable, hot at any time of the year but no one really cares; the attempt to find the faster route (there seem to be three of them for everywhere) a constant preoccupation with the taxi driver. Delhi taxi drivers often have an earthy charm, complete with ready wit and mischievous grin, suggesting the sharing of some inside joke with you and most prone to being chatty. I am told things are different now, but they have been traditionally notorious for stunning you with a sudden "Right se le loon?" at a random turning and once having ascertained you don't know the way, take you for a spin all over the city. Travelling by a Calcutta taxi often seems to involve having to deal with the tiffin, lunch and tea time of your driver

True to the words of the Airport security guy, I did not manage to find an open internet cafe in the entire journey from the airport to Park Street as it was lunch time. It was exactly this sort of thing about that city that had riled one of my friends no end, who having spent most of her life in Bombay had to spend some time in Calcutta. I imagine on a regular basis, something like this would get to me as well, but being there for just a few hours, I was inclined to see it as amusing rather than exasperating. The taxi ride involved some random gyan on the city ranging from Howrah Bridge to the Indian Museum to Sourav Ganguly and Greg Chappel to Sonagachhi and an invitation to get a private tour of Eden Gardens for a hundred bucks in the "off-season". We stopped for tea at a corner tea shop where my driver debated animatedly with a bunch of other taxi-drivers about what time I should leave from Park Street to comfortably make it in time to catch my train. 

Despite having visited Park Street many time, I had never been to the cemetery and headed there straight. I reached there just before 4 pm and had about an hour to roam around before closing time. In his short story, 'The city of dreadful night', a colorful and fascinating take on the city, Kipling described the cemetery as standing in utter desolation. "Men must have been afraid", he wrote, "of their friends rising up before the due time that they weighed them such cruel mounds of masonry." For a tourist spot not quite so popular anymore, I was very glad to find it well maintained, clean with neatly clipped vegetation. Its a great walk, calm but for the occasional bird sounds, serene yet majestic. Those buried here included William Jones who founded the Asiatic society, the great poet Henry Louis Vivian Derozio and famous Indophile British officer Hindoo Stuart. The causes of deaths were commonly tropical diseases but what surprised me was the number of people who had died as a result of being struck by lightning. The largest edifice belonged to Elizabeth Barwell, a famous beauty and supposedly the heartthrob of many an Englishmen. Eventually, I found the one I had been looking for. I had been fascinated with Rose Aylmer ever since I read about her in Vikram Seth's book. A spiral obelisk, her tombstone was inscribed with the beautiful elegy by Walter Savage Landor. A family friend of Landor, Rose Aylmer was instrumental in inspiring some of his finest poetry having gifted him a copy of Clara Reeves' The Progress of Romance which led to him writing the famous 'Gebir', quite simply his star-making poem. Landor wrote a most beautiful elegy for Rose Aylmer which was later inscribed on the tomb, a lovely ode to which I have felt a profound personal connection myself. 

After an hour in the cemetery where I was charmed and moved, in turns, I headed for the customary visit to the Flurys treating myself to rum-balls and a stop at the Oxford Bookstore. Soon it was time to head to the station, a new slightly nondescript one in Chitpur. As I headed to the diner at the station, a slightly seedy establishment quite suitably named 'Khaan Pina' with margarita and martini glass shapes making the 'i' in 'Pina.' What was utterly strange about the place that the menu mentioned along the dishes and their prices, their supposed weights, also. Against my better judgment, I ordered a 325gm plate of Chicken Chowmein and having wolfed it down, rushed to catch my train. As always, my time in Calcutta was limited to a few hours, and having wet my beak but not entirely whetted my appetite, I left the city with the familiar feeling of being thoroughly charmed yet completely unsatisfied with the paucity of my time there.

Love Poetry

It was pointed out to me at some point that I am all about the chase. While I am not sure if I agree with that, the chase is definitely the most thrilling phase. Who would want to woo someone who could be gotten easily! If the chase is what I am all about, poetry has often been the map I use to navigate it. 

Love poetry is tricky. The line between creepy and romantic is a very ambiguous one. What is the right time to give someone love poetry? Sometimes it is difficult to even rely on first impressions for while you may be suitably flattered by the poem but find it creepy, in retrospect. Others still might get creeped out by the idea of having a poem written for them, but come to love the poem as it suffers re-reads. More often than not these considerations are not thought out. Love (or its second cousins like infatuation) makes us put ourselves out there is crazy ways. While it starts as strange feeling in the stomach, the problem is it very soon floods your brain. Love poetry is often less about love, than about longing. Poets get high on the drama, they are attracted to complications. They fall for other people's wives, people who are unattainable, people who don't love us back. 

Sometimes love poetry comes by itself, it is spontaneous, almost impetuous, daring you to say things you do not want to admit; at other times, it is contrived, deliberate, planned. There are simple ways to write a love poem, and in my experience, it is the preferable way. Tangled love-lines tend to leave the recipient confused rather than flattered. I often rely on the acrostic. For one, it conveys that you know the name of the object of your affection. And, it makes them feel connected to not just the sense but the structure of your poem as well. Great passion at times can be counter-productive, you may say too much or scare off your love.  Mostly, a pretty turn of phrase, some self deprecating humor, and a bit of flattery does the trick.

Most of all, love poetry is bold, its dramatic, it appeals to our need for some theatrics in our life, something beyond the subtlety. The world is a little better when you have someone writing poetry for you. Writing poetry and making the day of the special someone makes the world feel even better.

The poem 
does not lie to us. We lie under
its law, alive in the glamor of this hour.
able to enter into the sacred places
of his dark people, who carry secrets
glassed in their eyes and hide words
under the coats of their tongue.

John Wieners

"Is it possible that you are so addled that you have come up with some nonsense excuse just so that you could talk to me?"

Pause

"Well..I mean, is it possible..I guess, I mean, I suppose you could say.."

"I don't believe you! You know the thing with guys like you?"

"What's the thing with guys like me?"

"You like being 'hit over the head.'"

"I don't know what that means."

"This is the part that you like. This. The chase. Not anything else, this is the fun part for you."

"That's not true."

"It is. And if this thing was five minutes longer than you wanted, you'd run for the hills."

"That's not true."

That this is all there is; that this is so.

Some of the finest things in life are by definition, short-lived. What gives them character is the impending end. In a world where we constantly look for permanence, stability and happily-ever-afters, sometimes things with an expiry period have a lot of appeal. As I often do, I will resort to another man's poetry to capture the idea.

To make love with a stranger is the best.
There is no riddle and there is no test. --

To lie and love, not aching to make sense
Of this night in the mesh of reference.

To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
And understand, as only strangers may.

To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
Preferring neither to prolong nor part.

To rest within the unknown arms and know
That this is all there is; that this is so. 

Gems from Jesse and Celine

I saw Before Sunrise yet again yesterday. While I can talk for hours about this film and its sequel which serve as the most fascinating meditation on all things love, I thought I'd let the dialogues, which are generously littered with absolute gems do the talking. Here are some of my favorite bits.

Jesse: Yeah, I, I know, but, [love and] sexual feel... Those are two very different questions. I mean, I could've answered the sexual feelings thing, no problem, but you know, love. Well, what if I asked you about love?
Céline: I would have lied...but at least, you know, I would have made up a great story.
Jesse: Yeah, well, you would have lied. Great. I mean, love is a complex issue.


Celine: She was only 13 when she died. That meant something to me, you know, I was around that age when I first saw this. Hmm. Now, I'm 10 years older, and she's still, 13, I guess. That's funny.


Céline: Yeah. I think it's because I always... I always have this strange feeling that I am this very old woman laying down about to die. You know, that my life is just her memories, or something.
Jesse: That's so wild. I mean, I always think that I'm still this 13 year old boy, you know who just doesn't really know how to be an adult, pretending to live my life, taking notes for when I'll really have to do it. Kind of like I'm in a dress rehearsal for a Junior High play.


Céline: I always feel like the general of an army when I start dating a guy, you know, plotting my strategy and maneuverings, knowing his weak points, what would hurt him, seduce him. It's horrible.


Jesse: You know -- you know what's the worst thing about somebody breaking up with you? It's when you remember how little you thought about the people you broke up with, and you realize that that is how little they're thinking about you, you know. (loses ball) You know, you'd like to think that you're both in all this pain, but really, they're just, Hey, I'm glad you're gone.
Céline: I know. You should look at bright colors.


Céline: No, no, no, wait a minute. Talking seriously here. I mean, .. I, I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making... making it look my... my whole life is revolving around some guy. But Loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stuff. But isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?
Jesse: Hmmm. Yeah, I don't know. Sometimes I dream about being a good father and a good husband, and sometimes that feels really close.
Céline: Hmm.
Jesse: But then, other times, it seems silly. Like, it would, uh, ruin my whole life. And it's not just a, uh, a fear of commitment, or that I'm incapable of caring, or loving, because I can. It's just that if I'm totally honest with myself, I think I'd rather die knowing that I was really good at something, that I had excelled in some way, you know, than that I had just been in a nice, caring relationship.

Uncomfortably numb

According to God in Neale Donald Walsch's book, there are only two real emotions - fear and love. And everything else flows from these emotions. Though I generally think both Walsch and God are a bit of a scam, there is something to that. Often we struggle to identify what exactly we feel, it helps to simplify emotions into these two categories and by answering how much of what you feel comes from love and fear, we can make things a little easier for us.

But when someone so obsessively analytical as me is scared to analyse what he feels, what does it mean? The memory and conception of certain things in life is much too pure and precious to be put under a microscope. Or maybe the case is that fear is after all a greater motivator than love. But, for now, I'd still like to believe in the former of the two.

The Year of Deaths

That this has been the cruelest year in recent past, there is no doubt about. 2011 has seen the deaths of, among many others, the world's most wanted man, the world's most innovative entrepreneur in the digital age, the world's last real royal cricketer, the subcontinent's most popular ghazal singer, the dictator of the most paranoid and heavily armed nation. There are still six days to go before the year ends, and given how things are going, this post may yet be premature, but I will attempt to map the noteworthy and nebulous of this year's innumerable demises.

Creepy Death of the Year: Mikey Welsh (1971-2011)

The former bassist of Weezer predicted his death on twitter pretty much down to the last detail. He tweeted 'dreamt I died in Chicago next week' prophesying the time and location of his death. Other creepy details included his prediction of one his art works appreciating in value 'exponentially' seemingly on account of his imminent death.

Most Mourned Death: Steve Jobs (1955 - 2011)

He, of the turtleneck sweaters and keynote speeches. Jobs created a corporate cult like no other, so much so that we did not care that there might be cheaper products with more features. This, he did by creating products which were gorgeous and came with the most intuitive, user-friendly interface. For this, the day he died, falling prey to pancreatic cancer, which he tried to treat with hippie alternative medicine, the number of mentions of his name online were - 3834301 on Twitter and Friendfeed, 47215 on blogs, 65630 on Forum Replies, 28160 on Facebook, 9221 on mainstream news, 27802 on Comments, 1361 images and 1719 videos.

High Profile Death of the Year: Osama Bin Laden

Given the extent to which the last decade has been connected in one way or the other to this man, the bad-ass manner in which his execution was carried out, the extreme reactions his death evoked and the conspiracy theories about his death, this has to be the most high profile death in a long time.

Disturbing Death of the Year: Muammar Gaddafi (1942-2011)

The dictator of Libya since 1969 was literally hunted down from a drainpipe, disrobed, rolled around the ground, sodomized by a bayonet, and shot to death while most of it was captured on video.

The "Having Done it All" Deaths of the Year: Elizabeth Taylor (1932-2011) and Dev Anand (1923-2011)

Liz Taylor went through eight husbands and 20 major surgeries, became a grandmother at the age of 39, lost and gained weight like yoyo, pushed the envelope on female sexuality onscreen, broke her back multiple times, fought alcohol and prescription drugs addiction, survived scares of brain tumor and lung cancer and fought for Jewish causes most of her life. 

Dev Anand broke his way into stardom on back of an offscreen romance with Suraiya, and went on to become one of the biggest stars in India ever. At his best when playing morally ambiguous characters, Dev Anand's style of acting was something out of a 30s screwball comedy with rapid-fire dialogue delivery and vigorous head bobbing. The highlights of a his very long career included giving Guru Dutt his break, adapting RK Narayan's classic, opposing Emergency and continuing to make movies till he died undaunted by how bad they were. His lasting legacy though is having more great songs picturised on him than any other actor in the history of the world. 

Personal Mention: Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi (1941-2011)

The celebrity death that grieved me the most was that of Tiger. Tiger was the most romantic of cricketers, a one eyed-aristocrat, succeeding to the throne at the age of 11, handsome, proud, battling comparisons to his very illustrious father, groomed the famed spin quartet in the late 60s, romanced and married the classiest actress of his time, sired a son who grew into one of the finest actors of this age, had more wit and charm in his brief foray into cricket commentary and writing than the entire cast of ESPNStar, and led Indian cricket with more pride than anyone before him and less vitriol than the likes of Gavaskar and Ganguly who followed him. It was even more sad than his death came at the back of India surrendering the trophy instituted in the honor of his family in the most abject fashion.