WATCHING FILMS – BACK THEN...

WATCHING FILMS – BACK THEN...

Those of you who have grown up in India during the seventies, eighties and nineties will be able to relate to most of this article. Those were the days before the television, internet and mobile phones had invaded our lives.

Television at the national level had started in the late seventies, but programs were limited to a few hours in the evening. It was only in the late eighties that popular TV programs made their debut, and late nineties when 24x7 TV channels started breaking up the lively neighbourhood chat sessions and turned people into couch potatoes.

But the Indian film industry and Hollywood kept churning out movies and movie halls in India ran to full capacity almost always. Those who could not make it to the movie halls had another option – the neighbourhood film shows. These were experiences to remember. 

The venue was any open space in the town or city, or open air auditorium where one was available, with free entry. The organisers funded these events through contributions or sponsors.  A large screen that was white once upon a time, but now of a pale yellow or light brown hue, with patchwork where there happened to be a tear, was strung up between two makeshift poles. A speaker or two of significant antiquity would be placed behind the screen. The projector and the operator would be hired and the films came in numbered boxes.

Quite often the sound and light failed to cooperate and work together – sometimes the images flitted in utter silence, sometimes a dialogue would be delivered in utter darkness. Naturally there would be vociferous calls for re-runs. Re-runs would also be called for specific song-and-dance sequences and thus the shows would last much longer than the length of the films.

The occasional breeze would cause the billowing screen to distort the faces of the actors to hilarious proportions. People would be rolling in laughter at a supposedly serious sequence and dances scenes projected on a wildly flapping screen, would have anyone in splits. Rain, of course, would disrupt the entire show.

You get the hang of it, I guess.

***

In the mid-nineties I happened to land up in Vietnam on an assignment. Movies there were an altogether different experience. The entire soundtrack would be blocked and a single male or female voice would read out the dialogues in Vietnamese in a dull monotone !! That was their idea of censorship, I guess.

After a few months, a few of the Indian expats like me got together and persuaded the Indian Embassy to arrange for viewing of Indian films. They said they had to get permissions and it would take time. And time it did take. A good few months later, the Embassy informed us that they would be able to organise a film show, but the only available movie was a Telugu one !! Only one person in our group spoke the language, and he was asked to translate, if necessary.

On the assigned day, a screen, like the one described above was set up in the Embassy premises – only this one was much whiter. This was an “uncensored” version of the movie, with the original soundtrack. The projector operator was a local boy who did not speak a word of English. It was a successful end to an endeavour for us, the early expats to that country.

After almost three decades I do not remember the details of the film – it was about a boy dreaming big and then falling in love, getting married, having a kid and all that routine melodrama, with quite a few song-and-dance sequences where they ran around tomato plants, rice fields, up and down hills and fell into a swimming pool for the “wet heroine” episode.

What I do remember is this :

First reel : Hero does his usual stuff, has food at a restaurant of sorts, meets the heroine and the song-and-dance sequences start.

Next reel : Hero is trying to feed a bawling baby with his left hand... No wait !! Everyone is left-handed in the scenes. 

We stopped the show and tried to speak to the operator. He had put on the reel incorrectly. He kept saying “lay lam tiec” (Vietnamese for “sorry”) while re-fixing the reel. We tried to tell him that the reel sequence was wrong, but failed miserably.

Thus the film continued with a right-handed hero and supporting cast and the bawling baby, till the reel ran out with the obligatory scrolling credits.

Last reel : We see the unmarried hero and heroine again, running around tomato plants and rice fields, all over the local hills, till they fall into the pool and a wet heroine emerges. The hero, who apparently has never seen a wet chick before, is so embarrassed that he marries her in a temple straightaway. (A swimming pool and a temple side by side in an Indian village ?? Time to reflect on things...) Then they get married a second time formally with the whole village jumping into the song and dance sequence. And the heroine bashfully announces that she is pregnant.

End of show.

***

Those were fun times !!

There is poetry in the trees

This was composed and published as part of a collection a few years ago, when I had not yet started this blog post. Re-publishing the same for your reading pleasure.

***

There is poetry in the trees

There is poetry in the trees, they say,

One just needs to feel that way.

From cold mountain plateaus to the warmest plains

It is the trees, they say, that bring the rains.

The solitary tree in an arid land

Provides that shade to a travellers’ band;

From dense, dark forests to grassy knolls

The trees and we are kindred souls.

Across forests, meadows and shadowy glen

Their presence has molded the thoughts of men.

They do not speak – in pain or strife

Yet always, silently - they reflect our life.

In prayer and in peace, we use their leaves

A unique story – each tree weaves.

There is poetry in the trees, they say,

One just needs to feel that way.

*** 

A330

Exactly five days after that horrific crash / disappearance of AF447 involving an Airbus A330-200, I was flying from Dubai to Kolkata on a similar aircraft. And I was nervous. “Jittery” would be a more apt description, but then there was no option; these are supposed to be modern flying machines with the latest gizmos and thingamabobs in place along with multiple backup gizmos and thingamabobs to take over if the originals failed.

We were scheduled to leave at one in the afternoon from Dubai, and true to airline’s style, all passengers were bundled into the plane by 12:45. Ten minutes later, while they were serving lemonade and the passengers fidgeting with the video controls, everything in the cabin switched off – lights, air-conditioning, videos – everything !!  The crew moved around unconcerned, while we sweated it out in the plane… the outside temperature was furnace-like… The inside was like... enough to help one understand how the chicken feels inside a pressure cooker…

After about fifteen minutes, the PA system came alive with a crackle, and the Captain calmly apologised for the discomfort, explaining that the backup generator in the plane had failed, and that the engineers were hard at work to rectify it.

The air-conditioning was restored a few minutes later, but the air-flow was feeble, to put it nicely. One irate lady passenger, very obviously an NRI (non-resident Indian, for the uninitiated) - if one were to deduce from her constant flow of English exclamations  - and living in the middle-east, judging by the amount of gold she had on her person, kind of screamed at a passing steward, “Oof, so hot !! Why don’t you on the AC stronger ?” The fellow quietly replied, “After the jet engines start up, Ma’am,” and went about his work.

Well, the jet engines did start up a good thirty minutes later, by which time I had occasion to call aside the Chief Steward and ask if something was seriously wrong. He creased his brow and smiled…. to which I remarked, “Tell us when to panic.” He said with a grin, “When you see me running towards the exit.”

The flight took off almost forty minutes late, but the Captain assured us we would reach Kolkata on time.  It was a fairly uneventful flight – except for the storm we ran into, about 800 Kms west of Kolkata, but we rapidly climbed to 42,000 feet to fly over it.

They distributed the lunch menu – it had English, Bengali and Arabic versions of what would be served. The highlight of the lunch was mutton curry cooked the traditional Bengali way, which was described in Bengali as “Bangali Mangshor Jhol.” (Literally translated, that means curry of “meat of a Bengali” – Ha ! Ha !)

There is a certain channel on the video monitors in these planes that provides details about the flight path – something I watch with great interest as a matter of habit. On this flight, however, they showed very little of the flight path and more of BBC news clips on that channel, and I did notice that quite frequently, the hand-held control of the monitor displayed the channel as “-4” instead of the usual “16”.

While disembarking from the flight at Kolkata, I asked the air-hostess at the gate why we could not see that flight path details, and she remarked casually, “I am so sorry Sir, the computer that controls that channel kept crashing today…”

***

   

I have decided to carry a prayer book with me from now on, to help me invoke both gods and “backup gods”, to keep with the times…..They say all planes have life vests, but I think they need to keep parachutes too...
By the way, anyone knows where they sell parachutes to private individuals, that can be part of the cabin baggage ?

Experts

The Wikipedia says : “Experts have a prolonged or intense experience through practice and education in a particular field.” By that logic ants and moles are experts at making hills, while beans are experts at giving you a livelier constitution, just as some “blues” musicians are experts at sounding like tortured buffaloes.

Come to think of it, we have experts everywhere, disbursing their expertise on topics ranging from fat caterpillars to El Nino, bombarding our senses with clueless insights, not to speak of weather-men and economists. Ardent students of the last-mentioned two subjects generally come across as madmen or zombies… Show me an economist who has been able to predict even two weeks into the future about “emerging markets” or “developed markets” and I’ll show you a blind soothsayer….

It is these expert economists that laid the framework that caused Lehmann Brothers to go up in smoke, along with a lot of other minor and finer details like your money and mine.

About the weathermen, the less said the better…. Their clueless predictions are nowadays backed up by equally clueless mathematical models, which are again, “continuously updated” with data from some more mathematical models….. Just a few months ago an expert weatherman claimed that the monsoon over this country was impaired because a fellow called El Nino was doing the rounds over the South Pacific, half-way across the globe. His mathematical model said so. The TV channels kept splashing pictures of dry and parched lands, farmers and cattle walking around with worried looks on their faces. (I suspect those pictures were from their archives, but let us not push the issue…)

And then the rains came. Washed away some parts of the country. And, I guess, that expert too, because, after the flood waters had subsided, another expert was called. He talked about La Nina, who apparently caused this. Never knew El Nino had managed to get a girlfriend.  At the end of it all, a third expert summed it up, “We had a normal monsoon.” He followed it up with a sombre nod to drive home the point.

And then, of course, we have this hot topic of global warming. Al Gore. TV talk shows. Videos. And then this summit at Copenhagen. A place where a spot of warm weather is considered a godsend. And where does their data come from ? From the experts at the poles.

These experts at the poles keep watching and shouting that the ice is melting….. I ask you, “What else is the ice supposed to do ?”  What do these experts do all day, day after day ? Burn up tax payers’ money to watch ice melt ? 

That too, during the summer ? 

Why didn’t we have such career options in our youth ?

We learnt in school that ice is lighter than water, and that when ice, floating on water, melts, the water level goes down….Thus the Maldives would be sticking out like sore thumbs after a meltdown, instead of wallowing in the waves like now. But these global-warming experts want you to believe that it is the other way around. And another committee of experts gave them a Nobel Prize for that.

Art experts are bespectacled, bearded, long-haired people with terrible sartorial inclinations, who have detailed knowledge about nothing in particular, and can create abstract flowery prose about a piece of canvas on which a painter had spilt his breakfast…. If we didn’t have experts, Picasso perhaps would not have been the phenomenon he is today… Can you imagine a picture of a person with both eyes to the left of the nose and lips that look like a carpet bug, selling for a million dollars ? Or an M.F. Hussain painting, depicting a horse through a single meandering line with a few distinct huge teeth with a signature at the lower right hand corner selling for equally vulgar sums ?

Take, for example, these handwriting experts. Of course, their art is required to track down the anti-socials, but for their whole life they keep studying the initial letters of language that the non-experts like you or I had learnt along with them in nursery, but diverged with class-difference over time…

Moving on to non-subjects, look at all these experts with a cult following…..like that Baba who spent his entire life doing nothing but breathing exercises, and now does it on TV… It seems that a whole nation with a five-thousand-year-old history did not quite know how to breathe until he came along – the breathing expert.

And now ? They all breathe together. Spread out on a meadow dotted with rectangular mats, you see hundreds upon hundreds of people following the Baba’s every breath. One would think that breath, like death, is a great leveler. Not so for this Baba. There are fences up front, adjacent to the stage that separate the rich-breathers from the not-so-rich-breathers. Short, sharp breaths, long, deep breaths, you name it and he has it in his repertoire. Breathing as a career option ?

Wow !!!  His breath is worth millions in hard cash….. Who, in his or her wildest dreams, could have thought of breathing as a cash cow ?

Duly inspired by all these experts I too, have decided upon a new career path…. I will start sleeping. Most people spend one-third of their lives sleeping, (and that is an expert opinion !!) but will I teach them to sleep better and longer…  

I will first go to sleep for hours, then graduate to days, then do it on TV…. Very soon they will make me an expert on the subject…. Naturally I will have some followers, then some more and then some more, all focused on the single activity…..And one day I hope to put the whole nation to sleep, sound sleep that is, all the while making money…… Anyone care to join me ?

When you travel back in time

They always teach you to look ahead and never to look back;

Life, they say, is about the future, the past is “in the sack”.

And yet it is the past that beckons, with memories sweet and bitter;

The first few friends, the childhood games, the parties, and the glitter.

There is always that wish, to go back there, to reverse the flow of time –

To visit those places where memories hang, forever sweet and sublime.

Did just that after forty years, made a trip to the place of my birth –

The quaint little town, where my childhood was blessed, with fun, frolic and mirth.

The house that I called home, was just the same, beside the Mohua tree,

The yard- trees were old; the people were new, and surprised to meet me.

The garden gate still scraped the ground, and the trees stood dark, like my childhood fears,

The grape-vine that my Father had planted, was still around, after fifty years !!

One school of mine had grown immense, with new classrooms and a hall,

The second one was just the same, with the broken gate and all.

As kids we rode bikes in that town, to places both near and far –

This time the distances were that much smaller because I was in a car.

All the houses of all my friends were exactly in their place,

It is just that after all these years, of those friends, I found no trace.

And then as I travelled those roads again, one thing was clear to me –

The childhood pictures got a fresh coat of paint, but, alas! Only memories will they be.

***

The house & the Mohua tree