The Veracious Velkars of Good Ol’ Mumbai

Noted architect, accomplished author and committed activist, Pratap Velkar is undoubtedly one of our most cherished living legends. His first book Lokmanya Tilak and Dr. Velkar is a timeless gem blessed with a discerning foreword by noted journalist and author Arun Tikekar. This is not your everyday biography, it is a treasure trove of invaluable information on Mumbai of Tilak’s time, a vivid account of the city's participation in Lokmanya’s political movement.



The book recounts the essence and significance of the symbiotic relationship between Lokmanya Tilak and the author’s father Dr. Motiram Balkrishna Velkar; it also throws perceptive light on the lives and contributions of several selfless activists and mavericks who toiled under the stewardship of Lokmanya Tilak, including Dr. Velkar, Dr. D. D. Sathe, S. V Lalit, Dr. N. D. Savarkar, and Dadasaheb Karandikar.



At the outset, the author provides a brief history of the Pathare Prabhu clan as also that of the Mumbai metropolis where the Prabhus settled for good. What follows is a fluid description of landmark events and movements steered by legends like Vishnushastri Chiplunkar, Lokmanya Tilak, Shivram Mahadeo Paranjpe, and the great revolutionaries Chapekar Brothers as also key happenings including

• the highly potent and purposeful social and political events of Dr. M. B. Velkar’s student days, prime among them the W C Rand and Lt. Ayerst assassination, and the subsequent trial and execution of Chapekar brothers that left a deep impact on Velkar, then a school student.

• the herculean efforts of Dr. Velkar to inculcate nationalistic sentiments in fellow Mumbaikars of his time, especially the people of his Pathare Prabhu clan who, barring some great exceptions, were invariably known for their laid-back and insular notions of well-being and community development, as also their imprudent “more loyal than the king’ allegiances to the powers-that-be (which have sadly resurfaced with a vengeance among their so-called modern-day scions)

• the unconditional faith that Dr. Velkar had in Lokmanya’s vision, mission and leadership, and his tight rope walk as a practicing physician and a fierce social activist & Tilak follower.

• Tilak’s home rule movement and Mumbai’s involvement in it, notably the idea of booking a Tilak special train to participate in the 1916 Lucknow Congress that Dr. Velkar and Dr. Sathe germinated and successfully implemented to the tee (a tradition that continued for the next four years, to attend the subsequent Congress sessions)

• the 1918 special session of Congress and the historic protest during the Willingdon Memorial meet of December 11, 1918 which saw Barrister Jinnah at his nationalistic best.

• Tilak’s 1919 England visit as the president of home rule league which had him and Dr Velkar sharing the same accommodation (60 Talbot Road, Bayswater, London) as also traveling together in P & O Egypt ship that left the English shores on November 6 and reached Ballard Pier, Mumbai on November 27. (Dr. Velkar chose to travel with Lokmanya rather than stay back in England to pursue the coveted MRCP degree, and he made the most of the journey time, relishing every bit of the edifying conversations with the great man.)

• Tilak and Montagu-Chemsford reforms, Tilak Fund, and Tilak purse

• The last days of Lokmanya Tilak at Sardar Griha, Mumbai and life after Tilak

The outcome of Pratap sir's physical and intellectual labour is for all to see, only if we care to open our eyes and look back. In documenting the contribution of mavericks like the doctor duo of his father and Dr Dinkar Sathye, both fierce Tilak loyalists and committed activists affectionately addressed as the Mumbai-based Jai-Vijay duo of Lokmanya, Pratap sir had to preserve several weathered files, documents and notes – his father’s correspondence and newspaper clippings - spanning two generations.

This book also cherishes the work of several lesser known karmayogis of that era, including the two dynamic siblings of the great V D Savarkar (one a literary genius and the other a dental surgeon but both equally active in the national struggle), Tilak-follower Dadasaheb Khaparde, Bhosla Military School founder Dr. B S Munje, 'Sandeshkar’ Achyutrao Kolhatkar, fearless martyr Anant Laxman Kanhere, committed Pathare Prabhu volunteer Dinanath Vittal Rao, only to name a few.

Even the annexures to the book are full of little known but illuminating facts - Tilak's command over language and his astounding people skills, his inclusive approach to public speaking, his sparkling sense of humour, his outstanding liberalism (which defied his 'orthodox Brahmin' image), the sheer diversity of his followers, his journalistic principles and editorial conviction, the clarity of his thoughts and beliefs, and scores of amusing anecdotes and happenings during Tilak's England visit.

Dr. Velkar was no ordinary activist. In 1903, while still a teenager, he formed the Pathare Prabhu Knowledge Improving Society, a body of young minds committed to nationalistic thought and action. The society regularly hosted talks and lectures of great thought leaders to inspire the common people to shun their regressive tendencies and become more holistic about crucial issues of national significance. In 1990, at his behest, a grand Pathare Prabhu exhibition of artistic creations held at Thakurdwar, Mumbai had noted reformer Gopal Krishna Gokhale as the guest of honour, not some Britisher, as was the wont till that point in time. A few prejudiced old timers, unhappy with the new wave, asked him contemptuously "Why Gokhale, why not Tilak, who you rave about in public?" Dr. Velkar's reply was epic "You won't be able to digest Tilak's extremism. Instead, Gokhale's soft ways would suit you fine."

In 1914, Dr. Velkar incepted the Pathare Prabhu Progressive Association for cherishing the teachings of Maharashtra's saints, imparting technical education, and contributing to the national movement. In 1917, he formed the Pathare Prabhu Volunteer Core which helped maintain decorum during Congress rallies and key events and also provided timely aid in difficult times like during the Influenza epidemic of 1918.

As an active member of the Mumbai Municipality, his profound interventions upheld the cause of the common people: whether in the context of First Tenants Bill, Victoria Garden restoration, ensuring regular water supply to Mumbaikars, voting by Ballot, providing sanitary houses for laborers, or the inception of a cooperative bank for South Mumbai merchants. His recurring fear that the ghastly Communal Award will end up dividing India if not arrested in time proved prophetic, immediately post 1947.

Today, Dr. MB Velkar Street of Kalbadevi, Mumbai continues to remind us of Dr Velkar's contribution, albeit not many travel companies and tour operators would include it in their glossy MUST VISIT recommendations.

I consider myself fortunate to have read this book, which was reviewed by my father for Maharashtra Times way back in late 1990s; Pratap sir’s letter conveying his heartfelt sentiments to my dad is a prized bookmark housed within the book's insightful pages, a souvenir for posterity.

For more about this father and son duo - the Veracious Velkars of Good Ol' Mumbai - as also to know about Pratap Velkar's other books, visit http://historicaldocumentsofpratapvelkar.blogspot.com

Sadly, nobody seems to be managing this site, emails to the ID furnished on the site fetch no replies and the information furnished here has unknowingly taken the form of a dump. We hope someone from the family will eventually take the lead in conveying the essence and credence of this rich Velkar legacy to the public at large.

We were indeed fortunate to have a telecon with Pratap sir, and we found him inimitably agile and full of life. His warmth is priceless, which no blog or website can ever think of replicating.

Thank you, Pratap sir, for the highly potent literature you have gifted us. Your contribution, like your father’s, is exceptional.

Astu (So be it): Elephant in the room

As these thoughts passed through his mind, he met an Elephant and came close to hold a conversation with him – Aesop Fables



‘Astu’ (meaning So be it in Sanskrit) is an incisive attempt to probe deep into how a progressive disorder like Alzheimer’s, more than disrupting normal life, makes a dent into the very fabric of familial equations. When elusive conflicts arising from the disorder bring a host of latent differences to the fore, relationships become more fragile and distant than what they seemed before. 

Before moving to the bigoted endeavor of film reviews, one must unconditionally acknowledge the highly laudable effort of the producers to sponsor such a sensitive subject which can serve as a stimulating case study in coping with the brutal twists and turns of the ruthless disease. Hats off to Sumitra Bhave for her inventive take on a highly intricate subject as also for the pertinent title. 

Retired Sanskrit professor Chakrapani Shastri (Dr. Mohan Agashe) goes from bad to worse even as the irreversibly degenerative ailment plays havoc in different ways. Once revered for his first-rate memory and way with words, he comes face to face with a precariously progressive fag-end reality that begins with words failing him and gradually moves towards more ghastly developments – growing forgetfulness, recurring mood swings and even physical advances arguably redolent of sexual overtures that threaten to bypass the sanctity of relationships. At a time when the family – primarily his elder daughter Ira (Irawati Harshe) - is trying hard to cope with the enormity of the tragedy, the ageing scholar loses his way, this time literally, in the scorching heat of a fateful day, lured by the sight of an elephant on a busy, bustling street. Baffled by the professor’s outrageous request for a ride atop the majestic mammal, the Mahout reluctantly obliges after much contemplation but to his dismay, the old man has even more preposterous plans – he’s resolute to become the fifth member of his family – of self, wife, kid and the elephant. 

This is also the time when the professor’s disorder has taken socially embarrassing turns – incessant weeping, pronounced difficulty in communication and loss of bladder control – that call for more intimate, full-time personal care. The Mahout’s wife assumes the responsibility with unconditional, self-springing resolve. Her innate, rustic acceptance of the fact - that the seemingly long-lost, learned man is now her adopted son - is in sharp contrast to the conundrum faced by the professor’s immediate family, despite their highbrow status, in coming to terms with the tragedy. While the elephant woman has become a willing mother to the professor, his kith and kin have knowingly or unknowingly chosen to overlook the elephant in the room.

The makers have attempted to subtly highlight this paradox, made lethal by the longevity of life in an era of advanced medical care and cure, through the wonderful motif of an elephant that’s known to endorse a string of supposedly human-like qualities – and better than what most humans practice - sharp memory, stoic calm and empathy for the clan among others. No wonder, the professor seemingly finds inner peace in the company of the gentle giant, in the reassuring feel of its grey skin, in the tranquility of its somber eyes, in the leading light of its plodding gait...  

The ingenuity of the script notwithstanding, the glaring incoherence of the motion picture mars the desired impact. Many loose ends clamor for a tighter grip and prevent the players from hitting a crescendo on a few decisive notes. Astu is off-mark in crucial aspects, which is surprising on two counts - given the veritable credence of its makers – the duo of Sumitra Bhave and Sunil Sukhtankar - easily one of India’s best from the regional stable (with such gems as Vastupurush – a classic of sorts) and given the sheer brilliance of Bhave’s script that was inherently ripe with 24-carat cinematic possibilities. The run time of 2 hours and 10 minutes is marked with umpteen fractured images, consistently flashed back for effect. At best, they serve as poignant postcards galvanizing the viewer’s mind to suspend every form of judgment in conceding to the larger cause. On the flip side, they fail to put the old man's tragedy into perspective. Their earlier film ‘Devrai’ depicted the trials and tribulations of a schizophrenic’s fight back led by his dogged sister with far more restraint and in commendably convincing frames of lucid progression. Interestingly, Dr. Agashe played a wonderful cameo in Devrai, of a psychiatrist articulating the crucial role played by caregivers in precise words. 

A proficient psychiatrist and competent actor, Agashe no doubt leaves his indelible mark on his character but the mechanics of the back-and-forth leaps in time don’t make suitable provision for subtly tracing Shastri’s marked deterioration over time. Barring few stimulating scenes – like the one in which he springs forth to enjoy a hearty meal in a supremely jovial mood only to be reprimanded by the family for the thoughtless encore or another where he fakes a memory lapse to abort conversation with a chatterbox acquaintance – most of his outbursts - mood swings, unremitting bawling et al - lack the zing, in the absence of a suitable preface that could have best come through a wholesome dissection by the family friend Dr. Prabhu (given that the actor Shekhar Kulkarni seemed capable of delivering the goods). Knowing Dr. Agashe’s forthright views on umpteen universal issues like the limitations of clinical diagnosis, orchestrated corporatization of the medical profession and the significance of the patient’s mental makeup and socio-economic situation in palliative care, there was ample scope for voicing these concerns through the film – most fittingly through Dr. Prabhu (probably at the point when he refutes the daughter’s suspicion that her father’s forgetfulness is more garb than genuine.)  

As for the elder daughter Ira’s predicament (the principal protagonist played by Irawati Harshe), the character’s initial appearances, save for the fact that she’s invariably busy in attending to the family’s diverse demands, neither reveal her deep-rooted bond with the father (and her supposed fluency in Sanskrit - a crucial factor that binds father-daughter together) nor her reservations about his ruthless regimen that has apparently distanced him from his wife (which we come to know about only through the mother’s death-bed soliloquy). Ira appears as detached as the others are. In fact the husband appears more concerned in most emergency situations. (Milind Soman is surprisingly convincing, never mind his queer Marathi accent)

That’s precisely why the confrontation between the two sisters claiming each other to be the professor’s favorite child, towards the end, barely scratches at the surface. There is no sufficient build up to even remotely suggest Ira's suppressed rage of many years - emanating from what she reckons as an unfair trial, that the responsibility of the father has been thrust on her while the younger sister has coolly shrugged off every burden with clinical precision rooted in cold logic. The sibling squabble hence seems covertly planted if not overtly put on. This is tragic since this is where Harshe finally seems to get real unlike the prior scenes where she is noticeably theatrical. Characters like Mrs. Gupte (Ila Bhate with her quintessential mannerisms) and the younger sister Rahi (Renuka Daftardar, a Bhave-Sukhtankar regular) add little to the film’s cause. Worse, Mrs. Gupte’s story adds a touch of cliché - wife suspecting husband’s rapport with his colleague, daughter affirming it in surprisingly unthinking fashion and predictably enough, Gupte spilling the beans towards the end to underline the professor’s devotion to his life work. The haziness of the character makes Gupte rather ill-equipped to elucidate the larger significance of the professor’s pet phrase “Astu Astu” for the benefit of the audience. 

Cut to the Mahout’s family and the players disappoint to glory. Nachiket Purnapatre, though outwardly convincing as the elephant guy, clearly lacks depth in portraying the larger-than-life quandary when the professor accidentally steps into his life. Whether his inability to read the professor’s mind, perplexment over his bizarre ways or the persistent fear of the police, all come as perfunctory pronouncements. He could have done better in hinting at the figurative role of a ‘Mahamatra’. His wife Chenamma (Amruta Subhash, given her marked propensity for gaudy portrayals) makes all the crucial revelations, forming the film’s moot point, sound like overbearing sermons. Her Kannada accentuation and the contrived Marathi interpretation (more of a directorial flaw actually) are nauseatingly embellished. 

Given the duo's obsession with the visual imagery of detached collages, most of the wrap-up scenes are flashed in a hurry with a few smacking of artifice – like the police interrogation en route the elephant hunt and the mahout's interaction with the priest - while others are scantily reeled – like Dr. Prabhu’s observations. All the elephant scenes stand out, thanks only to the astutely handheld camerawork that has amazingly captured emblematic scenes like the mammal’s bathing dip and afternoon siesta. The minimal music by Saket Kanetkar and Dhananjay Khawandikar is another redeeming highlight of the film, a delightfully non-intrusive undertone to the underlying theme.  

To the film’s credit, it can play a vital role in helping doctors and care givers make priceless discoveries about patient traits and characteristics, far more effectively than what today’s Virtual Reality simulations claim, to discern the elusive day-to-day challenges of a degenerative disorder. Beyond doubt, no symposium lecture, academic paper or celebrity endorsement can ever hope to match the sanctity of the film’s earnest appeal to empathize with the subject matter devoid of any black and white inferences and thereby transcend the boundaries of scholastic knowledge which does little more than proclaim Alzheimer’s as a type of dementia. 

Oasis: Freewheeling conversations with Dr. Vishal Rao - II

Design Health Thinking in Surgery

Taking the discussion of the inaugural oasis further, we examine what Dr. Vishal calls  Design Health Thinking Framework for Innovations in Surgery.  

How and why does Design Health Thinking matter in surgery?

Design Health thinking in surgery is of utmost importance as it focuses on holistically identifying and defining the problem which alone leads to a sustainable solution. The design health thinking approach helps the surgeon decide when to do research, when to do innovations which is an improvement on the status quo, when to do inventions which makes the innovation disruptive, and when to work around the problem through a Jugaad innovation, which is a smart fix amid the cost and time constraints that deny a comprehensive ideal resolution. 

What is the framework all about?

The Design Thinking framework has two critical elements:

 

1. Possibility to Actuality Paradigm 

 

The possibility to actuality paradigm encompasses the stages of surgical innovation. 

 

Defining the problem context

 

The first stage is defining the problem context before turning our attention to design the solution.  What is the problem all about? Is it related to a surgical technique? Is it related to a decisive step within a larger surgical process?  Is it related to the generic aspect of the disease in terms of surgical diagnosis?  Or is it related to a surgical device intervention aimed at patient rehabilitation? 

 

Defining the problem statement

 

The exact problem statement needs to be defined within the larger governing context. The surgical problem statement of any of the contexts defined above is invariably one of the two; either a generic challenge related to conventional methods in vogue or a diagnostic step in clinical practice. Let’s study them in greater depth:  

   

 

2. Actuality to Sustainability Paradigm  

 

This paradigm comprises five key critical pre-requisites of innovation, which we discussed in the earlier Oasis instalment - namely, Funding, IP, Regulatory compliance, Market access, and Market intelligence.

In the context of the problem statement of the Possibility to Actuality paradigm, what are the generic challenges you are referring to?

I will elaborate with examples for the sake of clarity.

Generic challenge related to conventional methods in vogue

I have found in the guiding light of my surgical experience that this problem often identifies itself in the course of the surgical procedure, largely due to the temporal relationships involved. 

To cite a case in point is a carotid body tumor surgery where a casual discussion paved the way for disruptive innovation. For any surgery, I adopt a procedure founded on innate logic rather than textbook learning. I have not delved deep into the reasons for my preference given the ease of my dissection by virtue of what comes naturally to me. In this particular case, the cardiothoracic surgeon asked me why I prefer to dissect the internal carotid artery first, when the textbooks clearly recommend dissecting the external carotid artery first, given that it is where the feeder vessel comes from. It is also easier to dissect and less prone to adverse consequences. 

My rejoinder was that it is more logical to attend to the internal carotid artery first as it has no branches extending to the neck, and it is better to deal with its complexity of life-threatening possibilities (like torrential bleeding or patient’s death from stroke) while the surgeon is fresh than when fatigued after having dealt with the external carotid artery first. More importantly, a cardiovascular surgeon is needed while attacking the internal carotid artery which is main blood vessel connecting the heart to the brain, and being a scarce resource, his or her wait times and work times need to be optimally decided. Based on this experience, I wrote an article titled:  The "INT-EX Technique": Internal to External Approach in Carotid Body Tumour Surgery in an indexed, peer-reviewed journal and is globally accepted as a standard procedure. 

 

Taking the same Carotid body tumour example further, I would like to cite a case of my residency days where I was studying the carotid body tumour in the context of the 1974 Shamblin’s classification based on the complexity as grade I (small tumor with minimal attachment to carotid vessels), grade II (large tumor with some arterial attachment) and grade III (large tumor encasing the carotid vessels). The conclusions were based on intraoperative findings and post-operative pathology reports. I argued in the international forum that this classification being post-operative does not help pre-empt the condition to achieve life-saving outcomes rooted in prevention. My study focus was on the possibility of generically pre-empting and planning for the treatment based on the degree of encasement which could be either of the three: type I 0 to 180 degree, type II 180 to 270, and type III 270 and above.  

So what were your conclusions?

 

My generic conclusions were thus: Type I did not call for a cardiovascular surgeon and the head and neck surgeon could manage the surgery end to end. Type II mandated to have the cardiovascular surgeon waiting in the coffee lounge and for Type III, the head and neck surgeon would be waiting in the coffee lounge while the cardiovascular surgeon would be in the operating room to do the critical bypass shunt before the surgery can be done. 

 

This generic handbook showed its practical value in the living waters of surgery. For a referral case of carotid body tumor concerning a poor lady patient in a small nursing facility with no ICU that was located in a remote district, I was able to look at the scans and recommended that the surgery did not call for a cardiovascular surgeon as it was a case of type I. Accordingly, I did the surgery and the patient had a good outcome. Based on these findings, I published another article:  Carotid Body Tumors: Objective Criteria to Predict the Shamblin Group on MR Imaging which was accepted by the American Journal of Neuroradiology. So, what was essentially a student hypothesis generation led to an interventional change with measurable practical application in clinical settings.   

Similarly, there are generic challenges with respect to a diagnostic step and medical devices?

Absolutely! Let us examine the typical ones. 

 

Generic challenge related to a diagnostic step

This problem can be attacked though the power of observation rooted in holistic thinking. The problem here is the missing gap owing to compartmentalised thinking with no cross talk between different disciplines. To cite a case in point, whenever I used to dissect certain parts of a spinal accessory nerve, I found a classical pattern of anatomical cross-linkage which I intuitively called the X pointer as I saw two nerves crossed into each other as a standard pattern. The article I wrote based on it was published in a reputed journal as: The X-pointer: A forgotten anatomical relationship of spinal accessory nerve and its role for trainee surgeons.  

 

Generic challenge related to a medical device

My invention ‘Aum Voice Prosthesis’, a one-dollar speaking device for throat cancer patients considered among the 100 global social innovations across the globe, was essentially born out of an intraoperative challenge resolution but eventually translated into a medical device innovation.  The proctoscope conventionally used for dissecting the anus was used by me for the pharynges in the Aum innovation. The ENT surgeon used a probe which I found very useful for my OT needs.   

To cite another point, constraint is a key incentive for innovation. In the course of my robotic surgeries, a financial  constraint bothered me as the instrument to do the neck dissection was cost-prohibitive and I had to resort to innovation as a need. The outcome was an indigenous retractor called Ravi Retractor which was essentially the brainchild of my anaesthetist who was doing the rounds across all disciplines like gynaecology, and gastroenterology while I was fixated on my speciality which is head & neck. The gynaecology retractor can be used in head and neck surgery. 

 

All these problem resolutions attacked the problem on lateral ways, paving the way for disruptive innovation which eventually makes it possible to touch lives at the patient level.      

Can a surgeon proactively guard against pitfalls in the context of surgical innovations?

Surgery is a highly intricate endeavour, and much of the thought and action happen on the spur but I would humbly suggest the following:

Never build the solution before you identify and define a problem holistically. 

Don’t ignore the empathy factor in healthcare interventions – it is crucial to design an empathy-centric design in innovation which touches human lives through desirable and sustainable outcomes.  

Make collaboration your focal point rather than competition – this merits a cross talk between methods and practices of disparate disciplines and cultivating the art and science of looking for solutions in the unlikeliest of avenues, domains and spheres. 

Death of a Salesman: Flashy reincarnation sans the soul

Finding my narrow way out through Broadway's broad Hudson Theatre stairway, I couldn't help wonder how Arthur Miller would have reacted to Marianne Elliott and Miranda Cromwell's gaudy recreation of his eternally ageing salesman who never ever called for the crutches of jazz music, fancy light, and acrobatic movements to reign supreme on stage. He stands tall on his stooping shoulders on his own merit.

Miller's pithy lines are ready-to-deploy, the lead players and support cast simply had to mouth them, not mount them, to convey what Miller intended: William Loman's inability to come to terms with the reality of his humdrum existence, and his futile attempts to make him and the world believe in a non-existent version of his, a ludicrously persistent effort rooted in blatant denial.  

The bizzare West End version is also rooted in a blatant denial of a simple fact: that distinctly audible dialouges suffice to convey the protagonist's pain. Sprawling windows and door frames, moving furniture, and distracting light beams all come to a naught if the soul is missing. No wonder, the reimagination makes way for a Greek tragedy that makes the play's inherent tragedy seem like a drag. In consequence, epic lines like "I'm a dime a dozen, and so are you" are lost in the din of the vaccumed spectacle. 

The makers and the cast members may have conveniently sought refuge in the standing ovation by an overobliging Broadway audience, but a deeper introspection may yet help them make amends to do justice to this monumental work of one of the world's best playwrights, essayists, and screenwriters. What can be more tragic than the fact that a great work is unknowingly trivialised by the makers and takers. As it is, for a large part of the audience, watching a play like this one is more a staged exhibition of their 'intellectual' propensities than an earnest desire to know the play and the playwright better. It should come as no surprise if they pounce on anything that even remotely sounds frivolous.

On the bright side, Wendell Pierce and Sharon D Clarke are truly believable as Willy and Linda Loman, so are Khris Davis as Bliff and André De Shields as Ben. Wish they had been alloted many moments of good ol' plain vanilla dialogues and monologues - devoid of landing furniture, background glitz, overwhelming light effects, and animated gestures.   

It is indeed a great idea to make a black family the epicenter of action, but it takes much more to recreate the magic of Miller's narrative style and technique which brings to life a metaphorical death that wakes up the 'Willy Loman' lurking in each one of us and forces us to seek larger truths.  

My African Safari

Our car was merrily racing ahead, finding its way through the lush green countryside. I was tempted to put on my windcheater but my hands never moved to pick it up. John was in a merry mood, humming a happy number in his native Swahili that matched my mood. He seemed overjoyed to find me in the front seat next to him rather than the customary back seat reserved for his employers. And I was indeed playing his employer, if not the one who paid him his meager salary.

Despite the fine weather, the lurking thought came back to nag me with a vengeance. I felt a dull pain in my navel as I thought of my people back home. I missed my son, wife and parents like never before. I missed life.

It was almost three months since I had left home for Kenya to take guard as my firm’s business development manager in a modest office in Nairobi’s central business district. We sold tailor-made software solutions for the horticulture industry and it was the management’s wish and command that I give a thrust to the African operations. The proposition showed me the promise of greener pastures but my folks took it with a pinch of salt.

With my peers and relatives thriving on the pleasures of more prime assignments and plush remunerations in more esteemed western countries, my African safari seemed like an ugly duckling far behind the smart swans, desperate to stay afloat in the deep sea of career achievements. Nevertheless, the deep sigh of my parents did convey a reluctant approval.

And did I have a reason to protest? My career was a chequered mess across industries and in each career stint I had changed jobs like shirts. This celebrated track record coupled with an equally legendary bank balance had only added to the wrinkles on their worried faces. So, they sighed as if to warn me - Africa or Antarctica, you better stay put this time.

And they were right. The stakes were even higher now. I had a family of my own – a son with a one-year-old smile oblivious of his father’s social status, and a doting wife who faked a solace in the staged pride of her husband’s “rich and varied experience”

John woke me up from my slumber. We had reached Nakuru. The sleepy village was more an ideal picnic spot than a place of commerce, hard to find in Mumbai. I could picture my son jumping to glory on the green carpet of the adjoining farm, when again John shook me, this time pointing his thick finger at the sprawling concrete structure across the deserted lane.

“What brings you here, Mr…?” barked the grumpy old guy at the reception.

I took some time to digest the fact that he was the receptionist. We exchanged plastic pleasantries before I was directed to a large sofa. It was after half an hour that I was summoned in a small, cozy cabin smelling of fresh paint. Seated across the large mahogany desk was a burly figure. Just before I entered, the nameplate had given me a fair idea of the events to follow.

A N Salunke
Factory manager

An Indian marketer’s worst nightmare in Africa is to bump into another Indian in an official encounter. You could always meet up in social gatherings or homely treats and raise a toast of nationalism together but here, the protocols were more demanding.

And here was an Indian to judge my merit. I could already sense a hostile dismissal of my ideas ending in a haunting “no sale” journey. And worse, it would invite the wrath of employers, again Indian.

Yet, going by the Maharashtrian surname, I gathered enough poise to enter the cabin and take a seat that, I implied, was offered to me.

“Good Morning, sir.” I was at my polite best. The cold stare was frozen.

“I am from Innovative Software. We are into Farm management solutions and I just thought………………”

Before I could finish, he croaked with open contempt:

“We have an in-house team managing our IT. And we are doing fine”

This was followed by a laugh that seemed hyena-like to me. I had no option but to show my teeth to applaud his sense of humour.

I made another feeble attempt.

“How wonderful. That’s really great. But we could still have a look. I have the demo on my laptop. It’s really ……”

“Sorry. I am short of time, really. Anything else?” He cut me short.

There was nothing else really. But visions of my squirmy boss forced me to keep the struggle alive. Now I was desperate.

“Are you from Maharashtra, sir? I am too. Where in….”

“I am from Satara. Now, if you don’t mind. Good day to you” pat came his reply.

I forced my way back. John was waiting outside with the characteristic look of a dutiful chauffeur. By now, he had a good idea of my official plight and I found some comfort in the warmth of his mute sympathy.

Quite ironically, the person who had shooed me away minutes back was my countryman, who swore by the same religion and spoke the same language as mine. Or was it so?

And which was the lingo that voiced John’s unstated concern for me? With these unsettling thoughts, I hopped back in the car.

====================

I was now five months old in Kenya. Touring over a dozen flower farms across six villages around Nairobi, I dragged my weary expectation with my laptop each time I entered an office. But the disparate army of ruthless blazer-clad farm managers on the other side simply refused to budge. With nothing more worthwhile to do, I began to draw patterns out of the statistics in my transit time.

For instance, though the outcome of the meeting was a denial in every case, the manner in which it was conveyed was in perfect co-relation with the color of the manager. The white managers buried my case with an official chuckle reserved for the developing tribe, the dark ones were encouraging in their “let you know” replies while the brown varieties seemed only eager to put the final nail in my coffin. Needless to say, I was alone to celebrate this analysis.

But how could I? I was on the verge of being branded a non-performer. The reward that would follow the branding exercise was a recurring nightmare in my mind. The couple of prospects that lazed in my “hopeful” list were moving steadily to being written-off in my employer’s books. With each passing day, I felt my wheezing confidence shrinking in size.

One fine morning, I set about, filled with false aerated hope, in the direction of a departmental store that stood close to my residence. It was the kind of weather one would prefer to observe life from the window, teacup in hand, catching insights with every sip.

But preference was not part of my modest perks. The tea, window as well as the home were mine only till my employer thought so. Hence, their usage was implied to be termed and conditioned to suit my employer’s needs, albeit not mentioned in my appointment letter.

And yet the purpose of my visit to the store was far from official. I thought of pampering my mind with beer and leave the rest to my muddled judgment thereafter. It was an adventurous thought, one that could cost me my job, but I was in that typical rebellious mood that sweeps the middle class once in a while. And nothing like liquor to epitomize the hushed protest. Tea would only remind me of my bourgeoisie existence.

This idea was easier to execute as it had unknowingly been timed well. My immediate boss was away on an ill-timed novel vacation (ill-timed for the company, novel for him) to the Alps with his wife, a luxury that came with his job. This meant I was to compile his weekly excel report to the supreme boss swirling his big cushioned chair at our headquarters in Sweden. But this also meant my weekly third-degree interrogation in the name of visit report was off for a week. So, what the hell if I spent a day at home.

Yes, the chauffeur was a problem, he would be here anytime. But by now, John had come to strike a chord with me, noiseless in its music and one befitting the unsung. I had not done anything like this before but I decided to trust him. I took the plunge.

“Yes, brather. What you want” the fellow at the counter was cheerful.

“Six tuskers, please” I placed the order.

Tusker was a popular brand of beer that I had fallen in love with. That it cost fewer shillings than a bottle of mineral water was a handy excuse to fool myself. But honestly, it was the happy elephant on the sticker that was great company during my dusky evening solitude. I was now used to raise a toast with the majestic mammal every time I opened a Tusker can. But today, it would be in broad daylight for a change.

I proceeded to the cash counter to pay for my goodies. The guy there seemed to be more authoritative than his position allowed. My hunch was right. He was the owner of the store, probably on one of his inspection rounds. Did he ever enjoy an abrupt vacation, I wondered as I thought of my boss.

“You Indian? From where” he asked eyeing me carefully.

“Bombay” my short reply.“I am Indian too, Kenyan Indian” He smiled.

The qualifier was a breather. Having spent generations in Africa, Kenyan Indians had pickled in authentic Kenyan flavour. There was very little Indian about them. And in my marketing avatar, I was happy to note that.The old guy before me seemed more than interested. His volley of questions continued. I tore few pages from my life book in response.

“Software. You software” he picked up the most unusual thread. Or I thought so.

“Yes” I answered back, rather wearily. And how can you help, you haggard. I wanted to ask him.

“You know Point Of Sale. Government make it mandatory for department store. You fit software for me. I know friend in other store. You get big business. Over 100 store in this area, more in Nairobi”

This was unexpected. And I was here to buy tusker. So was this my lucky break?

“Yes, we have Point Of Sale software. We can fix this job for you. But your budget?”

I was unduly hesitant about my question. I didn’t want to displease this messiah who now seemed to remove the snowy flakes of dejection from my professional life.

“No worry, you tell price. I want good job” he maintained.

My joy knew no bounds.This was another risk, more fatal than my beer adventure. I was here to sell farm management software. Worse, we had no PoS software. My only hope was my employer. I would first have to somehow show him the opportunity.If he was convinced, look for an alliance partner with the product, adjust his share in the top line, and put the final price to the store owner.

Yes, my train of hopeful bogeys ran on a narrow gauge of possibilities but there was no other option.Suddenly, there was so much to do. I came out of the store, lost in thought.

=============


There was so much to do. I was confused…what first? Taking a lungful of air in, I turned to pick my cell phone, an ancient discarded piece reserved for my exclusive use.

“Speaking,” my boss groaned on the other line.

“Sir, we have a big opportunity coming our way. There is a department…”

“Big or small, let me decide. Spell the opportunity,” he cut me short as expected.

The sarcasm was unnerving at best. In less than ten minutes, I threw as many adjectives I could to show him the elusive treasure my wishful thinking had dug with earnest hope. There was a dramatic pause at the other end.

I was almost ready to face the ceremonial full stop when he came up with a twist for me. One that was destined to twist me, I found later.

“You’re on your own. Get me a price. And then I would measure the time you have washed out”

It was futile to tell him that price would come much later, we had to fix the product first. I made myself some coffee and got down to task. The Kenya Telecom lines were clogged as usual. Our own VSNL would be jet speed in comparison. In an hour, I had narrowed my choice, in line with our prospect’s need and the region, to two vendors for a potential tie-up.

One was an upmarket product catering to the Fortune 500 companies - an alliance with a non-entity serving the Dark Continent – nah! They would shoo me away within no time.

The other name with a clumsy tag line looked very much a shady player, but I had little choice.

Know Point- POS it in style, the web site declared.

For a second, I thought of scraping the whole idea. Why dig another grave? I already had one in place, eager to lap me up. But some force made me hopeful… the hope was indiscernible, just like the force. The firm was located in Andheri, a known suburb back home. Was it the native connection, I am not sure, but I picked up the huge landline instrument to dial the annoyingly stretched ISD number.

=============

It really intrigues me, always in hindsight, the crystal-clear pattern of my fate, and yet the foolish resolve to defy it, every single time.

The events happened in quick succession, each shaping my gaffe in style.

I could never come up with a price for my boss. The store owner was supportive for a while, restless with time and foul in the end, throwing a mouthful of abuse every time I ventured to buy more time. Matters became worse soon and I stopped visiting the store even for my groceries.

The icing on my cake of catastrophe, however, came later. In the form of a contract between Know Point and the store for a PoS software installation and support. In exploring the uncharted waters of this opportunity- my cape of good hope – I had unknowingly passed it to Know Point. And did I have reason to whine?

My resignation letter made matters very easy for my employers. All the same, it was also my blanket to cover my collapse, at least till the time I was around. The firm had magnanimously waived my notice period. That was a great relief, one that saved me from any immediate liability. The deferred counterparts would greet me following my ignoble homecoming. But I had time to expect them, and reconcile with.

During the last week of my stay, I was invited to a dinner at the Nairobi Maharashtra Mandal – a group that was supposed to simulate my hometown and culture in this part of the world. What it probably did replicate was the loud shimmer of hollow ideals.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed my last supper in the august company of some happening people –who had made their mark in the foreign land, with bagful of tales - of glory, of pride, of triumph. While the men narrated their legends of professional heroism, the women presented their jewellery, public version of their marital bliss, as also a rich discourse on the multitude of “spare time” hobbies. With everyone ready to explode at the slightest provocation, there was a serious dearth of audience to take in the loaded gospels.

On my drive back, late in the wee hours of the next morning, John seemed quite pensive. It was to be our last journey together unless destiny had other plans. But he spoke his heart out, like a close friend that he certainly had grown to become. Like my cheerful maid, Rose, who diligently moved the heavy teak furniture everyday to sweep the floor spot clean, the roadside grocer Williams, who shoved generous handfuls of vegetables into my shopping bag without weighing them and the sweet corn vendor woman who cheered me up with endearing tunes of Swahili folklore every morning.

Not that I was ever under any illusion about this non-interfering and god-fearing tribe. One of the worst victims of colonial hangover, they would starve to death but would never step out of their cottages without an elaborate English attire – their status symbol as prominent as their rough skin and empty stomachs. They would not mind running menial errands for you but would never hesitate to ridicule you if you were found in sandals. You can skip putting your best foot forward, but shoes, you got to wear mate! …they will tell you with foolish authority. But even with all the quirkiness and tomfoolery, I could still relate to them on a wavelength that was effortless and a bond that was universal.

Towards the end of our warm sojourn, we passed by a procession of queer men, women and children on a desolate turn. John briefed me they were the Masai clan of Africa. A fierce, warring and semi nomadic tribe solely living off their cattle, engrossed in their age-old rituals, termed repulsive only by the encroaching civilization around them.

“They ugly peapal, dirty peapal, eat blood, but brather, they are our peapal” his eyes were moist.

“I am sorry but Indian corrupt, they take our job, they become manager in our farm and rule us. But one day, this will change brather. God is great”

It was some mutiny he was hinting at. I could feel the ache of several years in his cracking voice. An ache inflicted by the shovels of greed that we have dug deep in their land to fill our insatiable kitties, whether in industry, trade or employment.

In a land that confers first-rate status on you without much fuss, we have been busy making exclusive claims to the honor. Even the most mediocre of our people, sooner or later, can aspire to command a semi-managerial position in Africa, a status that comes bundled with big mansions, a simulated life of Western comforts and a rich army of local help - chauffeurs , maids, watchmen, gardeners........in sharp contrast to the difficult life back home in India - match-box flats, huge housing loans, swarming suburban travel, low-paid jobs and forced self-help. Those who lack the maturity to cope with the dramatic shift lose their poise in the deafening noise of their volcanic rise. 

My African Safari is long over. I am back where I belong, rather where I am supposed to belong. But the disturbing memories of some of our glorious ambassadors in Africa haunt me to this day. Wherever I heard them ridicule the locals as “Kalus” or abuse the working class with the choicest obscenities, I could only laugh at the hypocrisy of our beliefs, our so-called war against apartheid and our orchestrated nationalism, roaring each time India wins a cricket match.

© Sudhir Raikar

Picture Courtesy: 

An eclectic mix

Wild Strawberries

Bergman's fascination with Sjostrom's directorial venture The Phantom Carriage is obvious, something that must have deeply influenced his faith in Sjostrom to play the 76-year old Professor Isak Borg, the principle protagonist of Wild Strawberries.
 
The film covers Borg's unplanned road trip from Stockholm to Lund where he's to collect his honorary doctorate being conferred upon him to celebrate the golden jubilee of his distinguished career as a medical scientist. During the journey, Borg also visits a few fast-fading markers of his past viz. his family summer home, a sleepy pastoral town where he earlier practiced as a general physician and the antique collection of his old mother.

Borg's introspection is further accentuated by the respective realities and conflicts of his co-passengers. The most significant of the lot is Marianne (Ingrid Thulin is simply brilliant) his level-headed daughter in law whose forthright appraisal of Borg's insensitivities plays a crucial role in his sedate awakening that in turn helps Marianne herself reconcile with her husband Evald towards the end. A weird couple highlights his own troubled marriage with his now dead wife. A chirpy wanderer called Sara reminds him of his childhood cousin Sara, a lady he loved, who became his elder brother's wife. (That both Saras are lookalikes seems needlessly dramatic, like it did in the Hindi film Gharonda where Sreeram Lagoo's deceased wife and second wife were both played by Zareena Wahab)

All triggers evoke different memories, conscious recalls as well as dream-state awareness that influence him to dissect his revered peripheral stature in the diffusing light of his personal trials and tribulations. Ironically, he's a bacteriologist by qualification whose principle job is to identify specimens under the microscope. Unlike the professional probe, the realization here is discernibly prickly but with every effort that he makes towards accepting his frailties, he comes closer to the footpath of pacific reconciliation.

The moment he uncovers a few veiled truths of his nature, he sees some of them mirrored in his mom's conventional diktats and son's rebellious traits. He also detects a sense of social alienation wrapped in his intellectual progression, a fact that now hurts him most in the final years of his life. The new realization makes him actually yearn for a peaceful co-existence between the son and daughter in law.

While the opening horse carriage dream highlights the inevitability of death through its surreal negation, (the Borg inside the coffin has come to claim the Borg floating aimlessly in a zone of lifeless blocks and handless clocks) the concluding dream of a tranquil family outing by the lake conveys a subtle sense of closure in Borg's soul searching voyage en route many diversions, much like the creeping growth of wild strawberries through forests, fields and lawns.

It can't be a coincidence that the protagonist of Wild Strawberries shares his initials with the film's director. Borg's true-to-life predicament comes from Bergman's personal contemplation of life's larger issues. No wonder, this film has inspired a host of Woody Allen movies and even Satyajit Ray's Nayak.

Every time you watch Wild Strawberries, the furrowed face of veteran actor-director Victor Sjostrom seems to convey something new, indeed befitting for what was his last screen performance. Bergman keeps him centre stage throughout and with such delightful upshots that have enriched the cinematic medium like never before.

IKiru

Loosely based on Leo Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Kurosawa's Ikiru is the poignant tale of Kanji Watanabe, an ageing section chief at the Tokyo City Council who's been diagnosed with an incurable gastric cancer. In his 25 years at office, Watanabe has never missed a day and yet his presence has hardly been felt by anybody including himself. He rubber stamps his hopeless authority on piles of papers with unfailing regularity only to nourish a mounting pile of no consequence. His colleagues do the same in their individual capacities but unlike Watanabe, they are a boisterous lot, ceaselessly engaged in evading public grievances with scornful smiles ahead of bureaucratic lassitude.

Watanabe's cancer forces him to take a good look at his hitherto unexamined existence and that's where his uneventful life takes a new turn, not in dramatic fashion but through gradual insights emanating from sore discoveries concerning his personal and professional equations as also the futility of his distinguished civil service.

He embarks upon a selfless mission of constructing a children's playground in a deprived area infested with filth and mosquitoes. Our transformed section head now moves from pillar to post like a man possessed, pleading before numerous municipal heads across different sections, only to bring the larger cause to fruition. Ironically enough, his first and only bureaucratic feat is cherished only after his demise but proves lasting in its significance. The children's park has become the world's playground in every sense.

Watanabe's story unfolds in nomadic fashion from the point where he's vaguely made aware of his cancer at the doctors clinic. Every episode thereafter helps him take stock of his squandered life in some way or the other. Relieving his bank account of 50,000 yen, he sets out on a wayward search for redemption.

Led by a sympathetic small-time novelist, he gets a glimpse of Tokyo's nightlife and tries to drown himself in women and wine for a while but to no avail. He tries to strike a chord with his only son but the latter's insensitive and dismissive stance brings a dead end to the journey even before it begins. It takes another partially vain attempt - to befriend a happy go lucky erstwhile office colleague lured by her gay abandon - that indirectly leads him towards a befitting purpose." When I make toy-rabbits, I feel I am playing with every kid in Japan, why don't you do something similar?" She remarks innocently and hesitantly, more to escape the uncomfortable gaze of his languidly probing eyes. But her casual suggestion sets him thinking what could he possibly make anything, meaningful or otherwise, in his bureaucratic office of all paper and no action? And eventually his focus turns to the proposed kiddie park, withheld all this while thanks to the civic apathy and the inaction that follows it.

One can't but marvel at Kurosawa's deftness in harmonizing the poignant content with stylistic presentation. The film begins with the symbolic image of an X-Ray when the voice over informs us of the protagonists cancer as also the fact that the latter is yet unaware of the fatal ailment. Subsequently, Watanabe is led to the clinic and left alone to lock horns with the episodic adventures. The voice over returns midway, this time to inform us about Watanabe's demise. Thereafter, he surfaces solely through the vague and prejudiced interpretations of his inebriated colleagues assembled at his funeral service. It is through the maze of their clumsy conclusions, astutely flashbacked at times, and the successive visits of Watanabe's unlikely admirers from the local populace that we come to terms with his tragedy and triumph, both intertwined with each other. Kurosawa refrains from worshipping Watanabe as the God sent harbinger of change and urges you to join him in studying the deep rooted customs, rituals, hypocrisies and vested interests that collectively colour Watanabe's seemingly weird transformation from a taciturn bureaucrat into a citizen activist. Every scene, every dialogue, and every transition delicately helps us join the dots of Watanabe's turbulent life and its larger significance, best viewed than reviewed.

Takashi Shimura's portrayal of Kanji Watanabe remains one of the best ever in world cinema to this day. No wonder, he was a Kurosawa regular having played contrasting roles in the eleven films he did with the master filmmaker. His enquiring eyes, his feeble mannerisms, his progressive stoop and the fag-end croaking voice have immortalized Watanabe for a worldwide audience.

Given the heart-breaking story line, Ikiru could have so easily drifted towards garish melodrama but Kurosawa's creation has no room from empathy rooted in pity. His drama is highly intense but never sentimental; his message is profound but not judgemental. And unlike the popular filmic plots revolving around the dreaded disease of cancer, the protagonist's ailment is not at the forefront, it's merely employed as a life-threatening trigger for the life-changing transformation that follows it.

Ikiru instinctively moves us on different plains as we travel with the protagonist from start to end, albeit not in sequential fashion: we lament the tragedy of a wasted life, we laugh at the absurdity of civic affairs, we question the endurance of family ties, we inspect the worth of working relationships, we rebel against the impotent establishment and we celebrate Watanabe's fag-end achievement but most important, we are inspired to re-examine the meaning of our own lives in the guiding light of his example.

Khandahar (The Ruins)

It's interesting how Sen was drawn to the story in one faltering-turned-decisive moment of a sleepless night. Post Kharij, the beautiful film on the impotent sense of guilt typical of the civilised world, Sen was on the lookout for the next theme. His producer was as keen on the next venture and ready with money too, a rather comfortable situation for an offbeat filmmaker but this motivation didn't make the search any easier.

Mrinal Sen is among the very few filmmakers who care to share their innermost feelings concerning their film making. For me to come up with an appropriate subject at the appropriate time had always been a nerve-wracking exercise he says without reserve in his aptly-titled memoir Always being born. Coming back to his given search, he woke up with a start in the middle of one pensive night and walked towards a large wooden cabinet packed with books. As he was eyeing the treasures inside, one book seemed to be staring at him more than the others, an anthology of Premendra Mitra stories. In one particular story that he had read countless times before, he suddenly found cinema hidden in and between the lines. This story was Telenapota Abishkar.

The fascinating discovery made way for a peerless screen adaptation hats off to Sen for the way in which he transformed the fantasy of the original story to conceive a modern-day tale of fascinating intrigue and poignant resignation. Accordingly, the angler in Mitra's tale of a fictional place called Telenapota became a professional photographer Subhash in Sen's film who, at the behest of his friend Deepu, sets off to the ruins, taking a chance break off the rig ours of city life.

Once a sprawling mansion of Deepu's ancestors, the royal estate is now a decrepit structure of peeling crust and crumbling walls, nevertheless home to an intriguing mother-daughter duo. The bed-ridden mother is blind and paralysed but not yet bereft of hope, that a distant nephew will come to fetch the daughter to honour a yesteryear pledge.  The daughter Jamini knows the truth that Niranjan, the man in question, has consciously reached the point of no return he's long married and settled elsewhere.

The city visitors inadvertently add depth and dialogue to the drama when the mother mistakes the photographer Subhash for Niranjan and instinctively weaves a relieving tale of fruition in her mind. Subhash wont dare to correct the old lady's illusion, trapped that he is in a delicate moment of reckoning. The abrupt chaos makes way for heated debate among the three friends on their supposedly moral and practical positions in the matter. It's only the final, fleeting encounter that subtly highlights Jamini's towering maturity, a poignant contrast to the run down environs. Even before Subhash can explain his plight in as many words, she's quick to relieve him of his awkwardness while locking horns with the reality of her life with grace and dignity. Subhash gets back to work and a photograph of Jamini, clicked against the backdrop of the ruins, consequently becomes his prized studio possession.

Shabana Azmi who played Jamini won the National Award for her portrayal. She was wonderful as ever but needlessly underlined her act in umpteen scenes like the one in which she says in her typical now muttering, now stuttering fashion "photo to li hi nahi abhi tak maa ki"(you haven't clicked my mother's snap as yet?) unlike the brilliant scene in which she shouts back at her mother "Halla gulla karke khana bana rahe hai, banane do na ma" (They are relishing their cooking extravaganza, do let them please) Ever since Satyajit Ray appreciated her superlative act in Benegal's Nishant, Azmi has consistently escaped a scrupulous critique in most of her subsequent offbeat films.

The support cast of Khandahar deserves special mention. Gita Sen was simply outstanding as the ailing mother, her heavy accent and laboured gestures beautifully conveying the psyche of the forlorn mother: anxious for her daughter's wellbeing and unknowingly a nuisance herself. Naseer was inimitably terrific as the photographer Subhash. Can we ever forget his introductory monologue right after the photographic paper reveals a young woman amidst the ruins whom we later come to know as Jamini? His baritone does full justice to Sen's astute direction and Bhaskar Chandavarkar's lingering background score. Pankaj Kapoor stood out as Deepu, despite the fact that there was little opportunity for him to demonstrate his prowess. Annu Kapoor was impressive as the third friend (zillion times preferable to the Antakshiri-inflicted caricature of current times) but lent a certain negative shade to his nonchalance which his character could have done away with. In contrast, Rajen Tarafdar was absolutely brilliant as the forsaken man Friday, his resigned mannerism perfectly rhyming with the desolate surroundings. 

We just thought the scene of Subhash mistaken for Niranjan appears a tad theatrical if not unconvincing; what with the mother repeatedly interrupting Dipu and Jamini the moment they try to unveil the truth. One also fails to understand why should the well-meaning Dipu blame Subhash for the goof up in hindsight, one that he and Jamini triggered in unison appears somewhat forced in the otherwise awesome narrative.

Almost every scene comes alive on screen most realistically a team effort under Sen's able stewardship and screenplay including K. K. Mahajan's cinematography, Nitish Roy's art direction and Bhaskar Chandavarkar's music. We moralize among ruins, said Benjamin Disraeli but Mrinal Sen's Khandahar tells us more: that we often moralize among ruins to no avail.

G Aravindan: The Poetic Pragmatist

Kerela, like Bengal, was a remarkably secure home to meaningful cinema for several years, amidst the regular rattle of over-the-top commercial films in both states. Of course, several directors contributed to this miracle but two names clearly stand out, as much for their cinematic brilliance as for the quiet dignity with which they went about their work. Bengal of course had the legendary filmmaker Satyajit Ray and Kerela was blessed with Govindan Aravindan and his unique brand of lyrically incisive films. 

Like Ray, G Aravindan was a man of few words and many contrasting facets: painter, cartoonist, composer and writer on one hand and a Kerala Rubber Board administrator on the other. No wonder, his initiation into the world of films was entirely self-driven, collectively fuelled by the rich character and imagery of his native Kottayam, his folk theatre roots, rubbery stability of his Board job besides a chance encounter with Kurosawa’s ‘Rashoman’. 

Long before he ventured into films, he had already achieved considerable fame with his ‘Mathrubhoomi’ cartoon series titled ‘Small Men and Big World’, a humorous account of an idealist grappling with everyday realities, named Ramu after his own son.  The cartoon sketch paved the way for the destined canvas of cinema when Aravindan found a sensitive and devoted producer in his long time theatre peer and cashew merchant Ravindran Nair. Thus began an enduring tryst of lyrical creations purposefully adorned with inventive music and vibrant imagery that raised the bar for Malayalam cinema, essentially through a daring and decisive departure from established norms.

Here was a director who for the first time let the idyllic nature play an integral part of his films and his cinematic approach called for an equal involvement from actors and the audience – almost simulating a stage on screen. His camera was only a tool for detection, never an instrument of projection.  Like nature, his music was an element of freewheeling introspection ahead of wary interpretation. Even so, the social activist in him was fully awake to the larger cause, just that he chose largely redolent expression to service it, discarding the abstract symbolism that was popular among the offbeat filmmakers of his time. And this ingenuity was well employed, in the sheer diversity of his chosen themes. 

‘Uttarayanam’ brought to the fore harsh post-independence realities seeped in incidental opportunism and discarded idealism.  The contemplative ‘Kanchan Sita’ humanised Lord Ram as an individual tormented by his wife’s needless loss, lurking behind the righteousness unfurled only through external pressures. ‘Thampu’ was a compassionate probe into the trials and triumphs of transient relationships embodied through the desolate lives of circus artistes. ‘Kummatty’ was a fantasy genre that placed a popular myth at the centre of reality. ‘Esthappan’ exposes the frailty and diffidence of human interpretation shown through desperate attempts to unravel the mystery surrounding an eccentric spiritualist called Esthappan.

‘Chidambaram’ studied man-woman relationships, individual culpability and caste differences. ‘Oridathu’ is set in the 50s, in a tiny, remote village, a humorous take on the impending darkness of imminent electricity, highlighting the elusive complexities of human mind.  While ‘Pokkuveyil’ traced the life of a young man wrestling with contrasting personal conflicts and social encounters, his last film ‘Vasthuhara’ looked at the problem of refugees. His superb documentaries included ‘The Seer Who Walks Alone’ on the philosophy of J Krishnamurti.  

G Aravindan, like Ray, held a discernible edge over his peers both in style and substance but again like Ray; he was too busy to stake claims or seep in adulation. From ‘Uttarayanam’ to ‘Vasthuhara’, he was relentlessly focused on the task at hand.