You find things to look forward to, places to reach– you find oasis to stop for a minute. It refuels you, it gets you going, it gives you faith. Sometimes, you realize that the things their 7th or 8th standard son can’t grasp are the same as the one that at 25, you can’t either.

Meeting Dev Sa’ab.

I grew up on his films. He was my original hero. He set the benchmark for style and panache. If you told me that there was someone more handsome and charming than him, (other then my dad!) I‘d laugh in disbelief! Of course, as time passed, I read about him, saw pictures that hinted his age (80 something) but his image never changed. I wanted to meet him, speak to him, and see him. One day, gathering my courage, I called him with an interview request. He agreed to meet me. There I was, waiting for him to call me in, my heart was racing, my knees shaking, completely petrified. After all, I was meeting Dev Anand.

His office at Pali-Hill, Bandra is huge. And it’s not even a typical office. There are large comfortable couches, coffee tables, all buried under piles of paper. There is a huge teddy bear in a corner, next to the posters of his last film. You also notice statuettes sprinkled around, yes the various awards he won… Dev Saab is sitting in a corner next to a lamp, a red sweater stylishly flung around his shoulder. He looks different now. He has lost a lot of weight, his trademark ‘puff’ has been replaced by  matted-down hair. An image from Kala-Pani flashes thru my head. Then I look at his eyes. Everything is fine again. I have a chocolate for him. I shyly hand it over, he smiles a very Dev Anand smile, and shares the sweet with me. He says something. From then on, I am enchanted.

We start from the top. Lahore: He studied arts at the Government College. He then, decided not to study further and moved to Bombay after his graduation. “Bombay was the city of dreams. It was full of glamour, glitz and sophistication… It was not crowded like it is these days…” He tells me, with a faraway look, “We had trams in Bombay then, I would ride in them for hours… Those were they days when I lived in chawls, travelled by trains and held a string of jobs…” I can visualize vivid pictures, in black and white, a Victoria on the streets, a beautiful Mudhubala with her Prince…

He tells me about Madhubala. “She was young, not very educated, with no airs except those of a girl… She used to giggle,” he remembered. And just as an after thought, he adds, “Oh she was reasonably pretty.” I am amazed at the non-chalance.

The conversation veers into his tastes in music. He, in his studied diplomacy tells me that there are no ‘favourite’ music directors. On probing, he concedes to preferring S.D. Burman over the others. But he doesn’t tell me his favourite song.

The most clichéd question surfaces: What keeps his going? Creativity, passion towards cinema and most importantly, a drive to make something that the audience will remember for centuries. I am amazed when he says, “My best is yet to come.”

Such optimism warms the heart. The philosophy is simple. There is no place for depression and pessimism. Life has to be happy. Of course, things will look sour once in a while but a person has to keep that smile on.

And what keeps this young man smiling? “I am a child with the maturity of a grown-up. I am very curious and love to explore, meet new people, do new things.” His creativity stems from his keen interest in the surroundings. Dev babu wants to know. It could be a person, a book or a situation that tickles his mind. And if a topic is interesting, he will make movies on it. Mr Prime Minister, Censor, and other movies prove the point.

Criticisms hardly matter to him. He has mastered the art of remembering the right things, not lose heart over the rest. A habit I wish I could learn.

Movie making is work. As is working on his autobiography. To relax Dev Saab wants to be left alone. He cherishes his time with himself. “I am a very shy person,” he says. Ironically, meeting fans, mixing and entertaining crowds is something he enjoys.. “I love to meet my fans… The crowds love me.”

Dev Saab is right when he says, “I am exclusive. There is only one Dev Anand.”  Childlike enthusiasm, sophistication of a seasoned socialite, manners of a genuine person and an attitude that can be only described as “Dev Anand”!

I look at my watch, it has been over two hours. Wrapping up the interview, I leave. On the long train ride home, I am lost in thought…I remember the smile that appeared when he said something he was passionate about…I recall the dialog he recites from his Guide. I can see his misty eyes, I have tears in my own. There is a lump in my throat as I think of Dev Saab. And then Madhubala explains, “tumse milke koi bhi ladki apne aap ko kho sakti hai…”

A friend of mine said, if you’re interested, you won’t zone out, you’ll enjoy your reading. I disagreed. I do love what I read, except, i’m too busy trying to take it somewhere. It fill up the word limit, to meet a deadline.

Why am I not reading and enjoying it as I used to? As a child, I read for hours and now everything is too tedious. Of course, academics don’t write like Enid Blyton, but I know it’s me, not them that is a handicap to the lack of reading potential.

I’m 3 semesters down in my MA course and I’ve not finished half my reading list. It bothers me– nay, it scares me. Have you faced a similar issue? How did you deal with it? Do let me know, i need the help!

Too much work has always inspired me to blog. It’s a process of procrastination, or just that I think better when i’m in the writing zone. I was surprised I didn’t blog for so long. Maybe twitter is taking over and I’m chained to a hundred and forty characters. or it could be that I have been pouring everything I have into my assignments and a bit of my soul into two lovely journals. Suddenly pen and paper seem more comforting than text on my computer. There is something very definite about writing without a backspace key, no ziggly lines, nothing but the paper, the pen and me. 

This is worrisome. In a two and a half month holiday I only took a two trips, both with family, both I couldn’t talk my way out of. I cancelled a holiday to Goa, one of my favourite places, even one to Ajanta, a site I’ve been dying to see. Excuses were blurted, apologies were made and people moved on. I’m the only one here, the only one standing, the only one in inertia.

photo courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/photos/humayunnapeerzaada/

Fifteen years of living in Bombay, I crossed Bharatmata a million times. To most Mumbaikars, it was a bus stop, at most, a decrepit looking structure with Marathi Posters, occasionally a small line outside. Being a retro-phile, I, for years, wondered how it was inside but never ventured in. So, when L offered to take me there for a film, I was more than thrilled. Cinema Paradiso flashed through my head and I don’t remember the last time I was this excited about going to the movies.

Getting off a slow train at Currey Road, I battled crowds to make my way towards Lalbaug. In the heart of the mills, a mostly Marathi speaking crowd, now almost hidden under a gigantic flyover was one of the last remaining single screen, family owned Marathi theaters.  There were no fake smiles, no bag check, no fancy lobby. Instead, you walked into a little courtyard. a few trees scattered around and a large porch.

The audience was a humble one. With ticket rates being less than 10% at multiplexes, there are very few venues left of people who want to watch films but don’t or can’t pay 500 bucks for a trip to the movies. The crowd had a few students, obviously cutting class, which reminded me of my time at Xavier’s and how it was lovely to catch a 40 buck film at Eros or New Excelsior!

I made my way across and peered into the projection room. Two massive Projectors stood in a tiny room. The spools were loaded and they were ready to roll. A kind projectionist explained how things worked (another Paradiso moment!!) and I stood, listening to the machinery, feeling the magic that was cinema.

It was time to leave the room, to go upstairs and watch the film. A wooden staircase led up to the balcony. A curtain flapped and we impatiently pushed it aside to find our seats.  The few people watching turned around and looked at us curiously. We were too charmed by the place to care. the facade was a large screen, with plaster of paris bows and festoons. Two portraits framed the screen. The paint had chipped but one could imagine the place in all it’s glory. There high, high ceiling needed no air conditioning and the acoustics were perfect.

So, L and I settled into our seats, the creaky kind and waited for the movie to begin. Up first, the national anthem. True to its Marathi roots, it had all the Maharashtrian actors singing the anthem. Next came a pathetic film that sort of explained why places like these didn’t do better than the daily-wage crowd it seemed to get.  While some Marathi cinema is absolute genius, there are films like this one we saw that take a compelling, interesting topic and ruin it. But this isn’t a post on films or a rant.

In the interval, we ran down for some vada pav (VERY VERY YUM) and Mazza out of a glass bottle. As L and I looked around and spoke of the place, we realized how it was necessary that places like Bharatmata Cinema need to be restored and maintained. It allowed a peek into the aesthetic of Bombay- one that didn’t get documented thanks to Bollywood’s overwhelming glamour.

I wondered how Bharatmata would look at a premiere a fresh coat of paint, new posters, some plants and flowers. Fairy lights too… The party could be held in the courtyard… good Marathi food and some live music. The music could drown out the sounds of the street and make us forget we’re at one of the busiest roads in town. This property has potential.  I could visualize the glitterati, champagne flowing and everyone toasting to the venue and one more iconic vernacular film.  I shudder to think what would happen if the owners cave in and redevelop the space. maybe the magic remains because the little theater has been ignored. It’s managed to stay off the radar, hidden the magic, the art and the quiet to the bustling world outside. The one it opens to you, as you walk in, albeit apprehensively.

Bharatmata is alive. It has a personality. A strong character. A soul. One that we must protect as our cultural heritage. As the rest of Bombay morphs into identical, chrome and glass structures, I pray Bharatmata survives, if only to remind us of what we’ve lost.

If places have this impact, imagine how it must be to say goodbye to people? My mom was down for a few days- 18 to be exact. We spent most of our time together- except for a couple of days that I spent, stuck at school. We had a good time- chatting late into the night, an early morning coffee, her pottering around the house, making it as comfortable as possible. We had our moments of friction too: my work was getting to me, she was bored, we fought… only to laugh and make up. Dad, who’s in Bombay, was called, frequently, we skyped. He was amused to see the banter between my ma and me.

She left this afternoon, reluctantly, seeing me battle it out with a cold and an impossible number of essays to write. The house has lost it’s charm, the music has suddenly been muted. I miss her.

No one has to reprimand you, often you beat yourself up, more than any other could. sometimes you wonder if you’re overreacting, but you do know you are not. The consequence will catch up, the dues will have to be paid. Sometimes, the punishment is much, much greater than the crime itself.

If done maliciously, you have a reason to be scared. but what if you do something in the best interest and it backfires? What if the wrong you’ve unwittingly committed refuses to get undone. After all, scars fade but don’t disappear.

I’m a sort of person who does things first, repents later. I’m sensitive to small actions. people’s responses, their silences. I spend hours looking at old mails, chats, trying to figure out what went wrong, what was I thinking… In hindsight, it’s always too late.

If you’ve seen Delhi6, you have a fair idea how buildings are stuck to each other! if a pin drops in the next building, one hears it. When mallu aunty downstairs slaps her son, it is crystal clear audio. Now imagine the noise when we hit a boundary or lost a wicket! So, every time there was an uproar, we’d turn to the stream- only to find a banal ball- and then about 40 seconds later, the excitement would happen.

My mom and i played a little game, each time we’d hear a cheer, we’d make our ‘predictions’. She always won and made about twenty bucks. But i saw the six coming.  :D

Soon enough, we heard the world-cup victory before we saw it, and what a wonderful feeling it was!

Watching the world cup on my laptop

Do places make you the person you are? In Paris, an artist, in Venice a romantic, in a dusty village in the heart of India, an activist, in the Himalayas, an adventurer. But, are you all that? you any of this?

Do people mold you? With a team, a leader, with friends, the entertainer, with cousins, the baby, with parents, the level-headed daughter… Are you all of that? Are you any of this?

But who are you, alone? Who am you, when you are nowhere, floating in a void?  You are so many people, I don’t often recognize which person is you. You slip into roles and slip out of them. You move in and out of lies of truths and of concocted reality. Yet, it is you. And this person, all the people you are, I love you.

This post is inspired by a picture on flickr.