Wednesday, June 28, 2006 || 5:06 PM ||
When I first hear about her, Mrs. Edmonds is a fragile woman in her late fifties, whose reminiscences have a faint whiff of lavender spread all over them. A lean woman draped in a white saree, with a slight stoop, that remarkedly sets her apart in a crowd that she merges into. Not long after having witnessed a Japanese soldier butcher her husband to shreds in Singapore, she had managed to flee back to Kerala, where she hoped to start life anew, with none less than eight daughters in tow. My Amma fondly recollects a Christmas in the seventies, when she had hesitantly gulped down a glass of wine for the first time, on being assured by the old lady that she is not gonna end up drunk! Or when she told Amma of wandering from street to street on another Christmas eve, hoping to get a better bargain, for some red meat that she had planned to buy for her kids. Those were hard times, she whispers to my young and freshly wed Amma, as they share a cubicle as telephone operators in the Telecom department, their headsets making them look like astronauts in sarees. She pleads with the Officer to let Amma leave before sunset, as the young girl has a long, long way to go. Shortly after, Amma finds Mrs. Edmonds on the bus stop beside her, as of course, in her own words, she could not imagine herself being alone in a room infested with leering men! Days give way to months and years, and she leaves service and lives alone, her daughters having left for fresh pastures, moulding lives of their own; subsequently Amma finds the old dame lost among a maze of fading memories.Monday, June 26, 2006 || 2:02 PM ||
The Year is 1990.Thursday, June 15, 2006 || 2:34 PM ||
Its 5.30 in the morning when we reach Baroda. The place is already bustling with activity and a couple of hours later, I venture out of my hotel room and decide to take a walk around. It seems implausible that the ancient town was writhing under a spate of events that had left blood stains all over, barely a couple of weeks ago. I look around for traces of abhorrence and hatred in the faces that brush past me. A few wayward glances at my kurta that proclaims an Om, make me overtly nervous. The day wears on and I meet up a few friends, who whisper to me about them and us, as we dig into gulab-jamuns with a vengeance. A merry baaraath is all song and dance, and crackers hurriedly burst amidst giggles and guffaws, as the beaming dulha gets down from a decked steed.Monday, June 05, 2006 || 4:40 PM ||
The term ethereal sounds too much of a cliche, especially when one is attempting to illustrate an immense admiration for an actress who was there today, gone tomorrow. While cinehalls across the country were being burned down during supposedly staunch remonstrations against the gusto of Mira Nair, to venture across hitherto uncrossed territory, her Fire held several prospects for me as a viewer, though the only celebrated actors whom I knew then, in the much-censured film were Shabana and Kulbhushan. Ever since having burned myself with this cinematic experience that turned out to be significant for me, solely due to a raison detre called Nandita, I should admit I have been hooked – on anything that even remotely had a faint tinge of the actress. Apart from being one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my entire life, the veracity associated with her is too appealing to be ignored in a hurry. Her emphatic performances in almost all the films that she lends her life to; be it the forgettable Punaradhivasam, the fiery Azhaki or the flaming Kannathil Muthamittaan; her impeccable gorgeousness in the clearly dreary Vishwathulasi or the highly appreciated Kannaki, this is one actress with a head that seems firmly planted on her shoulders, whom I would have loved to see more on screen. Sadly though, one gets to see very little of her these days, as she seems to have moved on to probably more important things in life, and rightly so.Saturday, June 03, 2006 || 11:44 AM ||
And I have finally managed to upload a song that should hopefully be streamed.