A movie that moved.

What I’m going to say next, will probably generate quite a few “Ki? Ki bolche eta?!” accompanied with eyebrow joining frowns on the faces of the Bengali Brethren.  But the fact is that it wasn’t till yesterday night that I saw Unishe April (19^th April).  For those who are not aware, Unishe April is a 1994 Bengali classic by Late Rituparno Ghosh, depicting the complexities of a mother-daughter relationship. I was a little sceptical about watching the movie because all I’d ever heard about it was unending praise, and more often than not, whenever I have seen a movie with very high expectations, it has failed me. Nevertheless, I plopped on the sofa, with the laptop and a bar of my favourite chocolate, and anxiously pressed the ‘Play’ button.

Official Poster
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

Here is the story of a 26 year old woman, Aditi (Debashree Roy), who lost her father to a heart attack and her mother at the hands of dance, when she was only eight. Totally dependent on the old family help, Bela (Chitra Sen), lovingly called Boya by her; she sorely misses her father, and lives with the strong determination of becoming a doctor like him one day. It is the morning of 19th April, Aditi’s father’s death anniversary and she is visiting home. One can’t help but feel a strong sense of sympathy for her, as she lies in bed, occasionally turning back to look at her father’s photo on her bed shelf, feeling bothered by the sound of the ghunghroo, coming from her mother’s dance classes. Her face sans make up and her outfit comprising a dull long skirt, an oversized t-shirt and big black spectacles perfectly reflect the combination of dullness and bitterness that dwells within her.

Aditi (Debashree Roy)
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

In contrast, her mother, Sarojini (Aparna Sen), portrays perfection. Right from her well pinned saree and her tight bun, to her back right posture and measured bindis, she has a stiff air about her which lacks that obvious scent of motherhood. She feels resentment towards her daughter who never bares her heart out to her. Interactions between her and Mithu (Aditi’s pet name) are over courteous and measured while she shows great fondness and dependence on her constant companion, Somnath (Dipankar Dey).  When she receives a phone call informing her that she has been bestowed with a prestigious award, she plans a trip to Madras with Somnath that very evening to visit her Guruji. Detest towards her in the minds of the viewers increases manifold, as she makes it clear that she has forgotten her husband’s death anniversary.

 

Sarojini (Aparna Sen)
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

Aditi is shown to be heartbroken, as once again, her mother’s love for the performing arts prevails over her. She anxiously awaits her lover’s call as he is the only one who would realize what this day meant for her. Preparations for a magazine interview are ongoing and her mother is seen getting decked up in full grandeur. Amidst the entire hustle bustle, Aditi receives the phone call from Sudeep (Prosenjit Chatterjee) only to be told that he now knows who her mother is and his family will never get their son married to someone who is a dancer’s daughter. She begs, pleads but finally accepts reality. This is one of the turning points in the movie where Aditi’s outbursts are replaced by her stoic demeanour. She silently eats niramish (Vegetarian) as her mother enjoys the various delicacies made in her honour.

Aditi receives the call from Sudeep
as the interview goes on in the background
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

As the house clears out, a diametric scene unfolds. Sarojini is getting ready for her trip, donning a dark green and orange bordered south silk, while Aditi writes out a prescription for sleeping pills and hands it over to the unsuspecting Boya. The darkest hour begins when Aditi sees her mother’s car leave the driveway. She asks Boya to go visit her sister. The moments Aditi spends alone in the house juxtaposed with flashbacks from her childhood and courtship are the high points of the movie. The camera focuses on a table calendar. The date haunts Aditi. Fate chose the same day for the two men she loved so dearly to depart from her life. Irony is at its best as she writes out her suicide letter on her newly made doctor’s letterhead. However, the gloom breaks when the doorbell rings and Aditi finds her mother standing at the door, completely drenched. Her flight had been cancelled.

Aditi’s moments in the empty house
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

Upon finding nothing to eat, they proceed to make a meal. Sarojini brings out her old recipe book and Aditi is mildly surprised to know that her mother was interested in something other than dance. The situation is awkward and sprinkled with tension; almost a decade later both mother and daughter was doing something together. Sarojini opens the storeroom for some ingredients and finds her favourite perfume tucked away in an old container.  Aditi’s voice returns. She screams out how the smell of that perfume haunted her. It reminded her of her childhood when Sarojini came back late every night and walked into her room with that scent trailing her, as she pretended to be fast asleep.  Sarojini wants to reach out to her but that invisible wall between them seems unbroken, though in the moment where Aditi asks her mother to be careful lest she hurts her knee, the viewer gets a feeling that the wall maybe developing cracks.

Aditi looks on anxiously
as her mother discovers the perfume
(Picture Courtsey: Internet)

After a quiet meal, Sarojini is seen arranging Aditi’s room. Eventually she chances upon her letter and the half opened strips of pills. At this point of the movie, the character of Sarojini that had been portrayed till now sheds its skin. She loses all composure and bangs on the bathroom door asking her Mithu to come out. An astonished Aditi opens the door only to be slapped by her mother. She nonchalantly reminds her of this day, many years ago, when her father died and she was far away, caustically mentioning that, had her flight not been cancelled, history would have repeated itself.

The subsequent frames show Sarojini seated on the bed with Aditi in a chair opposite her. She explains to her daughter that the man who was Aditi’s father was very different when he was Sarojini’s husband. The flashback shows Manish (Bodhiswatta Majumdar), as the husband, disgruntled by his wife’s fame and success. Constant efforts by Sarojini to please him were met by continuous egoistic jabs about her dance and lifestyle. Manish has no motion in the movie. All of the scenes have him confined to the bed reading a paper or just lying down, thus representing his lack of initiative to make the relation work. Sarojini admits that when Aditi was born, she purposely took a backseat and let her father guide her life so that he didn’t ever feel that his over successful wife took the limelight here as well. Marriage made her realize what love didn’t; that her father and she were two completely different individuals. Aditi has difficulty in accepting this reality and she breaks down in front of her father's photo.

Aditi & Sarojini’s
heart to heart conversation
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

Aditi is seen going to her mother's room. Sitting on the bed next to her, she tearfully questions her why in all these years she never taught her to dance when there were hundreds of her students whom she loved like daughters. Sarojini admits she never thought that she would like it. For the first time in the movie Sarojini addresses her as Shona (Darling). As the two of them embrace, dawn breaks, symbolically cracking the hard distance between them. The phone rings. It is Sudeep. The movie ends on a note where one is free to imagine what happens to Aditi. Does she follow her heart and marry Sudeep regardless of his narrow mentality? Does she learn from her mother's mistake and act rationally? It’s all a figment of one's imagination.

Mother-Daughter Union
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

This movie was way ahead of its times. It shows that sacrifice alone can never be the backbone of a successful marriage. Sarojini's perfection may bother quite a few because we have been inclined to believe that a good wife and mother is the one who has no time to take care of herself and who has no life outside the four walls. That a woman can earn more than her husband, that she can single-handedly fulfil her child's financial requirements is something that was captured by this genius of a director more than a decade before we started speaking about the independent woman of today. In a particular scene Aditi feels saddened by the fact that her mother never baked a cake on her birthday like her friends' mothers did. This was answered by her mother in yet another scene where she says that the medical course Aditi took wasn’t something she managed easily. Whoever said that cooking was the only way of expressing love? Isn’t, toiling everyday to earn comfort for your child, a form of love? However, the director also harps on lack of communication being a major flaw in most wavering relationship. Aditi and Sarojini were right in their places till the day they tried on each other's shoes. It is good to silently expect but better to say what your heart desires. It reduces resentment.

The house blends perfectly with the movie especially the spiral staircase depicting the turmoil between the mother-daughter. The phone is almost a character in itself, its dull yet loud monotone bringing moments of pride, betrayal and anxiousness. Boya's undying love for Aditi right from where she carries her in her arms to the bathroom till she increases the speed of the fan sensing her to be flustered only reinforces the fact love has got nothing to do with blood. Somnath and Sarojini's friendship or love if you wish to call it that, shows that there is nothing wrong about having someone to take utmost care of you without putting the relation on paper. It would be wrong to analyze the acting because straight from the scene where Sarojini reads her suicide note to where Aditi is hysterical with the phone in her hand, from a lanky Sudeep who is confused about commitment to the awestruck student who visits her teacher in the storm, from Somnath trying to bridge the gap between Aditi and Sarojini without crossing his line to Bela blurring the line between love and duty, from Manish always being the unhappy victim to the array of relatives doing the typical cursory talk, such is the lifelikeness that, for a moment one might forget that all of it is happening behind a screen.

I am glad I hadn’t seen the movie earlier. Glad that I saw it at an age when I could fathom the myriad of relations and characters explored by the director in these 138 minutes. I could feel the movie breathing and it stayed with me even after the screen turned black. Yes, I know most of you have seen this movie and probably my words have been more than elaborate, but the fact is this is not a review. In fact, I don’t know the technical aspects of film making well enough to do a review. So I could not be crisp and curt. My words are laced with the tears I shed, the anger I felt and the happiness that engulfed me. Just as Sarojini stares at her Guruji's photo and closes her eyes to pay homage, this is my gurudokshina to you Unishe April. You are now the permanent occupant of a corner of my heart.

I look down at my lap. An unwrapped bar of 5 star glittered.

The Heart Warmer
(Picture Courtesy: Internet)

Ohseedee.

Font: Verdana. Check. Font Size: 12. Check. Line Spacing: 1.5. Check. Brightness level: 2. Check. Power supply on. Check. Other tabs closed. Check. Recheck the last six things. Check. Aah! That feels good. Now my fingers feel ready to punch the keyboard. Hey! Were you just staring at me with shock? Well, to be frank I was staring at you too or, rather, at that small bit of the hard maroon nail polish that you forgot to remove from the edge of the nail of your index finger. It’s causing me severe amount of discomfort. 

Welcome to my world of obsession. Please make sure you take off your shoes and keep them at neat 90 degree angles before crossing the threshold. Thank you.

Once, every six months, my cupboard experiences a sorting out ceremony. It begins by categorization into the following heads: 

          1. Awesome/New Attires;
          2. Office Wear;
          3. Bari’r Jama;
          4. Garments that need to be squeezed into the mother’s wardrobe;
          5. ‘Nyakra/Nyata’ worthy items;
          6. Clothes to be given to a particular person;
          7. Stuff that can be universally donated;
          8. ‘To be preserved forever’ ones irrespective of it’s’ age and condition.

After the primary categorization is done, there is further classification of 1, 2, 3, and 8 based on the following criteria:

1. Type: Indian / Western / Indo-Western / Accessories.
2. Weight: The heaviest ones are placed at the bottom and the rest are arranged upwards in descending order;
3. Height: The long ones get a place on the hangers while the small ones are piled in the drawer;
4. Colour: The blacks and whites have an entire rack to themselves while the remaining colours rest in the shelf below them;
5. Special Requirements: Lace / Crochet / Thread Work / Delicate Whites / Strong Colours get the ‘moshari’ privilege of being placed in plastic packets before being stacked up.

And after this very simple (don’t raise your eyebrows) procedure… VOILA!

Clothes Line?

“Better safe than sorry”. For me and my OCDian bestie, this was our life mantra in our cherished hostel years. Time: 12:30 am. Location: Room 211. She would trot like a mother hen to lock the main door, first the horizontal latch in the middle and then the long vertical one (I don’t know the English word for ‘Chhitkini’) at the top and then she would pull the door twice to ensure that no calamity can ever reach us. Then she’d proceed to push every window above the three study stables to protect us from being attacked by the demonic pigeons at night. And before I forget to mention, these are the very windows who were proudly dressed in newspapers to guard our privacy during the day. Lastly, she would ram and close the big bay window noisily, draw both sides of the curtain to a perfectly measured meeting point, triple check the bolt at both the ends, complain for the 3548^th time about them being loose and make me promise to make an entry in the complaint register. Lying tucked in my bed; this was a daily sight for me. Oh wait! Not daily. Every alternate day, we would reverse roles. 

Now that we live miles apart, we discuss our OCD woes on the telephone, especially when she is packing for travel. Packing reminds me how we very happily unsealed fully packed cartons, only to repack them again because we felt that the first time wasn’t tight and firm enough and that the articles were not evenly distributed. The joy we felt despite the dirt in our hair and all the heaving around was like suddenly eyeing a dollop of molten cheese camouflaged by the empty white pasta plate.  

Waiting for the newspaper drape.

Just the other day I was re reading the final part of Harry Potter. As I adjusted the pillow, almost on the verge of tears as Hedwig fell off Harry’s broom, my eyes travelled to the bottom right corner of the page. My semi blurred vision instantly cleared as I saw a disgusting looking matte brown stain sleeping soundly. The butter knife appeared in my hand and I spent the next half an hour trying to scrape the stubborn little fellow off. By the time I restored my prized possession to its original grandeur it was well past midnight. But how could I leave a chapter unfinished although I had read it fifty times earlier? With eyes stinging with sleep I completed the chapter, mentally noted the next chapter number and went to sleep with an utmost sense of achievement.
P.S. – I can slaughter anyone who borrows my book and folds the corner of the page as a bookmark. Just saying.

If my workplace ever gave an award for the most organised work station, then I think you know who would have got the title (Modesty is not my middle name). I love right angles. I love allotted places. Even an inch of deviation makes me squirm in my seat. The desktop screen needs to be at a fixed level with my eye. The files need to be placed in a manner such that if one has its spine on the left, the one on top will have its spine on the right (Photograph shall guide you). Don’t roll your eyes. It brings amazing balance to the pile. I can even sense if anybody has used my chair and adjusted the height. It’s my ultimate grumble generator. As far as the soft board is concerned, in my head I have drawn imaginary lines and assigned appropriate space for the calendar, contact list, court schedule, quick notes and the various postcards. If any one of them decides to pay each other’s home a visit, I have a major “jab life ho out of control” moment.

File Fanatic.

One of the most devastating days of my life was when my laptop’s hard disk crashed and all the data bid me goodbye. I had no backup. A huge question mark was raised on my obsessive organizational skills. My distraught face took the limelight as the sound of lightning crashed on me, three times in a row. After running helter skelter for days, I finally rescued my data from their death bed. The very next day my uncle gifted me a 1 TB external hard drive (Yes, I am pampered). In my head, I broke a coconut and applied a red tika on the box before opening it. Out came the hunk that would protect me from situations wherein my abilities could be questioned. Now I can safely say, if my laptop were to ever peep into the mirror, it would see the external hard disk taking a drag and smiling back at him. They’re a happy couple.

The Bengali in me joins hands with my compulsive self, when I am served the “Kaatla maach er lyaaj er torkari” on my plate. My mind makes plans and gradually takes calculated steps to devour this beauty.
Step 1: Wipe off the gravy with your fingers from the body of the fish and mix it with the rice. Turn over the fish to repeat the procedure. Keep the gravied rice on one side of the plate;
Step 2: Slowly tear of the golden-black wrinkly skin from both sides without breaking or bothering the remaining portion of the fish. This acts like the starter and should be consumed as is;
Step 3: Break a piece of the grey-pink coloured fish, remove the bones, mix with rice and gobble;
Step 4: As they grey-pink is consumed, the fish flesh now turns white. The procedure remains the same. Remove bones, mix with rice and eat;
Step 5: After the flesh is over, you will reach a pseudo triangle shaped bone that connects the body of the fish with its tail. Gradually pull it out; it has pieces of flesh hidden here and there. Turn Sherlock Holmes and dig it all out. Use teeth, fingers, toothpicks etc.
Step 6: After doing justice to the bone, you finally reach the tail. It is comprised of several pieces of vertical bones stuck parallel to each other and laced with flesh and skin. It is advisable to break three-four bones at a time and bite the meat off them. This is the toughest as well as the most artistic bit.

So there. Now you know that even bliss can be obtained in a slow and structured manner. And who told you that a recipe can only be for cooking a meal? Didn’t you just read a recipe for relishing a sumptuous dish?

Flaming Beauty.

My mother gets home from office and if she notices that the stripes of the bedcover are not totally aligned with the edge of the bed, she wouldn’t think of putting down her bags before correcting the fatal error. Many a weekends, in half slumber, I saw her getting up from her treasured sleep only because she saw that the bedroom door was somewhere between being half ajar and totally open. It has to be either this or that. Never somewhere in between. Since I am version 2.0 of her, I do the abovementioned and a lot more. 

Mobile chargers, USB chords, memory card readers, internet dongles have an assigned bag and stand in a fixed order so that they can’t do the tangle dance. Jewellery items are arranged as per utility and nature. Pure silver ones are wrapped in tissue (thanks to Chamba Lama), junks are in a tin container (thanks to the Cadbury Celebrations Diwali special packs) and beaded ones are in paper packets (thanks to Gariahat footpath). I love lists. I love data. Any form of them. Shopping list, list of dates, list of reasons, bucket list and the sorts. I recently downloaded an application that allows me to make checklists and then tick them off once they’re done. I maintain one for my expenditure, for my leave balance, and an extensive to-do list. Have you ever had the wicked joy of buying something and then coming across someone who bought the same at double the price? If you have, then you’ll know how I feel when I tick off and delete the to-do items. Speaking of buying something, there are moments when you look at a piece of clothing and think “Hum bane tum bane ek duje ke liye”. Check out what I mean. Till then, I’ll just (Control + S) * 5 times. Check.

Westside knows me well.

The Murder.

It was dusk, I was being followed. 

I looked at her through the corner of my eye.  

Dark and gloomy, she hid her face well. 

Her sinister aura was creeping up to me.  

I had to act before she could. 

I stretched out my hand, ready to strike.  

Click, I hit. 

She died an instant death. 

Light flooded the room. 

The Love Letter.

15^th February 2014
 

When I first saw Rajeev in the Medieval History lecture, two days into the semester, I had my “Bella saw Edward for the first time in college” moment. Except... except the fact that I wasn’t even close to what Bella looked like. But Rajeev, he oozed perfection. Mr. Fresher. Teacher’s pet. Youngest star on the football team. Quizzer. Object of jealousy for the boys. Flocked by girls. I don’t think he even knew of my existence. Initially, I thought he must be arrogant given the fact that God invested so much time in him. But I was proved wrong the day I bumped into him in the canteen.  I felt my ears go red, when he picked up the fork, said a polite sorry, gave a gentle smile and walked off to a crowd waiting for him. I couldn’t sleep that night. 

Initiating conversation with him was a task in itself because he was hardly alone. I visited the field during his hours of practice. I came early to class to get a seat near him. I chose the same elective course as him though I knew nothing of debating. Needless to mention, I even made it a point to follow him to the canteen praying for another lucky bump. My efforts were in vain till the day I stayed back in class to write an assignment and he came back for the book he had forgotten. 

My head was bent and I didn’t notice him entering. I saw a hand tapping my desk and I looked up to face him. I don’t remember the conversation we had but yes, after exchanging a few words, he took out a few ruled sheets and sat down beside me and we completed our assignment together - “Impact of Renaissance on women”. The topic shall remain etched in my heart forever. At night I sent him a two line text thanking him for that afternoon. He replied. “Thanks for the help too : )  See you tomorrow”. Glee frothed and bubbled inside me. 

The next few weeks passed in happy oblivion. Rajeev and I had a routine. We stayed back after class to discuss the course and other cursory stuff and on most days, we met for an evening snack. I became a part of his group. He became a part of me. I hated clubbing, but couldn’t refuse when one evening he asked me to join them. How could I let go of an opportunity to be near him? What made it even more perfect was that he dropped me home that night. When he pulled up in front of my house, it was nearing 1:30 am. It was dark and the silence echoed. I had my chance. The words were on my lips. I wanted to say it to him. Instead, I smiled, got off the car and waved at him through the window. As he drove away, I cursed myself a million times over.

4^th February 2014. I was sitting on the college porch, searching my bag for some change, when Megha came up to me excitedly saying that there was a rumour about Rajeev dating some second year woman. She asked me if Rajeev had told me anything about it. I nodded in denial and walked off. I felt weirdly uneasy. My eyes scanned the campus for him but to no avail. I headed towards the classroom and found him already seated. Avoiding his glance I took the back seat. I sent him a text asking him to meet me in the parking lot after class. He replied “Sure.. Is everything okay?”. “All fine”, I replied. That was probably the first lecture I didn’t take notes in.

I saw him walking towards me, with that radiant smile of his. Swirling his phone in one hand, he back brushed his hair with the other. I had to do it, I told myself. He leaned on a scooty and looked at me. I went close to him, very close and hugged him, whispering those three words that would curse me from that moment onwards. Seconds later, I found myself staggering. Rajeev had pushed me away. His eyes spelt shock. He wasn’t expecting this. “How could you..” he began and stormed away. Something within me died. Overnight, I became more popular than Rajeev on campus. The staring, the giggling, the clucking, the pointing was plentiful. Thanks to a batch mate who stayed in my residential complex, my infamy spread there as well. My parents showed utmost displeasure at my act of desperation. Days passed. I felt alone. I lost everything in a moment of frankness. Was I so wrong? Was expressing feelings such a crime? Since when did love become so dangerous?

I am sure by now you hate Rajeev, my friends, my parents for subjecting to me such torture. I am sure you would want to reach out to me, support me and give me a touch of reassurance. But wait. Would you? Would you really? After knowing who I am, would you still empathise? I think not. I fought for 18 long years. But now, I give up. I give up trying to be normal. I give up trying to be something I am not.

Karan Sehgal.