Bal Gandharva: Two Reviews

Word of mouth got us into the theater to watch the latest hot offering from the Marathi Cinema world- Bal Gandharva.

What’s it about?

The stage performer who got butchered by progress in the entertainment field called cinema, the stubborn showman who refused to give up his own perceived purity of the art form for commercial compulsions, the one who performed seamlessly on stage in the face of personal tragedy, the one who blindly trusted his friends for everything despite it being detrimental, the man who left a devoted household for the arms of a beautiful artiste who worshiped his art, the man for whom the stage was a reality and reality was a stage, was the man popularly known as Bal Gandharva and this is his story.

Bal Gandharva the movie, is about Narayan Shripad Rajhans; a singing child prodigy. The title was bestowed upon him by Lokmanya Tilak. The growth of the man, into a ready natya sangeet ( musical plays) performer is the graph of this movie.  He belonged to an era in which women did not act on stage & male performers had to play the parts of female characters. This was the place where the singer gained his fame. By far the artist to have played the most number of female characters on stage he was synonymous for playing Draupadi, Shakuntala, Bhamini and making each performance memorable for his viewers. He is also responsible for popularizing classical music (shastriya sangeet) through the medium of the stage. His progress from a child prodigy to an artist working in Kirloskar Music Company, to breaking away to form his own theater group, his lavish stylish magnum opuses on stage that led to fame as well as personal bankruptcy is the thread of this story.

No sooner than I reached home and got my first call from a friend who asked me why was the phone shut, to be told that I had gone to see “Bal Gandharva”. How was it? This question sparked off a chain of thought and told him read my review. Now I find myself in a quandary…Did I like the film or Did I not like the film? And I had a Yes as an answer to both the questions. How is that possible? One cant like a movie and not like it equally at the same time can one? Apparently going by this film one can. Here is a movie I shall grandly sit on the fence and agree with both who passionately liked it and those who dismissed it. Read On.

Heads…I Liked it

The fact that somebody chose a topic like this one to make a film is an act of ultimate bravery. Bio-pic’s of famous personalities are typically controversy generating subjects and any attempt in this direction is an effort definitely worth lauding. 

Subodh Bhave, the lead actor who discovered the Gandharva Gatha and thought that it had the potential for a film and took it to Nitin Chandrakant Desai to produce. Ravi Jadhav who had earlier directed Natrang was chosen to captain the ship. Subodh Bhave the prime mover was charged up to play the most challenging role of his career. Subodh Bhave plays the lead actor and has lived the role. His entry is dramatic and beautiful. The support cast is large and numerous faces flit in and off the frames and few do make a mark. Vibhavari Deshpande as his wife is competent and so is Suhas joshi as the mother and Anand Abhyankar as his uncle. There are three cameos that are memorable. First one is by Avinash Narkar as the scheming friend with an agenda, Kishore Kadam as the friend and partner who doesn’t scheme and finally the most polished one comes from Manoj  Joshi who plays the role of patron merchant from Karachi. His is the one act that lingers on.

In a movie on a musician theater artist it would have been a real challenge to choose the right Music Director and this is the one stroke of pure genius in the choice of Kaushal Inaamdar. Thankfully they did not choose the flavour of the season the duo of Ajay Atul, though talented their heavy leaning on folk would have hampered the measured pace of this movie. This required a music director who would also have an academic researching bent of mind and one who would seamlessly replay and recreate the sounds of the era of Bal Gandharva on pure musical instruments. The songs would be Bal Gandharvas song and there would be very little scope for original music. One sufi sant vani at the end is all he gets. But the background score that Inamdar scores makes him the unsung hero of the film.

With Nitin Chandrakant Desai as the producer all expectations on making the period setting perfect was a given and he does not disappoint. Neeta Lulla at the helm of costumes does a superb job saving a small and minor blip that can be overlooked. The jewelery looks neither Maharashtrian nor period. The story has pace and moves on through the life of the artist mapping history religiously and accurately.

Is the movie worth a watch? Definitely it is & for Marathi Cinema to have come up with a production value of this kind is commendable and immensely pleasing. Subodh Bhave looks the part and is focused in his essaying and one can with a definite measure of satisfaction say that he raises the benchmark of his own ability for this role. Would this find a way into the running for the National award? Yes it will, because it has the right names associated with it and with a teeny weeny ministerial support might even see itself as one of the winners.

Tails…Something was off

There are bio-pics and then there are bio-pics. Harishchandrachi Factory and the comparisons are inevitable ( what with the period being similar, and similar kind of passionate individuals on whom the stories are based ) here was a bio-pic that got it just right. Bal Gandharva overdoes it in certain departments and doesn’t quite reach there.

There are times when one feels that there is far too much attention to form over substance. The disclaimer that it is difficult to do justice to a life of an individual in a 3 hour format sounds to me too much like an apology which makes me revert with did I ask you to make the film? I know it is difficult, am an engaged mature viewer so don’t take me for granted. 

The production value of the movie is excellent and the musical score by Kaushal Inamdar is authentic and these are the areas which the director has got right. Many actors who come in a scene and go are wasted, either they got edited on the table but I felt Manoj Joshi was underutilized and even spotted Lokesh Gupte in a scene and the movie does not give him a single line. Maybe he just wanted a presence in his best friends film, who knows, one can only speculate. Vibhavari Deshpande who also plays the wife is in danger of being typecast as the number one wife choice for early 20^th Century characters. She is the wife in Harsihchandrachi factory too and there while she smiled and laughed here she has cried. but who wouldn’t when the Hero of the film goes about wearing far more spectacular sarees than his wife. 

My one grouse with the film is that it skims the surface. There is a very sensual possibility in a scene where Narayan enters the nuptial chamber to have his waiting wife eagerly express that she would like to see him in his female ensemble. He is furious and walks out, she is petrified with what she has asked for only to have him return as per her wish. Their embrace truly walks the line for a Marathi film and this is the characterization that is missing from the whole film. Subodh Bhave looks good but as an actor who flits from being a male to a female back to interacting as a male there is a whole chapter lost. The gender fluctuation has serious psychological depths and it is this act left unexplored which disappoints as it remains in the safe genre of staged performances and music. There is a darker shade to the performance of a willful character who is a cross dressing musician par excellence which has not entered the cognitive zone of either the director or the lead actor, or perhaps deliberately skipped to preserve the sensibilities of the explosive Marathi audience. 

In a case where the packaging tries to compete with the substance and in parts even overshadows it there is a serious danger of the film not connecting? At some levels the film did not connect with me and this is the kind of cinema which deeply disappoints. The one where no effort is spared to get it right, everyone in the cast and crew gives it their all and only had the captain got the emotional depth right then I am sure they may not have had to write the particular disclaimer at the beginning of the film.

Another Tale from the Katta

The earlier story in this series can be accessed on Tales from the Katta

The Katta 


The steam rising from the tea counter intermingled with the blue smoke  from the patron nostrils. This was the halo behind Nana who contributed to it with his own streams of vapors. Sridhar, the pan wallah, was busy making pan for some walk-in clients and his boy was serving cutting chai’s to whoever yelled for one. I was here early today but the quorum of regulars was already complete. Chhotey & Badey the drivers, HD, CD & Bol Bacchhan- the engineers, Alibaug- the hotel owner & even Don Sule – the budding politico all were here. The clean kurta indicated he had walked in just ahead of me. I am addressed as reporter in this nook which we fondly called Anna’s Katta. Nana clearly the star here seemed to be in a frisky mood as he was pulling the leg of Badey, the tiny driver over some topic When he saw me he exclaimed ‘We were waiting for you. We are discussing ethics today. But I don’t seem to be making the point clear to my man here. So let me tell you the story of T.P.Jagasia. Have I ever told you about him? He then made that particular noise in his throat which commanded instant attention of us regulars. Sridhar shouted from inside the shop, wait a minute Nana, am just finishing with the customers here, please wait for me. 

Now that he had his audience Nana majestically nodded and called to the boy for a chai. With a flourish he lit a filter less Charminar, hacked a few times to clear the throat then took a sip from the chai glass, kept it by the side , passed his fingers through the hair and stared into space. This ritual always reminded me of a temple priest getting into the act before a pooja.

"Neeyat (Ethics )... announced Nana…the tale had begun. In a mellifluous voice Nana began his account.

Neeyat

It was almost providence that I met T.P.Jagasia in a train. I was with the unit of that Hindi Television serial "Circus". It was the month of  November in the year 1988 ...“That serial in which Shahrukh Khan acted?” Chotu driver, a huge SRK fan asked with glee. Nana nodded with appreciation. I smiled seeing the tactic of how smoothly & deliberately he had let that one slip in. Nana certainly knew his audience and how to grab its attention.

T.P.Jagasia was christened Tarachand Phulchand Jagasia. Like the stars in his name, he had achieved stardom but it was in the dubious field of cards. T P Jagasia was the smoothest cardsharp on this side of the globe. TP Jagasia became Jaggu TP and the initials of TP got a new acronym of Teen Patti. There never was a card con that Jaggu TP had not tried and mastered. For a brief period of time he had been my neighbor. Jaggu TP was always a brief neighbor to many a person as it was safer for him to keep moving rather than be caught at one place, given the line of work. But despite all this Jaggu TP had ethics, may have been a good upbringing but this was even vouched by the very same people he fleeced at cards. They bore him absolutely no ill will. He would always leave them with a little something in hand ; Sometimes it would be a bottle of snake oil that was supposed to reduce baldness, or a piece of shilajit ( ginseng ) that was supposed to increase virility ( which he had recently acquired from a traveling Hakim...it would always be recent to indicate freshness ) , or some powder that would make one fairer. Such was the variety of knick knacks that he bestowed upon the victims, whom he had taken for the most money. This ensured a long life and diffused the immediate explosion that always comes before the realization that you have been had. Jaggu TP came into contact with Pappu Damani a shady stock broker and for that duration made his money selling preference shares of Reliance Ltd, printed in a press at Lower Parel. He was always a few steps ahead of the law and got out of that racket just before the police caught up with Damani. Jaggu TP by then had left the city and gone back to his comfort zone of cards. But he had tasted blood and wanted to perform a big con and retire. This is the true pipe dream of all con artists, said Nana who paused to gulp down the remaining chai in his glass.

Now this was the Jaggu TP that I ran into in the train. But there was a mite difference in him that he looked peeved. Despite my asking repeatedly he would not tell me the reason. The Indian railways in those days were not so strict as they are now. One could smoke and drink if one was careful. I had a half of Old monk in my pocket and a packet of masala dal. It was only after I offered to share it with Jaggu TP that he relented and opened his mouth only after three large swigs from my bottle. We sat on the flat board near the door enjoying the wind on our faces. What happened Jaggu ? I asked again.He uttered a couple of expletives in Hindi loudly into the wind, which Nana mimicked in perfect style and intonation that had the audience in splits. This being a family reading platform, I cannot state it like it was, suffice it to say it meant doing unspeakable things to mothers and sisters. “Neeyat-Ethics” has vanished from the world, Jaggu TP said looking deeply into my eyes. You remember the debenture kaand ( con ) that I had carried out in Nasik? He asked me and I nodded. It was that which gave me the idea that small towns and mofussil areas are good places where one can practice. However for this a partner was needed, what with me being a polished city dweller. I burst out laughing causing Nana to pause and raise an eyebrow. I spluttered at his choice of words for Jaggu TP... polished? Oh yes, you see his stint with Pappu Damani and trading certificates had exposed him to white collar cons. If he was ever to sit  and converse with you it would be extremely difficult to make out that he had had no formal education. Jaggu TP had a quicksilver tongue and a razor sharp brain and he blended in. Now in a mofussil area he would have been exposed. He needed someone who would not have problems with bending the law while yet being unpolished enough to be acceptable; he wanted a rough diamond.

Jaggu TP continued his tale after one more long sip from Nanas bottle and said that he was travelling through Nandurbar, Maharashtra, that he ran into Ganpat Sapkal. The police had Ganpat in a lock up for beating a person up just because he was pushed. Ganpat was a dark handsome man, well built and a head taller than Jaggu TP who was not a short man himself. He wore a dirty dhoti and a kurti which was the local costume there. I asked the sepoy on what is Ganpat’s major line of work. Work...Occupation…the sepoy snorted, that Ganpat was a "Kutta Chor", he stole dogs. Looking at Ganpat I knew that the man met with nearly all the qualifications required in my scheme. I waited in that town till he was released which happened after a couple of days and sought him out.

What is your goal in life? Again I spluttered and Nana looked at me with a half smile, now what? I told all the eyes that were upon me, that this was the exact question which the newspapers HR executive had asked me, during my joining. To this Nana sublimely commented, its a recruitment interview after all. So what,  if the job functions and trades vary, the process remains just the same, does it not? I had to agree to this logic.


So coming back to the story…Jaggu TP asked Ganpat…what is your goal in life ? Ganpat who looked at Jaggu with a faraway gleam in his eyes said that he wanted to be the number one kutta chor in India and then the world. He would even like to have a Guinesss record to his name. Numero-Uno Dog Thief. Jaggu did not know how to respond to this and told him that he was planning several medium sized cons in different cities. He had saved up a stake of Rs. Seventy Five Thousand ( Rs.75,000/-) and should Jaggu find Ganpat suitable he would make him a ten percent partner in the new venture.

The first place they moved from Nandurbar was to the Hingoli district. Jaggu TP liked the look of this place. As soon as they got out of the State  Transport bus stand it was to find that a jatra ( travelling circus ) had come to town. In the circus Jaggu TP observed that there were lots of people who moved around with enough money to spend on the stalls there. We booked ourselves into Kamala bai’s lodge and then into town to shop suitable clothes for Ganpat. This town looked good for about fifty thousand atleast Jaggu TP had identified the markets potential. Now all it required was for Ganpat to play his part.

I coached Ganpat in the fine art of the three card spot and told him how I would indicate which one is the queen. He should in a loud colloquial voice indicate that he won which would attract the locals.  As a seeming winner Ganpat would be my show pigeon. But did he do this at all ?  Ganpat wears his new threads , buys himself a kernel of corn and goes about looking at the stalls which had colourful posters like any other tourist, while I set up and ran the card game. All I could raise on that first day was four hundred & twenty rupees. The jatra had many stalls including fancy animals. Ganpat on the next day vanished while I went back to earning money for our partnership. Towards the evening when I came back it was to hear child like squeals coming from our room, so I stopped to ask Kamal Bai whether there was a baby in the house? She glared at me and said, your partner has bought a dog inside. I rushed to find Ganpat feeding a small but clean dog some milk and glucose biscuits. He had tied a coir rope around its neck and was lovingly petting it. He beamed with veritable pride. “Moti” is what I shall call him. Moti's will be a story that I shall tell my grand children, there would be at least seven of them he told me with conviction, on how their grandfather stole the dog right from under the noses of the whole Jatra and they never even came to know. I looked at him with horror and incredulity and slept restlessly thinking what to do with Ganpat. He had outlived his tenure with me.

I had a habit of scanning the local newspapers to get a dip stick idea of local happenings. It was then I ran across a large-ish ad on the front page. It was a notice offering a reward for "Sherpa - the most intelligent dog in the world" who had gone missing from the Jatra. Finders would be rewarded Rs.Five Hundred Thousand. I looked around to see whether there was anyone else looking at the ad. I quickly folded the newspaper into my pocket and quietly went into the room to find Ganpat and the dog sleeping in the same bed. He with a hand on the neck of the animal. I woke him up and told him that I wanted to purchase his dog. He opened his eyes slowly looking stupidly up at me and asked why would I want a dog in the first place? I told him that I would give him five hundred rupeesfor it. To which Ganpat dismissed me saying this is my dog and I wont sell him. When I raised the offer to Five Thousand he naturally looked surprised & asked me why? To which I repeated Five Thousand Rupees Ganpat to which he slowly shook his head;  for ten or twenty thousand never would I sell him. I don’t even know how much money that is as I never learnt how to read, write or count he said. But if you had offered me one hundred thousand rupees then I just may have with a heavy heart considered it. It was after then I negotiated hard and he finally sold me the dog for fifty thousand rupees.

After having fed the dog I walked him to the Jatra ( Fair ) & to the tent that had been indicated in the ad. I asked to speak to Mr. Dhotre the contact man and was called in. With Moti aka Sherpa on my leash I walked in. Mr. Dhotre looked at me and asked me that "What is this?" Jaggu TP paused and asked for the last sip. Wiping his mouth, I told him , Sir, this here is your Sherpa. Mr.Dhotre looked at Moti and called out "Ramu, he minds our dogs, Is Sherpa sleeping inside?" I looked puzzled to which he flipped open the flap and showed me peacefully a long box . Inside was a beautiful brown , healthy dog sleeping. "Then the ad?" I asked Mr. Dhotre. "A fake, as I have had three people walking in today with their dogs…bloody nuisance."

I went to the local newspapers office but not before selling Moti to the circus guard for fifty rupees. The ad clerk looked at me as I placed the ad in front of him. "Wasn’t this ad placed yesterday in your paper by an ugly fat man ?" He said only one part of my question was correct, that it was yesterday but the advertiser whose name he could not divulge, was definitely tall ,dark ,good looking & looked to be wearing almost new clothes.

That’s what I mean when I say “Kuttey ki Neeyat” screamed Jaggu TP at Nana. So I asked Jaggu TP but what was it that you were doing to Ganpat ? How different was your Neeyat from his? Couldn't you have made him an equal partner and offered him half of that reward for the dog? 


To which Jaggu TP answered that what Ganpat had done was done was wrong, while all my actions were in keeping with the guiding principle of every honest business enterprise  “Buy Cheap & Sell Dear”

Unfinished Stories

Mumbai - Present Day

“Is this yours uncle?” the question had me looking at Rahul holding out a plastic wrapped package covered with dust. Where did you find it?. “Up there in the attic, what amazing stuff is lying around there, but do open this up first” He was eager to know what was in it. “Go ahead son; do it before you go crazy with curiosity”. With the typical impatience of youth he ripped it causing the dust to fly everywhere and some up my nose. I sneezed thrice. “Wow what an antique piece” I heard him say with awe and the eyes misted from sneezing hazily took in the grey shellac body of my trusty old hand held tape recorder. It had been a constant companion from bygone days as a reporter; much like I carried a cell phone these days. Default appendages of progress. Same dumb habits, only the devices have become smarter, I thought to myself.

What’s the story with this Uncle as he started pressing the buttons and out popped a cassette tape? TDK was the label and neatly scribed in my hand was just one word “Bassein”.

“Some other day Rahul” I said settling on to the cane & cushioned easy chair on the balcony watching a grey cloud make its way across the sky. It seemed to be carried on along a forgotten wind. He had left the device on the tea table and I looked at it once and went back to my sky gazing. The cloud was gone and the sky was bright light blue & crystal clear.

It is often said that there is a book in every one of us but can it be true of objects too? Well, if not a complete book then it definitely merited a short story and quite a strange one it was too. I was not even sure whether it had happened at all, must have been what….he mentally counted…28 years?… it was just his third year as a freelance reporter so …yes, 26 years ago. He just leaned back and closed his eyes.

Vasai- Bassein – 1984

The cottage was cozily tucked away around the bend well away from the main village. The church lay on the road towards the house and beyond it ahead was the ancient cemetery. The house belonged to my friend Martin Andrade and it had been in his family for several generations. I was here on an assignment to cover Vasai as a historical destination and to interview a few locals that included the native fisher folk who were the original inhabitants of this area. Martin had told me that Philo aunty or Philomena Machado, the caretaker would look after my food. I was all set the moment I reached the cottage in the afternoon. Philo aunty turned out to be an ample old lady of an age that could have been anywhere from 45 to 70 and I put it nearer 70 than 45 when she mentioned her ten year old grandson a few times. The lunch comprised of black pomfret curry and rice, a spicy flavor so delicate that left me blissfully content of being in good hands. She like old ladies often are was good naturedly curious about me that within fifteen minutes she knew all of my quirks including the one that in winter nights I used socks as gloves while sleeping.

I strolled outside on to the cottage grounds to find the shade was on account of two old and large trees, one was a tamarind and the other a banyan. They literally spilled over half the compound and shaded a portion of the road near the house. There were no street lights so was sure that this area would be pretty dark by night time. As I strolled further within the compound there was a small by-gate and a path that led up into a wooded area. Philo aunty told me that it led to the cemetery where the Machado family had their burial plots along with their servants and relatives from an era gone past.

Which is your room? To which she replied that she didn’t stay here but at the village and would come back at 11 the next day when she left at 6 in the evening. After that I had the house to myself. What do I do for transport and she told me that you can use Martin baba’s bicycle to move about as no one comes to this side of town after seven and for the first time I felt the eeriness of the area. “Why so?” I asked her. “Oh, it’s on account of the ghosts that live here.” “You mean at the cemetery?”She nodded sagely to that, looked up and said in a very matter of fact voice “And on the house grounds too.” I looked at her to see whether she was kidding me only to notice that she was not. You told me you are an agnostic no? One who doesn’t believe in either god or ghost so there is no worry for you? “I have this”, I told her tapping my tape recorder and several tapes on which I would listen to my favorite music & then in the morning record the various interviews on it as scheduled.

The tiredness from my journey and the lovely lunch had me sleeping off till nearly five in the evening. Philo aunty called me over showed me where she had kept the dinner, how to operate the rather old fashioned gas stove for me to warm it later. She also showed me the black and white TV that had an antenna mounted on the roof. The monkeys often hung on it so practically the TV didn’t work most of the time. I told her it didn’t bother me and I came out with a book and sat on the patio which she called a verandah that had two rose wood easy chairs with foot rests, but I simply rested my foot on the balustrade. From where I sat I could see the trunk of a tamarind to my left and the corded roots of the banyan to my right. They simply dwarfed the house. Keeping the recorder near me switched on a Kishore Kumar collection that I had recorded. Philo aunty bid me bye and went off home. I made myself a chai and spent the next couple of hours reading. The tape had run out. I took out Martins cycle and pedaled over to the village. It was a simple collection of houses. From one of the shops I bought batteries for the torch and tape recorder and a couple of packets of gold flake fine tobacco cigarettes. The pan shop wala when told that was put up at a friend’s place, asked me which family? When I mentioned Machado’s cottage, his face paled over and urged me to hurry back as it was getting dark. Finishing a smoke I pedaled back on the long dark road. The dynamo run light from the bicycle was the only illumination on the path. It wasn’t really far but not exactly near either as I passed the church and soon turned into the gate of the cottage. On looking up while putting the bike on the stand, the grey light from the moon and the two elders (as I started referring to the trees) had cast shadows which seemed at least scary if not actually sinister. Long and snaky as they crept across the expanse of the ground and the verandah.

Washing up I finished the dinner in a leisurely fashion and made my way outside to the verandah. Switching on the light there I sat and changed a cassette. As the music played on softly I made myself a pot of tea from the kitchen and came out. I loved the solitude and the dark expanse outside. Lighting up a smoke, drifted off along in the music and the tea. Just heard the crickets over the music when they got sharper else it was all so serene.  In the distance the church clock gonged mid night and I smiled at Philo aunt’s snippet on the ghosts. Now they should be coming, it’s the hour. I lit up another smoke and poured a second cup. I switched the cassette tape but did not play it only to notice that the crickets had stopped and there was pin drop silence. Even the wind had stopped and the leaves were not rustling either. I felt a brush against my legs to see a huge grey hairy tom cat with a fluffy tail jump up on the balustrade in a far corner. He had not once looked at me and majestically started licking each and every part of his body with special attention to a spot  above his left ear. I noticed that there was a maroon colour spot and when I moved on to the face, the tom looked straight at me through amber colored eyes. I felt the shock of being seared by a laser. Where had the cat come from? I thought. There had been no animal around the garden in the afternoon nor heard Philo aunty mention it. “His name is Bajirao and was Master Philip Machados cat, said a voice from the dark.  I was so startled that I kept the cup down and started brushing off the ash that had spilled on my shirt.

“Is anybody here?” Yes sir it’s me said the same voice. It was an old man wearing the uniform of a valet from an era gone by. He turned & the left side of his face became visible. It was flattened, with a red hue; one eye had slipped from its socket and was sitting squarely in his ear. From there it blinked and winked at me. “Do you stay around here?” I asked. Yes on the Banyan tree. So are you telling me both the cat and you are Ghosts?” “I would prefer the word spirits, young man as there is a serious class system these days with so many of us dying over a period of time.” Why are you here?” at this question, he looked at me intensely from the slipped eye and said, young man didn’t you just call out to us as the clock chimed? I smiled at him, so are there any more of you around? You guys can begin telling me about this area that I have come to do a feature on and yes how did you end up become ghosts?  Why are people afraid of you and are there many amongst you who enjoy scaring people?” “Do you want to meet some of them from here?” How many of you live here and he raised one eyebrow as I realized my gaffe. Seven he said including the cat. We were waiting for you.

Thoroughly confused I asked “Can I record this interview?” I pressed the record & play button on the recorder,”Sure said a firmer voice, the law of the land would demand proof.” To find a very tall white man wearing a suit that would have been a rage in the last century. Meet Sir Edwin Arbuthnot, court judge appointed by Lord Macaulay’s governing council in 1832 deceased 1857. “Pleased to make your acquaintance Sir Edwin, unconsiously i had affected his style of speaking for myself, did you get to hear about Mangal Pandey’s bullet? “He smiled a crooked smile and said two bullets got fired at the same time, one by Mangal Pandey to spark off a revolution and the second one went straight here. He said this while lifting the top hat to which was attached a judges wig & disclosed a neat hole above his ear. I was absolutely fascinated and why were you shot? On account of her he said pointing out to a startlingly sensuous sari clad woman with mud falling off her as she took each step towards us. Gangi is what they call me. She shook her head and her long luxurious hair slipped free of her bun letting loose another shower of fine mud and gravel. She came and shamelessly planted herself on my lap and casually wrapped an arm around my neck. I did not feel a thing save the brush of warm air and a musty moldy smell. Her complexion though flawless had a blue tinge and may have been in her mid twenties at the most. She certainly took my breath away and I told her Gangi you are beautiful. All of them started shrieking with laughter including the cat that was on his back with its paws in the air pedaling furiously.

Even this white banyan tree dweller thinks so she said pointing at Sir Edwin and he coordinated his visit to Bassein during my troupe’s tour. I am a folk dancer you see said she striking a dance pose that left little to imagination as to the kind of dance it was. Where are the other three? I asked and Rameshchandra the room valet the first ghost said that they have gone spooking and will be back soon. You see Gangadhar Bapat is a Bramhasmbandh…I looked confused and he explained that when a temple priest dies and became a ghost he was called so. Iltumish is a “pishaccha” and is the only one amongst us who sometimes kills. Meera despite her pious name is a “Hadal or Chudail”; one who takes a really scary form and briefly appears before humans to scare the wits out of them.

"Who has been talking about me?" said a sweet female voice in my ear and I turned back to expect a face as lovely and nearly jumped out of my chair when I saw the spiky hair, long fangs dripping blood and forked tongue. You must be Meera? Immediately it changed back to that of a girl next door and she kept changing it to that of an old woman, a middle aged one a snake, you name it for a time till Sir Edwin admonished her, enough for now Meera. And she reverted back to yet another face that was pristinely beautiful yet somehow it went with the rest of her attire. Hers was another kind of beauty that you may feel like holding on to and taking home to seek the elders blessings. She smiled reading my thoughts and said, I was fooled exactly that way. Iltumish turned out to be a dark handsome man with Moorish blood and he was eating a leg of a goat with absolute relish. No humans? And he looked at me with a straight face and said “Aaj Jumma hai” as if that explained everything. Amidst all of this came the sweet smell of camphor and the sound of tiny temple bells. Bapat, the Bramhasmbandh appeared before me and he was exactly like a temple priest of today. Pot bellied wearing the sacred thread and a watch. I was incredulous on the watch. To which he told me that he needs it to accurately map the panchang (astrological chart) such that he doesn’t step out of the banyan tree before the “Rahu kalam” has ended. There is an auspicious time for haunting too you see. I didn’t, but did it really matter?

I know now why all of you are the type of ghosts you say you are but why are you ghosts in the first place?

Rameshchandra explained that all those who had unexplained deaths or the world treated or understood their deaths as other than the real cause, become ghosts. The truth has to prevail as it is only the truth that shall set us free. Oh , you mean that the correct cause of each one of your deaths has not yet been clearly known to the world? So all of you are basically mysteries or unfinished stories? All of them now very solemnly looked at me and nodded their heads in unison. But honestly, why didn’t you haunt me and choose to tell me your story? It is a technicality that let you out laughed the judge. One you are not from the village. Two you are an agnostic and three you have been guided to where we are. Hence you become our platform of release.

“So tell me I urged them. With a soft purr Bajirao the cat came and brushed itself against my foot and passed right through it. Peter Machado thought his cat had run away but Bajirao was hit with a rock out of a sling shot when he was sunning himself on the tamarind tree. There is a woodpecker hollow on the upper branches and his body slid into the hollow and he has been there ever since, recounted Rameshchandra.

I used to work in the Taj Mahal hotel and was coming back home to Bassein. I was standing on the footboard of the train and adventurously leaned out. It was night and did not see the pole near the tracks which smashed into my face. My body too was discovered after four days. In those days I was feuding with Prakash Furtado over a banyan tree planted over my land. It was assumed I was killed over that so I found myself on a banyan tree. When they felled that tree during redevelopment I came onto the only banyan in Bassein which is this one.

In a resonant voice Sir Edwin said “I was assassinated by Gangi’s admirer who found that Gangi had developed feelings for me. Pahhhh came a sound and some more dirt and pebbles tumbled out of Gangi’s hair but she was smiling coyly. Sir Edwin continued “ Then he strangled Gangi and buried her. No one found her and it was assumed that I made a fool of myself over a native woman and shot myself. A murder got disguised as a suicide.”

Meera said that the village headman’s boy fell in love with her and expressed a wish to marry her but she came from a caste lower. The headman called her over to his bungalow apparently agreeing to their marriage, raped and killed her. Then threw her body into the river tied to a rock. Meera’s body changed form almost every day under the water as creatures took bites of her, she bloated first and then shrunk. Once her body dissolved away she became a Chudail / Hadal and proudly said that the first person she scared was the headman himself. She appeared before him in her most frightening form , at the very moment he was sitting in the field for his ablutions. Scared shitless was he, as he died of shock.

Iltumish said that he was a slave in a sea vessel that landed here in Bassein from a far off land in the west. He wasn’t fed regularly and one day he escaped out and found himself near this village. There he saw a goat tied to a stake in the field. He stole the goat and ate it. The goat was poisoned, as it was bait for a jungle cat that was troubling the village. So now he considers his mission to scare everyone from the village who robbed him of a life.

Bapat was the village priest, the kind who performed only the last rites for Hindus. without his blessings the spirits would not attain moksha or nirvana. He was an extremely money minded priest and unless he was compensated properly in advance he would not venture out. This proved to be his downfall in Durga Pindhari’s case who had accompanied her husband to the village. They were highway robbers by profession. The husband was ailing from an earlier injury and died here. She desperately searched for a priest. Bapat refused to come as she had no money. The incensed woman first committed the body of her husband to the pyre in the early morning pyre without Bapat’s absolution. And lay in wait for the priest. When he came out for his morning bath there waited the woman with a heavy rock which she cracked on his skull , dragged him to the same pyre and threw him in.

I noticed that the tape recorder was running. Ask us the question that you have in your mind boy, commanded Sir Edwin and I found myself uttering “Is this the absolute truth?” Thank you my man. And like wisps of white smoke moving heavenwards I saw seven streaks merge into one over the lightening sky.

Mumbai - Present Day

Absent mindedly I picked up the tape recorder.  Then plugged the power cord into a socket and cleaned the sensing head with a kerchief. After a few hisses and a crackles the tape moved. I heard a reedy voice emerge from it & strained to hear it…It was a single persons voice...no other sounds could be heard …only questions. As the tape approached the end the sound just rose up a notch “Is this the absolute Truth?” I heard my own voice come through the speakers. 

Undhiyu aur 7 Khoon Maaf, a review

Undhiyu

What’s the “special” today? I asked the waiter as we settled ourselves for dinner in the Thali restaurant of the mall in the neighborhood. By the special I would mean that one course which would be the piece de resistance in the entire Thali. “Surti Undhiyu” was the answer and I was thrilled. I love this Gujarati preparation that is made in the winter months. It’s a mix of all the seasonally available vegetables. It’s further embellished with “methi” dumplings and remains rather heavy on the oil and masala, but an absolute delight on the palate. I settled in for the meal with my better half across the table. She being more partial to sweets was enquiring about them.

This restaurant “Rajdhani” is rather famous for its Thali and unless one is really really hungry it is pointless venturing into this den. One is literally attacked with hospitality. The humungous variety of food that sits in one plate is enough to have nutritionists requiring not calculators but Cray computers to get the exact calorie count. The food is good and we come here once in six months to face this and decide after the experience never to subject our stomachs to this level of pressure. But human memory and time has a unique correlation. It selectively allows some such decisions to gradually diminish and fade away till a repeat experience is required to endorse it again. Within seconds the large steel plate, which in an earlier century could have been comfortably used as a shield by some warrior, was populated with sundry knick knacks, snacks, salads, vegetables, assorted dals, kadhi, sweets, and the Undhiyu. Fresh phulkas, kept coming in and I tore off a piece from my first phulka , generously wrapped it around a helping from the Undhiyu and put it in my mouth. As the buds in my tongue sent the signals of the taste, the analysis was clear, something was not quite correct.

I looked down into the plate, it looked like Undhiyu alright. Then with my finger, I started sifting through the ingredients and saw most of them here. I called the waiter over. Has the chef / bawarchi changed ? The waiter was aghast and asked me what happened and I told him that the undhiyu does not taste the same, what is the issue? He rushed inside and out came the bawarchi wringing his hands. Apologetically he bent down and told me, Sir, you are quite right. It is the Undhiyu. The reason why it does not taste the exact same is because instead of sweet potatoes , it has only potatoes and in place of green garlic he had to use the other variety. His honest admission had me smile and assured him it doesn’t taste bad only a mite different. It was not a complaint. He continued in his lament, what to do sir, sometimes one fails to get all the ingredients of ones choice and no one realizes that out of 92 ingredients required for the Undhiyu even if we use substitutes for any one or two of them the taste would change and be noticed by a connoisseur.

He had put the finger on the spot. This was the exact issue with the movie that we had seen just before we entered the restaurant for the meal.

7 Khoon Maaf

Vishal Bharadwaj is one film maker who has, amongst the latest talented crop of directors, consistently delighted me. His onscreen adaptations of Shakespearean works like Macbeth ( Maqbool, in my opinion his finest movie till date ) or Othello ( Omkara ) or his award winning Makdee ( one of the best full length films for children in recent times ) he has impressed with his attention to the script. His association with good authors for stories led him to Ruskin Bond whose story “Blue Umbrella” was adapted by him with his favorite actor Pankaj Kapoor in the lead. This was the second story of Bonds that Bharadwaj was associating himself with and there was a lot of buzz around the movie.

Priyanka Chopra who had been a scene stealer in his earlier Kaminey was in a full length role with him, so there was obviously an expectation of a working chemistry. This story of Bond’s titled “Susannah’s Seven Husbands” is an incredible piece of literature spanning a mere four pages and was keen to see how it would be adapted as a full length feature film. Ruskin Bond himself had been engaged to work with Bhardwaj and Matthew Robbins in a supportive role for the script. Then the list of actors who graced the parts of her husbands is the who’s who of acting talent in this country and abroad. Naseeruddin Shah, Irfan Khan, Annu Kapoor, Neil Nitin Mukesh, John Abraham, Alexander Dyachenko and Shah’s younger son Vivaan making his debut.

The movie is good without a doubt but like the Undhiyu we were eating, had hit a different spot and it was extremely difficult to put a finger on what exactly was it while  watching the movie.The cinematography of the film is excellent, Ranjan Palit creates an eerie atmosphere with his camera and the play of shadows around the characters is chilling. Unfortunately it is the actors, some of them, who fail to deliver on the beautiful canvas created by Bhardwaj & Palit. Priayanca looks the part and plays it adequately but there are times when one wonders what would have happened if she had just let go of her restraint, cinematically it would have connected the dots for me the viewer. She doesn’t rise above her part and this was the sweet potato missing from the Undhyu called “7 Khoon Maaf”.

The green garlic elements were in the scripting and here I lay the blame squarely at the Chef’s door. His earlier work Kaminey or even Ishqiya too had a lot left to viewer interpretation but that approach doesn’t quite work here. The last is the choice of a title and this in my opinion is where he truly lost out on the plot. The title succeeds in doing only one thing for the viewer in that numerically he now is in the know of how many more rounds/episodes are remaining. The lead actor is unable to convey motive, compulsion, mania or simply put even the need to go on and on, and this is  the place where the dots from one episode to another do not get suitably connected.

The music is brilliant and some of the side acts are good too like the dwarf jockey. Neil Nitin Mukesh delivers a chilling Major and Anu Kapoor as the cop with a nuisance value excel in their parts. Naseerudin Shah as the opportunistic doctor is good and his son makes a reasonable debut and shows promise.

One of those days when a Chef from Rajdhani doesn't get his Undhiyu exactly right is what happened with Vishal Bhardwaj & “7 Khoon Maaf”. All the ingredients being individually quite correct and perfect but as a composite dish, something went slightly awry. 


Whats the final verdict though, is the movie watchable ??? Definitely Yes, a truly great chef or a director even on his off day will create a dish or a movie that will still be a cut above the best, of his ordinary contemporaries...So do go & watch this different piece of cinema

Interfering Character

Sunandadevi :

The nostrils were being pinched and a mist swirled around her eyes. A water bottle solicitously held against the mouth prevented it from opening any further. The water blocked the other oral passages that may have let in air and she started to choke. Around her was a huge gathering of close family; her sons, daughters, their children and a guest but not one of them looked her way. They were all here for Divali and busy chatting amongst themselves. It was an annual ritual that had existed in the Raje Pawar family of which she Sunandadevi was the matriarch.  Severe arthritis and a paralytic stroke had robbed her of both coherent speech and active movement thereby confining her to a wheelchair.

She was dying… no...She was being killed. Her life, in sepia toned frames, did not pass before her eyes as they showed in the movies. All through the haze her eyes were locked on the unfeeling gaze. Then she understood. For just a moment her eyes pleaded to them for a small helping of that precious thing called life. It shamed her; a royal scion to beg. The gaze upon her was pitiless as she started losing consciousness. The celebrations around her went on. The last thing she saw in the distance beyond the gaze was the near bald pate of their houseguest; reclining on the easy chair in the verandah taking a bite of a karanji. She willed him to turn but he too did not. The hazy light silently gave way to pitch darkness.

 

Satyesu Babu :

Satyesu Tathagat Basu’s eyes closed with immense pleasure as the sweet grated coconut based stuffing spilled onto his tongue. It was the Karanji , a Divali sweet that he was enjoying at his client - friend Nikhil Raje Pawar’s residence. Satyesu babu as he was called had free time on his hand. The wife had taken the kids and gone to her family residence at Jaduguda, in the Singhbhum district of Bihar.

Satyesu babu’s status had been slightly elevated amongst the other staff being a guest of the prince though he too was technically the hired help.  Years of good breeding had instilled in each member an easygoing charm that at once welcomed him, accorded him a place in their midst but kept him at a distance as well. Satyesu Babu felt these subtle lines very easily but they didn’t bother him as they let him just be. His personality had a trait that unless one really looked for him specifically one wouldhardly notice him. As an accountant and auditor he observed everything very carefully and deliberately to understand how the pieces fit before compiling a report. Auditors will remain auditors.

He had spent the time sitting on the terrace outside the main hall sipping a chai served catching up on a  Sardindu Bandopadhyaya novel. Satyesu Babu’s gods were the fictional detectives Feluda and Byomkesh Bakshi. He aimed to think like them and solve mysteries but his accounting fiefdom constrained him to nothing beyond financial chicanery……..

Writing about Satyesu Babu’s chai made me want one for myself and somewhere the flow was tapering off too. A break would be good thought I and lifted my head bent over the keyboard and got the start of my life. I was looking into the face of a smiling woman…sitting in the wicker office chair opposite me. Where had she come from and who was she? She seemed in her mid twenties, was dressed in a rust colored salwar top & a sky blue dupatta both patterned with crystals, extremely sophisticated & stylish. I knew no one like her yet she seemed uncannily familiar.

Not recognized me have you? You writers are all the same. You create a character and then fail to identify them. Yes, I am Sunanda. I chose to appear younger, because though you made me a matriarch and murdered me in the first paragraph, I too was young once. Now that my role in your story is finished what was I going to do in there? Why should I remain old and wear those silly heavy duty Sari’s, I never liked them anyways. So now tell me what were you planning to do with me or rather my body? At the most you would have an inquest conducted and then cremated me, right? My footage on the stage of your story is done then why don’t I come and check how are you getting along with it. And you can close your mouth please, open jawed wonder went out with Doris Day in the sixties, close it… you may let in a fly. I promptly shut my mouth and stared as I listened to her accent that was faintly anglicized and she did speak fluent English. Oh..Oh!!!  I uttered and immediately came the retort…So is that the extent of your spoken vocabulary. Why don’t you make that chai for yourself as you planned to and come back here for the story, and yes, you can call me Suni…Rajmata Smt Sunanda Devi Malhar Rao Raje Pawar can be quite a mouthful.

I went to the kitchen platform and brewed some tea for myself and raised an eyebrow to her whether she would join me and she shook her head. The aroma of the tea and its first sip removed the cobwebs from my mind as I started sensing my surroundings. Normally when one is into a plot one tends to lose focus of things around one; I was that kind. But no, she was still here walking around the room having a look at my book collection and nodding. As I approached my writing desk she looked at me and laughed out. You truly don’t know where you are going with the story do you? I ruefully smiled and told her that I sketch out the characters and then they interact and the story forms. “Bosh” she said waving her hand in the air dismissing my rather earnest counter.

What were you attempting here, a murder mystery? I nodded. And your detective is that bald karanji eating auditor?

What’s wrong with him, he has already solved one mystery for me.

“Bosh” again that sound, I was quite getting to like the sound though not the lady. Just because he reads Feluda and Byomkesh Bakshi you expect him to solve my murder, and that too in 2000 words. Even Conan Doyle or Dame Christie have not managed it what makes you think you can and that too with that bumbling karanji eater.

I smiled my superior smile telling her I had given it serious thought if only she let me finish.

No no dear you need serious help here. I was aghast as I considered my situation. Was I going nuts? Here is a character of my story jumping out and demanding the story be written in the manner she wanted.

Almost reading my thoughts she said, you don’t know who killed me, I do. You want me to tell you right now? There are many potent flaws here. Like what?  I asked taking a sip that in my agitation proved so generous that I started coughing. She started laughing merrily and did make a very pretty picture in my living room, shaking her head said ‘Now I know why you had me bumped off that way?” You always choke over your tea.

I was getting irritated at the manner in which my methodology was being so easily dissected and in a surly tone reminded her ‘the flaws, if you please.”

Yes, she stopped laughing and wiping her eyes said” You have made me a matriarch and that necessitates at least 3 generations and then a royal matriarch so servants, visitors and guests, all in that one room. The guest as you told me is the detective so I have to be bumped off by my family. You won’t have enough meat in the story for building up the characters and knowing my family the way they are, every one of them would love to kill me.  This brings us to the motive? No my dear man you sure are in trouble here.

I was going to write ahead till you came out Suni, why couldn’t you stay in? Actually You know said she , I am quite fond of you and thought to myself, here he is struggling, not knowing how to move ahead, so now he would go on and on about food and waste too many words.

I sputtered over my chai once more in indignation. What ever do you mean?

Come on…don’t you push in a recipe when you get stuck or insert a filmy situation just to give it more momentum.

Now what’s wrong with that, I love food and films both. In my fervor I was shaking my head and met my own gaze in the mirror and considered the ludicrousness of this scene. I am arguing with my creation. What do you know about filmy situations I badgered her? Whatever do you know about them?

Darling , said she in dulcet tones…putting one leg over the sofa chair striking a surprisingly chic pose ala Marlene Dietrich, what do I know of films? You forget I am royalty, you have made me so, and I went to a Swiss finishing school and guess who were my classmates/ Shobhana’s daughters, Nutan and Tanuja.

Now this was getting too much and I reminded her that Shobhana Samarth , Nutan and Tanuja are legitimate film stars while you are just a character out of my so far unfinished story.

Again she mischievously smiled and said that’s why I love you, its your imagination and thought of dissuading you from this fool hardy venture. Write this story definitely…not as a short story but as a novel. Then it has potential.

Unlike real life in a story you can’t have the murder go unsolved can you? The tapestry is too rich for it to be accommodated in fewer than 2000 words for it to go as an article. You editor may not like to carry it as a series. Then you won’t get paid and you won’t have your Darjeeling chai to choke over to give you inspiration to attempt a murder mystery, again the musical laugh followed.

Enough, do you have to go on and on about it? I quite liked the idea of a novel though or even a novella and she was smiling appreciatively back at me. That shall come later but is definitely on the anvil. So what shall I do about you now? She was fading from sight as I said this and barely heard her final words that she threw at me with her saucy smile, Remember me by dear, though not just as an interfering character.