Ghoom, Darjeeling, is almost 2.5 km above sea level. Standing in the rarified air of Ghoom, you can watch the Kanchenjunga turn gold as it gets drenched in the rays of the rising sun. The phenomenon lasts for a short duration. The white pristine peak again returns to its original colour blending and disappearing among the white cirrus clouds that flit in the sky. Over time, it’s shrouded by mists that hang over this region. The event is transitory and repeats itself on every clear morning like life that flits in and out of existence over and over again…
Witnessing this phenomenon feels like a privilege of a lifetime as is meeting people who shine brightly and unusually, like the Kanchenjunga, to disappear into mists all too early. One such person was the founder of pandies’ 1 who coordinated the pandies’ corner for Borderless Journal, the late Sanjay Kumar (1961-2025). The idea of starting this column was to bring out the unheard voices of those who had risen above victimhood to find new lives through the work done by pandies’. In his book, Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, published by Cambridge Scholars Publishing, he described his scope of work which in itself was stunning. His work ranged from teaching to using theatre and play to heal railway platform kids, youngsters in Kashmir, the Nithari survivors and more — all youngsters who transcended the scars seared on them by violations and violence. We hope to continue the column in coordination with pandies’.
Another very renowned person whose art encompassed a large number of social concerns and is now lost to time was the artist, MF Husain (1915-2011). This issue of Borderless is privileged to carry an artwork by him that has till now not been open to the public for viewing. It was a gift from him to the gallerist, Dolly Narang, on her birthday. She has written nostlgically of her encounters with the maestro who walked bare-feet and loved rusticity. She has generously shared a photograph of the sketch (1990) signed ‘McBull’ — a humorous play on his first name, Maqbool, by the artist.
Drenched with nostalgia is also Professor Fakrul Alam’s essay, dwelling on more serious issues while describing with a lightness his own childhood experiences. Many of the nonfiction in this issue have a sense of nostalgia. Mohul Bhowmick recalls his travels to Bhutan. And Prithvijeet Sinha introduces as to a grand monument of Lucknow, Bara Imambara. Lokenath Roy takes us for a stroll to Juhu, dwelling on the less affluent side. Suzanne Kamata describes her source of inspiration for a few stories in her new book, River of Dolls and Other Stories. A darker hue is brought in by Aparna Vats as she discusses female infanticide. But a light sprays across the pages as Devraj Singh Kalsi describes how his feisty grandmother tackled armed robbers in her home. And an ironic tone rings out in the rather whimsical musing by Farouk Gulsara on New Year days and calendars.
Everyone was at each other's throats, insistent that the world was ending. But I felt differently, as though I were just beginning, or just beginning again…
Poets, like visionaries across time and cultures, often see hope where others see despair. And humour always has that hum of hope. In a lighter tone, Rhys Hughes makes one laugh or just wonder as he writes:
I once knew a waiter who jumped in alarm when I somersaulted across his restaurant floor after entering the front door on my way to my favourite table: he wasn’t able to control his nerves and the meal he was bearing ended up on the ceiling with people staring as it started to drip down.
Translations feature poetry. Lyrics of Nazrul (1899-1976) and Tagore (1861-1941) appear together in Professor Alam’s translations of their love songs from Bengali. He has also transcreated a Bengali poem by Jibananada Das (1899-1854). Profoundly philosophical lines by Atta Shad (1939-1997) in Balochi has been rendered to English by Fazal Baloch for his birth anniversary this month. Ihlwah Choi has translated his poem from Korean, taking up the poignant theme of transience of life. A Tagore poem called ‘Kheya (Ferry)’, inspired by his rustic and beautiful surroundings, has been brought to us in English.
Huge thanks to all our contributors, the Borderless team for all these fabulous pieces. Thanks to Gulsara, Kamata, Bhowmick and Sinha for the fabulous photography by them to accompany their writings. Heartfelt gratitude to Sohana Manzoor for her cover art and to Dutta for her artwork accompanying her poem. Without all your efforts, this issue would have been incomplete. And now, dear readers, thank you for being with us through this journey. I turn the issue over to all of you… there is more as usual than mentioned here. Do pause by our contents page.
pandies’ was started in 1987. It’s spelled with a small ‘p’ and the name was picked by the original team. Read more about pandies’ by clicking here. ↩︎
Those were not the days to honour bravery on the domestic front. But if an award gets constituted to recognise such acts of valour, my grandmother would emerge as a strong posthumous contender. What she did remains remarkable, audacious, and inspirational to several generations of our family and relatives who idolise her for this singular outstanding quality that pushed her into the realm of greatness.
From the balcony of the second floor of the house in the village my grandmother was dumped – and assumed dead – by the band of veteran dacoits that had entered the mansion with the ulterior motive of robbery after a tip-off from some reliable sources that all the male members had gone to the city to place bulk orders for the upcoming festive season. Her agility to oppose the intruders and block their path was a source of irritation as they suspected their flawless plan would flounder in its execution if such resistance garnered support from the other families. Before conducting their operation in peace, they chose to get rid of the disturbing element. But they forgot to get the keys of the locker almirah from her.
Unfortunately, what they felt was designed to succeed had ended in disappointment as the old lady landed on a mound of haystack, suffering injuries that threatened to break her back but not her spirit. When one of their acolytes rushed down to search for the keys, she pretended to be dead by holding her breath. They could not find the key. The truth was that she had buried the bunch of keys in the haystack as soon as she crashed on the ground.
After the dacoit left her, she composed herself, swallowed her pain, and screamed louder than before, ensuring that the lamps in the neighbourhood lit up bright out of curiosity as the word daku[1] rend the air. Soon there were flames marching ahead to attack and overpower the intruders who thought it was better to retreat instead of facing the irate mob. With village folks arriving in droves to rescue her, the dacoits fled the scene without the booty, carrying with them only the jars of mango pickle lifted from the attic.
When she heard so many voices around her, including some familiar ones, she slowly opened her eyes but could not manage to get up on her own. She was carried inside the house and the medical examination revealed a fracture of the hip. After her sons and their families returned home to discover her in this state, they regretted their decision to leave her behind. But she said it was God’s plan to save the family fortunes. Within a few months, she regained the ability to walk slowly and she narrated dramatised tales of her big fight with dacoits. It was a fine blend of reality and her imagination. She became a feted character with immense popularity in the surrounding villages on account of her encounter and survival skills.
The trail of destruction that the intruders had left behind was in the form of overturned tables and dislodged beds, with sharp tools lying scattered in their hurry to escape the mob that her shout had garnered. Her narrative went through additions and alterations, making some infer what she reminisced was tweaked due to memory loss although it was her clever ploy to retain fresh appeal. Many people suspected she would never manage to regain her full strength and firmness, but her speedy recovery confirmed her bones had suffered minimal damage.
She basked in the glory of her valour and thanked God for giving her the opportunity to showcase this side of her personality that would never have emerged if this incident had not occurred. She averred she did not worry about personal safety for a single moment and acted the way her husband would have done. Such disclosures signified she was making a gender statement of equality, that she was no less courageous than her male counterpart who had settled well into his heavenly abode some years earlier. Now it was posing a challenge for her sons and daughters to set a higher benchmark though none of them looked capable of surpassing her next level of courage.
My grandmother herself was not sure how she gathered the intrepidity to stand in front of armed goons. Like flashes of brilliance, bravery also came in sudden spurts. Standing in the courtyard of the house, the sons assured boldly that if any dacoits made another daring attempt in their presence, they would chop their heads off with swords. Their stentorian voices did not carry an iota of conviction but they tried to convince their mother that they were equally brave and prepared to face life-threatening situations without any fear.
During their entire lifetime, the next generation did not suffer any violent attack or external aggression though they themselves were engaged in petty fights and quarrels that did not make them eligible for any honour. My grandmother lived a long life and always gave the family some reason to feel inferior. Without going to the battlefield, she had fought and survived a dangerous attack. As this story was still in circulation during our childhood, we grew up hearing it repeated with great interest from none other than our grandmother. She was corrected by other members of our family for introducing changes in the narrative she had shared earlier.
Mythological tales did not catch our imagination as much as her own story. We loved to hear it retold in her voice. The element of suspense retained freshness in her narrative and we were hooked to her storytelling. Although dacoits became a rarity by the time we were growing up, and their attacks were seen only in Hindi masala films, there was a recurring dream of facing a similar crisis where a band of dacoits would hold us hostage, but we would somehow manage to escape unhurt from their clutches.
Contemporary dacoits have become multi-tasking experts with a diverse set of skills as their earlier focus on the few wealthy families in rural areas has now shifted to other profitable, prepaid criminal gigs like contract killing and shoot-outs. They prefer to work from remote locations on a freelance basis just like writers and copywriters. The middle-class families now face burglary from thieves armed with daggers wafting in their apartments like evil spirits.
Travelling by train to visit central India, crossing the Chambal Valley known as the hub of dacoits, I was expecting dacoits on horseback, galloping ahead along the railway track, to catch up with the superfast train, to latch on to the door and enter the air-conditioned coach and hold the passengers on board captive at gun-point. This would be an ideal opportunity as I would –at the right time — emerge from the toilet and catch the ‘Gabbar’ [2] of their gang from behind, snatch his weapon and point it at his tilak[3]-smeared forehead, ordering his team mates to jump off the train before I finished counting fifty. This would be the best outdo the family record of heroism. Saving the lives of fellow passengers would make me eligible for the highest bravery award for civilians.
As I sat brooding over this possibility, the train crossed the Chambal region safely and the passengers heaved a sigh of relief. That the fear of such attacks still resides in many hearts was evident as the curtains of the windows were pulled apart only after the train had crossed the danger zone. My window seat had the emergency exit and I am sure if the attack had taken place, I would have been the first one to jump out to save my life and wait for better heroic opportunities.
Dacoits have appeared as positive characters with a sad story of exploitation that compelled them to pursue this profession. They have been glorified in our films for carrying a heart of gold, not just pots of gold. As some of them became political leaders after winning elections, one is forced to take a relook and believe in the forgiving nature of the masses who elect them and give them the chance to rule and become an integral part of the mainstream. Though I must admit I have no idea of how many dacoits turned politicians have helped the nation grow as their personal rivalries and internal fights culminated in their untimely end. However, the sobering impact of such narratives makes one reflect on the entire concept of who loots and plunders at an individual level and how the colonisers looted and robbed in an organised and official manner. It should not come as a surprise if their tales of violence and exploitation get compared with those who plundered cities and states though they were entrusted with the task of protecting them.
Returning to my earlier tale, my grandmother’s framed and garlanded portrait on the wall urged me to seek her blessings. Even though it was not exactly a case of getting thrown off by pillaging dacoits, my late grandmother blessed me one day with a chance to survive a similar attack. Getting pushed down the staircase by a nefarious businessman but landing safely without sustaining head injuries due to my proven skills of tackling motion while disembarking from moving local trains as they entered the platform, I was able to retain my balance and save myself, which made me think of the miraculous escape and how I got the privilege to emerge as a hero for the current generation. Perhaps the spirit of my grandmother stood firmly behind me and saved my head from cracking up like a coconut.
This scary episode made me feel closer to my grandmother. I have contributed to the glory of the family, preserving the rich legacy by making worthy additions to it. Those who were eagerly expecting to crush my skull were surprised to see me unhurt. Full credit goes to my grandmother for supporting me invisibly – though she is not around to see me replicate her distinction. Now we share a special bond and a common fate of surviving a deadly attack and telling the tale, rising in stature and esteem after the heroic fall.
[2] An allusion to a Bollywood hit dacoit leader called Gabbar Singh from the film Sholay (1975)
[3] A mark in the centre of the forehead with vermilion or ash to show devotion to a deity.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
(Excerpted from Ramblings of a Bandra Boy by Ratnottama Sengupta)
Joy Bimal Roy looks back at the many 21 Januarys, his birthday, that have dotted 70 calendars
On 6th February 1950 Baba and Nabendu Kaku arrived together in Bombay to work on Bombay Talkies’ Maa. I wasn’t born then, so I can only wonder if either of them, or their illustrious fellow travellers Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Asit Sen even imagined what a life changing experience that journey would be for each of them and, ultimately, for Indian Cinema.
This small but immensely talented and visionary team — Baba as director, Nabendu Kaku as screenplay writer and Hrishi Kaku as editor — created some of the best loved and most remembered classics of the golden ’50s and early ’60s: Do Bigha Zamin, Devdas, Madhumati, Sujata and Bandini.
When I was born on 21st January 1955, this team was already well established and feted in Bombay film industry. Co-incidentally (or perhaps not, because is there any such thing as coincidence?) six days after my birth, a daughter Ratnottama — Uttama to me — was born to Nabendu Kaku and Kanak Kakima in the same, Mandakini Nursing Home in Bandra. Uttama and I instinctively formed a bond which continues till today and seems to strengthen over the years. For me this became the link between our two families.
*
Some silly astrologer told my parents that they should not celebrate my first seven birthdays — else, ill-luck would befall me. So I grew up going to birthday parties of other children and wondering why I never had one.
That could explain why to date I hate my birthdays. It is a day of introspection and soul searching, assessing the past year of my life for gains and losses. No wonder I am more depressed than usual by the end of the day.
All that changed on my 40th birthday thanks to Sriram, my college classmate, and my sister, Aparajita, who was in Mumbai from Kolkata at that time. Together they conspired to have a small celebration at home. Sriram, ever generous, brought the champagne and glasses as well because he was not sure we had any.
Paradoxically it was possibly the worst time in our lives. We had lost the eviction suit our landlords had filed against us in the Small Causes Court, and had been given four months to vacate the premises, of which two months were already up. My birthday was on 21st January and three weeks after that, on 14th February, we were supposed to vacate our home of 46 years — unless we got a Writ Petition admitted in the High Court.
Plonk in the middle of this mess, the thought of celebrating my birthday had not even crossed my mind. But when Sriram entered holding the champagne bottle aloft like a trophy, along with his petite and demure wife Enakshi, and my classmates Divyakant and Ajay, their love and concern were so palpable that suddenly my spirit soared and I felt free as a bird. If I was blessed to have friends like them, Life couldn’t be so bad after all.
It’s not that I celebrated every year after that but I was no longer traumatized on my birthdays.
*
The first birthday we celebrated after moving into our cottage was my 50th birthday. It doubled as a housewarming party, so it was a riotous affair. Everyone got high thanks to the ministrations of a bartender called Greenville and danced to blaring music like whirling dervishes. Our neighbours complained and the cops turned up.
Not bad for someone who started out in life with no birthday celebrations at all, eh?
*
When my 60th birthday dawned I was not feeling particularly celebratory. But my sister was coming down, this time from Hyderabad, my niece from Dubai and my nephew from England, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.
Our home at that time was overrun with cats and the garden was a mess, so I looked for a more welcoming venue. The only place I could think of was Kekee Manzil, home to our old family friend Kekoo Gandhy, founder of Chemould, India’s first commercial Art Gallery — and his daughters Rashna, Behroz and Shireen. I asked hesitantly but they agreed enthusiastically and I will always be grateful for that.
Kekee Manzil is an elegant and gracious villa, a heritage structure overlooking the Arabian Sea at Bandstand. At one point of time the Gandhy family also owned the adjacent property which once went by the name of Ville Vienna and housed Baba’s mentor Nitin Bose — and now is famous as Mannat, owned by Shah Rukh Khan.
The venue was the hero on that evening filled with friends, food and fun, not me. Because I was feeling singularly ill at ease about my appearance.
I hadn’t had the time or the bandwidth to figure out what to wear for this milestone birthday, so I had to settle for the only new kurta I had. Unfortunately it looked like tent on me. To make matters worse I had burgeoned to 95 kilos, so I felt like a beached whale.
I made a mental resolution. I HAD to lose weight that year. But as they say, the way to hell is paved with good intentions. So my resolution remained just that — until months had gone by…
*
But before the year dovetailed into my 61st birthday, by sheer synchronicity I stumbled into the right dietician for me — and in eight months I lost 16 kg. Cereno, a trendy batch mate, told me about Zara and gave me a style tip for my hair. He said I would look much better if I had a very short haircut, like a crew cut. I didn’t like the idea of a crew cut but I realised I needed a makeover to go with my new clothes.
At the end of it all my reflection in the mirror was unrecognisable. A strange bald man looked back at me. My sister shrieked when she saw me but she was mollified by the favourable reaction of Cereno and other classmates.
The coup de grace was when a poker-faced Cereno borrowed my phone, fiddled with it, and handed it back to me saying he had put my profile on a dating app. “Just wait for five minutes,” he said, “and you’ll get your first hit.” Sure enough, after five minutes my phone went beep!
So in my 60th year I reinvented myself. Better late than never?
About the Book
Ramblingsof a Bandra Boy is a compilation of Joy Bimal Roy’s posts on social media between 2017 and 2020. These slices of life “served without any extra seasoning or fancy garnish” as he puts it, have been described by Rachel Dwyer, professor of Indian Cultures and Cinema at SOAS, London, as jottings in kheror khata, the traditional cloth bound notebook that Satyajit Ray — and his father Sukumar Ray before him — used to pen down thoughts and visuals that are world’s treasure. It covers life in the glitzy Bandra where most of the Bollywood crowd resides… giving glimpses of real life of the giants peopling the cinema screens.
About the Author
Joy Bimal Roy is the son of legendary Indian filmmaker, Bimal Roy, and one of India’s pioneer woman photographers, Manobina Roy. He started his filmmaking stint as an assistant director to Shyam Benegal.
‘So what is it like being the son of Bimal Roy[1]?’ Ratnottama Sengupta asked the author of Ramblings of a Bandra Boy
Ratnottama Sengupta and Joy Bimal Roy. Photo Courtesy: Debashish Sengupta
Rambling, when used for writing – or speech – implies unmapped, confused or, at worst, inconsequential flow of thoughts. In another usage, the word applies to walking in the countryside for sheer pleasure. It is in this second sense that Joy Bimal Roy’s digitally published text, Ramblings of a Bandra Boyis a perfect match of form and content. For, its sweeping take hops from landscape to landscape and life to life of persons who have peopled the world of the author born in a typical Bandra household precisely 70 years ago.
Why typical Bandra household? Because Bandra – derived from the word bandar, meaning harbour – is the Queen of Mumbai’s suburbs. This pocket of history in the heart of the Financial Capital of India is also the home of VIPs, of Bollywood and of political variety too. As the time-weathered Bandra Fort overlooking the Arabian Sea vouches, Bandra predates the British ownership of the Seven Islands gifted to the Crown when Charles II married Princess Catherine of Portugal. Indeed, St Andrew’s Church, in existence since 1575, came up on the strength of Jesuit Priests who won over Koli fishermen winning Christians a stronghold in this part of coastal Maharashtra, much like in Goa.
In the 21st century, Bandra is where Mehboob Studios and Lilavati Hospital stand. Where the Bandra-Kurla Complex defines the dreams of the rich and the rising, overshadowing Asia’s biggest shanty town, Dharavi. And where the awe inspiring Bandra-Worli Sealink bridges the southern extreme of ‘Bombay’ with its ever growing ‘suburbs’.
But all through my lifetime, Bandra has been better recognised as the home of celebrities. Bollywood thespians, Dilip Kumar and Sunil Dutt, to Shah Rukh Khan and Salman Khan; art personalities, KK Hebbar to Kekoo Gandhy; actors, Rekha to Raakhee; directors, Nitin Bose and Hrishikesh Mukherjee, writer Gulzar and cricketer Sachin Tendulkar; umpteen fashion designers and models too have boasted 400050 as their Pincode.
Joy Bimal Roy’s Ramblings takes you on a multi-stop tour of this ‘port’ of India’s social fabric. For, as you skid from one story to another, in no predetermined chronology or thematic order, you get to meet his Yusuf Uncle (Dilip Kumar of Devdas[2] fame) and Bhoba Kaka (Ritwik Ghatak of Madhumati[3]fame), Lata Bai (Mangeshkar) and the Dutts — father Sunil and daughter Priya — who have represented North West Bombay in Parliament even as one member of that family slogged in a jail.
Take a quizzical look at Bollywood divas and peep at actors in their skin labouring on in a posh gym. Get a warm handshake with Shashi Kapoor and gift a sari to Sanjana. Riveting tales of travels to Lebanon, Beirut, Abu Dhabi, Greece, Switzerland, England, San Francisco and San Jose – they’re crowned by nuggets like “I delved into my sister’s recipe book… it has taken the place of Bhagvad Gita in my life” and “I do wish food wasn’t such an important feature in my life. Because it directly correlates to my expanding waistline.”
That’s not all. Here’s a reverential insight into what constituted Shyam Benegal’s greatness — and several irreverent accounts of the crème de la crème schools and colleges that have shaped the author who could have been a top notch contemporary artist, a charming singer, an enviable fashion designer, or an accoladed filmmaker.
Joy Bimal Roy chose not to be either of these. Instead, he stitched together Imagesof Kumbha Mela when he chanced upon the footage that were to be Bimal Roy’s last film. And he directed Remembering Bimal Roy[4]when his father’s birth centenary came around. He has mounted a series of world class exhibitions to showcase the photography of his mother, Manobina Roy, who, along with her twin Debalina Majumdar, was one of India’s earliest woman photo artist. And in her memory he has installed an imposing sculpture of two hands raised in prayer, ‘Requeim’, at the Bandstand promenade. He has got a road named after his venerable father. He has designed the career of musical talents like Alisha Chinai. He has up-cycled heritage saris and jewellery to support hospices. And he has been editing a newsletter chronicling the life of Bandra, the neighbourhood he was born in, grew up in, and continues to breathe life into.
Now Joy has given us Ramblings, a compilation of his posts on social media between 2017 and 2020. These slices of life “served without any extra seasoning or fancy garnish” as he puts it, have been described by Rachel Dwyer, professor of Indian Cultures and Cinema at SOAS[5], London, as jottings in kheror khata, the traditional cloth bound notebook that Satyajit Ray — and his father Sukumar Ray before him — used to pen down thoughts and visuals that are world’s treasure. In this exclusive, he converses about his book and his life.
What is your earliest memory of being the son of Bimal Roy?
Finding out in school from classmates that my father was famous!
What is the strongest impression you retain of 8th January 1966 – the day Bimal Roy passed into eternity?
I remember hearing a song from the basti[6] behind our house while I was taking a bath. That song still haunts me. I wasn’t allowed into the living room where Baba’s body was kept, so I peered in through the slats of the back door of the living room. We lived in an old Parsi Bungalow where the wooden doors were 8 ft high and had moveable wooden shutters. The room was packed to capacity but there was pin drop silence. Time stood still. It hadn’t yet sunk in that I would never see Baba again.
Did you develop a deeper understanding of what Bimal Roy was, in the process of makingRemembering Bimal Roy?
Absolutely. It was a cathartic and moving experience to hear the memories of people he had worked with over 60 years ago. Not only Tapan Sinha, who was with him in New Theatres; poet, lyricist, director Gulzar who had started as assistant in Bandini; Sharmistha Roy, daughter of his art director Sudhendu Roy; and his accountant Amrit Shah – even next generation personalities like Javed Akhtar and Ashutosh Gowarikar remembered him with so much love and respect that it brought tears to my eyes. I discovered anew that Baba was not only a superlative filmmaker but also a wonderful human being.
Did you likewise get to know Manobina Roy a little more through her photography?
Not really. I was fortunate to have her presence for 46 years of my life. So I grew up being photographed and seeing her photos. But it was only after her death that I discovered from a Bengali book called Chhobi Tola that she and her sister Debalina were two of the earliest known women photographers of India.
Has the insight into Bimal Roy films equipped you to be a responsible filmmaker? Or did you gain greater practical experience as an understudy/ through your interactions with Shyam Benegal, Girish Karnad[7], Basuda[8], and Hrishi Kaku[9]?
I had no interaction with Basuda and Girish in connection with film making. What I learned after watching the making of Chaitali[10] — the last film made under the banner of Bimal Roy Productions, nine years after Baba passed away — was how NOT to make a film.
Whatever I learned about filmmaking was from watching Baba’s films and my work experience with Shyam Benegal.
I wouldn’t really describe myself as a ‘filmmaker’ after making one documentary on Baba. However it is true that I have very high standards and living up to them was a big responsibility. After all, I am my father’s son. He was a perfectionist and so am I. It took me six months to edit a one-hour film simply because I was striving to do the best possible job with the material I had in hand.
Before you got into films you have ‘dabbled’ in fashion designing, worked with HMV[11], and now you are a most absorbing and prolific writer. Personally, I have always admired your painting (which I seldom see you do now). And I know you have mesmerised your college events with your singing. Which of these is your natural calling?
All of them unfortunately, which is why I didn’t know which one I should follow. As a result I have been a ‘dabbler’ — to use your own word. You could accuse me of being a dilettante but as I said before, I have high standards. So whatever I did, it was with all my heart and soul.
Tell me about the joys and woes of assisting Shyam Benegal.
That is impossible to describe as one question in an interview. It would be an entire interview! You can, however, get some answers in my book.
Which of the film stars of Bimal Roy’s team have you been closest to?
None. Because I was not even eleven when Baba passed away. But we did keep in touch with Yusuf Uncle. He was incomparable.
What difference in the work culture or cinematic ethics have you noticed between these two legends?
Baba and Shyam? I can only judge Baba from his films, but I worked with Shyam. It’s a difficult question to answer.
Please tell us about Uttama, Papri, Roopu, Sharmistha (Buri?), Aloka – essentially, about the extended Family of Bimal Roy?
That’s what all of them were and are: Family. One accepts and embraces them as they are.
What led you to the Ramblings which has been described as ‘social document of our times’?
My Facebook friends led me to Ramblings. They drove me mad demanding a book. I did it more to oblige them and make them stop making demands.
What next — cinema a la Bimal Roy — or books after Monobina Roy, who, besides being an ace photo artiste and a fabled cook, wrote Jato Door Tato Kachhe?[12]
A Bengali translation of Ramblings of a Bandra Boy.
[2] Hindi movie, 1955, Dileep Kumar (1922-2021) played the titular role
[3] Hindi movie, 1958, written by Ritwick Ghatak (1925-1976)
[4] Joy Bimal Roy lost his father filmmaker Bimal Roy when he was 11 years. Joy remembered very little of his father. ‘Remembering Bimal Roy’ made by Joy Bimal Roy is the search of a son for his father.
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Ratnottama Sengupta, an eminent senior film journalist, converses with Divya Dutta, an award-winning actress, who has authored two books recently, Stars in my Sky and Me and Ma at a litfest in Odisha. Sengupta directs us with her questions to a galaxy littered with Bollywood snippets and emotional stories about life.
Divya you are in this literature festival organised by Shiksa O Anusandhan (SOA)[1], Bhubaneswar with your second book, Stars in My Sky[2]. But your life as an author started with Me and Ma[3]. So your first book was on your personal life. Didn’t your publishers want to know more about your professional life first?
l never had any motive to become an author, you know! My life has been very organic. Things have just happened. Me and Ma wasn’t planned either. My biggest fear was, l didn’t want to lose my mother. Life teaches us that we don’t lose anyone. They may stop living outside of us but they stay on inside us. In our heart. And we have the security that they won’t go away from there. But l wanted to celebrate my parents.
Many a times our dreams don’t match our parents’. Some 25 years back, it was impossible in a doctor’s family to imagine that l would be an actor. There are many parents who force their children to do what they want, they don’t care to understand their children’s dreams or interests. But my mother did.
I would often flip through the pages of Stardust, a magazine which was very popular then. One day an advertisement for a talent hunt caught my eyes. l applied with two amateurish photographs clicked by my brother and never expected to get selected. Much to my surprise, l got selected. So I told my mother, l have to go to Mumbai for an audition.
Both, my brother and I were standing in front of her, our eyes downcast, pin drop silence in the room. My mother said, “You have your second year exams…” And l said, “l promise l will work very hard.” She said, “Look at me.” I looked up. She asked, “Are you sure?” There was a few seconds’ pause. And in those few seconds l realised that this is what l want to do in life.
My mother said, “Okay fine, I am with you.” At that moment happiness filled my heart. And l knew l can never let down this parent because she has believed in me and stood by me, come what may. When she was in the hospital l thought to myself, “Shall l cry or shall l celebrate her?” And l realised l wanted to celebrate her.
So I called Penguin and told them l wanted to write about my mother. They said, “It sounds beautiful, please go ahead. What do you call it?” Till then I had not even thought about what to call it! The title that came out of my heart was Me and Ma because it is the story of a mother and a daughter.
As you said, The Stars in My Sky is commercially attractive but nothing can be more fetching, more precious than your mother. So to me Me and Ma was a bestseller from the outset. I could connect with the readers through the book, through the audio book and now the Hindi version is also out.
Words from the heart!
You see, we don’t build friendship with our parents – neither do our parents. This book is about diminishing those gaps. Children, talk to your parents. And parents, don’t think that you are older, your children should listen to you. Parents too should listen to their children though they may think differently.
I was very fortunate to have outstanding parents. So whenever people told me they had read the book l would call my mother to say, “Mamma l love you.” Many a times we do not say that. We take our parents for granted, and perhaps rightly so — other than our parents, whom can we take for granted? But having said that, I will repeat: We certainly need to convey our love.
The same way parents should convey their love to their children?
Everything in life is mutual but parents, especially a mother’s love is unconditional. Many times when we are in a rush we tell them to “hang up”. Now, when she’s no more, l think, “Whom do l call up when l want her to pick up the phone!”
You touched the core of my heart. When my mother passed away, the first thought that crossed my mind was, “l can never call her again!”
I do call her, and we talk. The bell rings from my heart and we have fun talking, bade majje ki baat hoti hain.[4]
You wrote for your school and college magazines but at which point did you realise that expressing with words rather than emoting is what you want to do? Of course younger yearsare more about being in front of the camera – later, with your pen dipped in experience, you turn reflective.
All these things are gifts from the universe. When l was writing in my school and college magazines, those were not coming out of experience but were full of sincerity, from my heart. My first love always was to face the camera –- perhaps because l am an ardent fan of Mr Bachchan[5]. I saw him on the screen when l was four or five and was mesmerised. I wanted to belong where he was, which world is it? l wanted to go there.
Remember the song, Khaike paan Banaraswala?[6] I would tear my mother’s dupatta or sari and wrap it around my waist over my kurti. Paan wasn’t allowed, so I would stain my lips with maa’s lipstick. I would invite the neighbourhood kids and tell them that, if they clapped louder after my performance, they would get sweets-and-savoury and rooh afzah[7]too. I loved the claps, the appreciation, the acknowledgment but above all the performance was what l loved most.
As a student too I loved to entertain my class between two periods. I was the head girl but l was the naughtiest in the classroom. My friends would ask me to perform and l performed. So performance is what l always enjoyed. Alongside I wrote. Perhaps I had been experiencing the magic of words.
Emoting beautiful words penned by others is an actor’s job. Beautiful words always touch our hearts. I experienced the magic of words as an actor. When l started writing it wasn’t for a film, it was for me. And it was to find a different world that resonates with me. So, both go parallelly.
Both writing and acting are based on lived experiences. You write about experiences in your life; you also portray a character from your life experience. Let’s hear how your life moulded your characters.
Sure! Let me tell you about Isri Kaur in Bhaag Milkha Bhaag[8].
My mother was a Doctor in a rural area. If the ladies who came for treatment were asked, “How are you?” They would cry. “You are fine?” and they could cry. They’d cry for everything. After school l used to sit in my mother’s clinic and watch everything. I would wonder why these ladies wouldn’t speak but only cry!
Cut to Bhaag Milkha Bhaag. When Rakeysh Omprakash Mehraji cast me he said, “You don’t have much of dialogue. But you must speak through your eyes.”
“No problem,” I replied.
Now let me tell you about the power of costume. I had gone in jeans for a rehearsal of the scene where I’m washing the utensils, but things were not going right, there was a gap somewhere. Then Rakeyshji asked me to wear my costume.
I said, “l’m absolutely comfortable Sir!”
He said, “I insist.”
I changed into a salwar kameez, draped the dupatta behind my ears and then wrapped it around myself — and magic happened. I was washing as if l were a pro! The Director later told me l’d put my hand on burning coal and got burnt, but l don’t have any recollection of that.
Suddenly, l recognised Isri Kaur! She could be the lady who’d come to see my mother. She was there in my subconscious, and tears just trickled down my eyes.
Scenes from Bhag Milkha Bhag. Photo provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
At the end of the scene, l was hugging Milkha. Rakeyshji said, “Give it your end.” So l thought to myself, “Should the end be so clichéd! Brother and sister hug each other, and that’s it?!” All of a sudden l realised that the roles we play, the characters, also have subconscious memories. I remembered Isri Kaur had, as a child, seen Milkha saluting his father, “so do it!” I don’t know where the voice came from but it did. I left that embrace and saluted him just like he did. The entire set fell silent. Every person in the team was crying and that became a cherished moment. This is the power of the subconscious!
Now my eyes are moist! But just as ocean gives back what it takes, so does the ocean that’s life.
Beautiful. So aptly said!
Divya you have two books to your credit. Me and Ma is so personal, and The Stars in My Sky probes your connection with the outer world. What was the difference in writing these two books?
There’s a big difference between writing and acting. Each has a different feel altogether. In acting you part with yourself and allow the character to come in.
You internalise an outsider.
You have put it beautifully. Yes, writing is extremely personal — as personal as my experience with my mother. But Stars in My Sky is my experience with the people l have encountered on the sets. People l shared my movie journey with: Amitabh Bachchan, Shabana Azmi, Irrfan Khan, Javed Akhtar, Gulzar, Shahrukh, Salman…
In the course of making a movie we meet so many people. We cannot say, ‘This person has given me this character,’ or ‘this person has made me a star’. But each of them did something beautiful which l will always remember. Something that brought a smile to my face at that moment. So l thought, l should write about those moments — and you cannot capture those without being personal.
And when you write something on a director or a writer you need to share it with them. These were my personalised accounts. But I’ve had the most overwhelming experience sharing the chapters with them. I saw actors and directors alike cry on reading their chapters. One person l was sharing with over the phone fell silent. He did not speak, nor did I. And l realised that, many a times we don’t say, ‘l like this thing of yours’ or ‘what you did for me made a big difference in my life, thank you.’ So this silence was most rewarding.
It’s so very important to let people know they’ve made such an impact! Now, since we are in a lit fest – which is a celebration of words – l’d like to ask you: what is the thrill in holding a printed book in your hands? Let me elaborate: Today so many things are online. We type or key-in more than we write with pen on paper. Yet I always want to touch the book. After retiring from The Times of India, much of my writing got published online. Some of these got published as an anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles[9]. I was thrilled to hold a copy of that book. Why?
l can certainly tell you about scripts. These days many directors and producers say, “Shall l mail you the script?” I tell them, “Please send me a bound script.” It imparts a sense of belonging, like the power of hugging. When we hug our book, we can feel the power of touch. So I hug my script, my copy, with my name written over it… It’s fun turning the pages rather than scrolling with your finger. The smell of paper, the sound of flipping the pages, maybe reading while eating had left a spot of turmeric… All these give me the feeling, it’s mine. The touch, the smell, of a new book will always remain my first love.
You just said you’ll write stories. Will you also write scripts, and direct them?
I’m in love with acting. And, people who write good screenplays should do that. At the same time, we should be open to life. I never knew l would be an actor, I never knew l would be an author, l don’t know what l will be in future. So l say ‘Yes!’ to what life offers us.
Right – Life is a journey, not a destination.
I will go back a little bit to Stars in My Sky. You have mentioned and we also know that Rakeysh Omprakaash Mehra, Yash Chopra, Shyam Benegal, Shabana Azmi who has written the Foreword, are important parts of your career. Can we peep into that world?
I have been fortunate to work with some brilliant and legendary directors. Let me tell you some stories.
Shyam Benegal is one of the most approachable and humble directors ever. When l came to Mumbai from Punjab, no one said ‘No’ in this industry. Who knows when you will require whom? So when l visited production houses they all said, Yes, they will work with me. And i believed them all. And l called Ma to say l was doing 22 films. Of these, 20 never happened and two were made with other heroines, not me. So I was heartbroken.
During that time l met Shyam Benegal at the premier of Train to Pakistan. I said, “Sir l want to meet you.” He said, “Okay. This is my number, call me.” By then I had become cynical, I thought, ‘Is it that simple?’ But I went to Shyam ji’s office – and he was truly honest. “My film’s casting is done,” he said, “but there is one sequence of folk dance. Will you do that?” I said, “Of course Sir.” The film was Samar. He said, “l will need seven days.” Seven days? Then l will have to learn dance and a lot of things, I thought.
On the very first day he asked me, “What’s your hobby?” I said, “Cooking Sir, l love cooking.” “Okay,” he said, “go to the kitchen, with your co-stars, and make something you like.” I was surprised – when will the dance rehearsal start? But l went to the kitchen, there were Seema Biswas, Rajat Kapoor and others. I used to call Seema Biswas Ma’am. In the process of cooking the formality gave way to familiarity and warmth. Suddenly I found myself saying, “Didi pass me the salt, the paratha is getting burnt!” So Ma’am turned to Didi — and that translated into my chemistry with them in front of the camera. Unassumingly it moulds you into the character, without you being aware of it!
Then he told me, “Go to the folk dancers and watch them dancing.” I went, I saw them dancing, and came back. “Now listen to the song,” he told me. I listened, and responded, “The song is beautiful Sir!” “So choreograph it,” he said. “Me Sir!” I squeaked. Here was Shyam Benegal, who could get any choreographer to do it, but he asked me, all of 18, to do that. Was I nervous! I couldn’t sleep that whole night. But more than nervousness or excitement was the feeling of responsibility: none other than Mr Benegal had asked me to choreograph the song. And when I did it, he asked me to teach it to the dancers. The next day went by in teaching them their dance only!
In Welcome to Sajanpur directed by Shyam Benegal In Irada (Intention) directed by Aparnaa SinghDivya Dutta in various roles. Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta
What a wonderful way to groom a talent!
The day after was the shoot. A night shoot. The entire crew, cast and the villagers were there to cheer me up. There was a 7-camera setup shooting the dance at one go but l was looking at one person alone – Mr Benegal: he was telling me, “Do it, do it.”
I did it to loud cheer. l was scooped up by my co-stars. I felt so beautiful, and so confident. With gratitude l turned around to thank Shyam Babu, but he had left for the next shot! Nothing mattered to him, but he had left behind a girl who had learnt how to take responsibility. A girl who now knew she had it inside her.
Fabulous! This is what make them icons!
Divya Dutta (born 25 September 1977) is an Indian actress and model. She has appeared in Hindi and Punjabi cinema, in addition to Malayalam and English-language films. She has received many awards including a National Film Award, a Filmfare OTT Award and 2 IIFA Awards.
Highlights in Acting: 1) *Shaheed-e-Mohabbat Buta Singh*/ Punjabi/ 1999 2) *Welcome to Sajjanpur*/ 2008/ Director: Shyam Benegal 3) *Delhi-6*/ 2009/Director: Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra 4) *Stanley Ka Dabba*/ 2011/ Director: Amole Gupte 5) *Bhaag Milkha Bhaag*/2013/ Director: Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra 6)*Irada*/ 2017/ Director: Aparnaa Singh *Divya Dutta got National Film Award for Best Supporting Actress in Irada*
-- (Compiled by Ratnottama Sengupta)
[1] Studies and Research (translation from Hindi). SOA is a deemed University in Bhuwaneswar.
[2]Stars in My Sky: Those Who Brightened My Film Journey (2022)
[9]Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World (2022), Om Books International
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Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself been the recepient of a National Award.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Birth Of Krishna: Madhubani Art. From Public Domain
Throwback to the early 60s. Janmashtami[1] was a highly anticipated event for us kids, back then. In our community of expats, the Sharma household outdid others in celebrating the festival with great fanfare. Aunty Sharma would start the preparations days ahead of the festival, instructing the gardener to collect loose soft soil from the periphery of her kitchen garden. Plying the soft soil between her fingers, a miniature model village scene was crafted, closely resembling Mathura, where Lord Krishna was born. Single gauge railway track winding through the plains, midway a station master’s cabin, cows grazing in the green fields at the foot of the grassy sloped conical hills, built into the scene. Village belles dressed in colourful clothes poised to fill their urns from the lake, (formerly an empty biscuit tin overlaid with mud), made it more picturesque. Thatched roofed huts, and a post office with a red-letter box, made it complete. Picture perfect in every respect identical to villages depicted in Bollywood movies with heroines dancing around trees. Placed right in the centre was the crib with the bronze idol of Baby Krishna, looking indolently at worshippers. The entire scene rested against the living room wall, covered with Auntie’s gold brocaded wedding saree, the two edges tied to the door hinges on either side.
The highlight of the evening was not in the rituals but in the eating of the prasad and the special ‘shudh shakahari’[2] dinner that followed. It was a once-in-a-year dinner that we relished and hogged till our tummies could take no more. Apart from the binge-eating of homemade besan[3] and coconut laddoos[4], soaked in ghee, offered to the idol, it was the ‘panjiri[5]’ prasad[6], our eyes were fixed on for reasons, other than holy. Made of roasted wheat flour, dry fruits, powdered sugar, spices and a generous helping of ghee added to give it a unique taste and texture, this offering had special significance for us. Of powdery consistency that could go in any direction; swallowed or blown in faces for the heck of it. The latter was always on our minds, the fun part of the festivities. Never begrudged by the seniors, who were tickled pink seeing our ‘panjiri’ covered ghostly faces, with pieces of dried fruit stuck in the hair, hanging from eyelashes, stuck at the corners of the mouth. And always ended in a contest of who could blow the most. Who looked the weirdest? Thus, acquiring the name ‘phoo phaa’. The ‘phoo’ sound from the funnel-shaped mouth in the act of blowing, followed by the ‘phaa’ from the mouth muscles stretched sideways. Those amongst us with missing frontal teeth struggled to get it right as the powdery ‘panjiri’ got moistened by saliva a bit too soon, the ‘phoo’ producing zero results.
One year, the contest was struck off. For no fault of anyone. Nor any shortcomings in the puja[7] arrangement. The scene was up like every year, with a little modification here and there. Bronze plates were laid out with homemade laddoos, whole fruits, the steel dekchi filled with ‘panchamrit[8]’, a sweet drink made by mixing five ingredients — milk, yoghurt, crushed basil leaves, honey and Ganga Jal[9]to which sugar, ghee, chironji[10] and makhana[11] are added for the crunch part and flavouring. A drink commonly had to break the day-long fast. This fast was observed by Uncle and Aunty Sharma only. A cupful of the delicious drink had us craving for more. It was rationed to pass around to all the attendees. No one left without partaking of this prasad spooned out on open palms. We were treated to a second helping of the leftovers, if any.
The puja rituals progressed as usual with the offering of flowers, prasad, and singing of hymns, to be followed by the aarti. Aunty was about to light the ghee lamp for the aarti[12] when our attention was diverted to the sound of a splash in the biscuit tin lake.
An unexpected visitor had landed from outer space! Uninvited, it dropped from the ceiling above. We jumped in fright and disgust at the sight of an ugly lizard amid the holy scenery. The creepy-looking reptile stared at us, unblinking, flicked its tongue, cocked its head to one side, then to the other and slithered up to the railway track, making clear its intention of lingering.
That was not to happen. Baxter the two-year-old Alsatian, otherwise a well-disciplined pet, sitting on his haunches, guarding the inmates and watching the puja with full devotion, bounded across the room barking at the invader, ready to crush the creature under his paws. After all, it was his job to protect the family. In his view, this intruder certainly did not qualify as a worshipper.
Uncle and Aunty tried to calm him. That was out of the question. He went straight into the village scene, bringing it down, chasing the half-tailed lizard, looking at him tauntingly as if to say ‘Catch me if you can’. The laddoos went flying into the air, the fruit platter upturned, and the ‘panjiri’ mixture floated up like a cloud over the village. ‘Baxter stop…stop’ from Uncle and Aunty went unheeded. Baxter was not in a mood to give up the chase. Just as he was about to paw swipe, the lizard darted between the folds of the brocaded saree and vanished in the blink of an eye. Baxter barking furiously spun around, nose to the ground, desperately searching for the invader. Chintu the cook, busy in the kitchen preparing dinner, heard the commotion and came running, grabbed Baxter by his collar, deftly clipped on the chain, tying him to the balcony railing. Peace was restored.
Wasn’t this a bad omen, Aunty questioned with concern. “No…no…Lord Krishna had visited in the avatar of the lizard and blessed us all” comforted Uncle. Baby Krishna was lifted out of the crib and placed in the alcove on the wall, which served as the mandir for all Gods and Goddesses. Aarti was resumed, to the ringing of the heavy brass bell and singing of “Om Jai Jagdish Hare[13]”, a hymn sung when concluding the puja.
Baxter sat in the balcony corner with his ears drooped, tail tucked between his legs, a soulful look in his eyes, fixed on Uncle, seeking forgiveness for his misdemeanor. “It’s okay, Baxter,” Uncle whispered, patting him on the head, and unchaining him. He lifted his head slightly, his tail beginning to wag again slowly. The reprimand was over and forgiveness had arrived. He joined us at the dining table, crouching underneath and parking himself near Auntie’s feet. The grand ‘shudh shakahari’ dinner commenced with deep-fried kachoris[14], an assortment of cooked vegetables, both dry and with gravy, lachha — ginger juliennes soaked in lemon juice, ending with the thick and creamy kheer[15]. With the arrival of the last, the missed ‘phoo phaa’ contest that year, receded into the far corners of our minds.
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[1] A festival celebrating the birth of Krishna held in mid-August in India
Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a spontaneous writer, writing in all genres, covering poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues. A non-conformist septuagenarian, she took up writing as a hobby post-retirement and continues to learn and experiment with the out-of-the-box style.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Title: Maya Nagari: Bombay-Mumbai A City in Stories
Editors: Shanta Gokhale, Jerry Pinto
Publisher:Speaking Tiger Books
The very mention of the name Mumbai (or Bombay) brings to our minds a great city in India where the thriving metropolis grows at a rapid speed because people not only flock here from different parts of the country to make quick bucks and survive against all odds, but also because the film industry of Bollywood has also established it as a city of dreams, one that never sleeps and instead creates a mirage-of-sorts — an illusion, rightly labelled by the editors of this anthology as ‘Maya Nagari’. Edited by Shanta Gokhale and Jerry Pinto, this book, comprising twenty-one short stories about Mumbai takes the road less taken to create a non-uniform image of the metropolis. In tune with its multicultural and multilingual nature, we have stories about the city that is a sea of people and speaks at least a dozen languages. There are stories translated from Marathi, Urdu, Gujarati, Tamil, Hindi, Kannada, Malayalam, and stories written originally in English. Among the writers are legends and new voices—Baburao Bagul, Ismat Chughtai, Pu La Deshpande, Ambai,Urmila Pawar, Mohan Rakesh, Saadat Hasan Manto, Ambai, Jayant Kaikini, Bhupen Khakhar,Shripad Narayan Pendse, Manasi, Krishan Chander, Udayan Thakker, Cyrus Mistry, Vilas Sarang, Jayant Pawar, Tejaswini Apte-Rahm and Anuradha Kumar.
As Jerry Pinto clearly states in the introduction, the stories can be read as we like, we can begin with the first story or the last, or any story in between. The observant reader might notice that he and the other editor Shanta Gokhale have deliberately chosen not to organise the material according to chronology, or geography. This is partly because they believe that the city lives in several time zones and spaces at once, as does India, but also because there is something essentially chaotic about its nature. So, he says, “the stories echo and bounce off each other, they do not collide, but there is a Brownian motion to these patterns” and he hopes to let the readers find it. Here, Mumbai is stripped of its twinkle; it is deglamourised to reveal how it’s the quotidian that lends the city its character—warmth and hostility alike and as inhabitants of the city the editors call ‘home,’ they hope a narrative will emerge.
In the twenty-one stories of this collection, there is the city that labours in the mills and streets, and the city that sips and nibbles in five-star lounges, the city of Ganapati, Haji Malang and the Virgin Mary. What binds the stories together is ‘human muscle’ – the desperate attempts of men and women of all classes and castes to survive in this heartless city amid all odds.
The stories are of different lengths and written in different narrative styles. Of the five or six stories translated by Shanta Gokhale herself from Marathi, one is struck by the excessive length of the so called ‘short’ stories. The very first one “Oh! The Joy of Devotion” by Jayant Pawar, forty-five pages in length, narrates in detail about the Ganapati festival and how it is related to the fate of the local people. Pu La Deshpande’s story “A Cultural Moment is Born”, set in the 1940s, tells stories of people living in chawls [slums] and how they spend their cultural days. Another very long story translated by Gokhale called “The Ramsharan Story” tells us about the rise and fall of a bus conductor by the name of Ramsharan who turns out to become a union leader. Baburao Bagul’s “Woman of the Street”, written originally in Marathi and translated by Gokhale again, tells the story of Girija, a sex-worker trying to collect money to cure her son in the village. The story ends on a disturbing note, as it reaffirms the relativity of success.
Once again, Krishan Chander’s story “The Children of Dadar Bridge” translated from Hindustani by Jerry Pinto is so long that it qualifies to be called a sort of novella. In this powerful story God comes to earth to a chawl and offers food to the first-person narrator. Then, impersonating as a small and innocent child, and along with the child narrator, he moves around different places in the city to witness its activities firsthand — we get to know about behind the scene affairs that take place in the film studios, about satta[1] dens, about bribery, local dons who arm-twist every new hawker to carry on their business after receiving their weekly cut money and more. In “Civic Duty and Physics Practicals”, Malayalam writer Manasi reveals the different experiences one comes across living in a society defined by power equations. Issues of hooliganism, superstition, illegal colonies, corruption, intimidation and violence are explored in a single story where the narrator is struggling, for days, with blaring speakers at a wedding nearby, even as her son tries hard to prepare for his upcoming exams. The story soon takes a dark turn where power trumps over consideration for fellow human beings.
A very powerful story written by Ambai in Tamil called “Kala Ghora Chowk” deals with issues of Marxist ideology, trade unions and the fate of a raped woman called Rosa. Anuradha Kumar’s “Neera Joshi’s Unfinished Book” tells us the life story of one woman who “made the city” and the perennial problems of displaced mill workers when the closed mills give way to high-rise buildings. Some of the stories are of course written in a lighter vein, though they also depict different problems related to city life. As the title of Vilas Sarang’s story “An Afternoon Among the Rocks” suggests, it narrates the plight of a couple trying to make love in the deserted seashore and how they get hijacked by a smuggler! In “The Flat on the Fifth Floor”, Mohan Rakesh writes about two sisters who meet the narrator after one failed love affair. A moving picture of the closing down of cinema halls in Mumbai comes out very beautifully in the Kannada story “Opera House” by Jayant Kaikini, especially narrating the plight of one of the sweepers working there when the declaration of permanent closure is pasted everywhere. Tejaswini Apte-Rahm’s “Mili” tells the story of a man who meets his ex-girlfriend after five years.
Though it is not possible to give the details of each and every story included in this anthology in this review, one must mention some of the stories that were originally written in English. Cyrus Mistry’s “Percy” about a young and lonely Parsi boy is so compelling that it was even made into a Gujarati motion-picture. “House Cleaning” by Jerry Pinto tells the story of a woman cleaner and his son, who talks about the reality of street dwellers. Eunice de Souza’s “Rina of Queen’s Diamonds” is not a straightforward narration at all but offers a collage of different vignettes of life in Bombay.
Though most of the stories portray the seamier side of life and in some ways de-glamourise Mumbai, at the same time they also portray how human resilience can combat all sorts of odds, and the city can be revealed only through shared experiences. Thus, each of the twenty-one stories in this collection tells a different tale of Mumbai, Bombay, Momoi, Bambai, Manbai and many others. As the editors have rightly pointed out at the beginning of their introduction, “You cannot catch a city in words. You cannot catch a city at all.” They felt that “it is not meant to be caught…this city resists even more because it was not designed at all; it just happened and it keeps on happening.” Thus, the four-hundred plus pages of this anthology Maya-Nagari remains a book to be treasured and read now at leisure and also at any time in the future.
Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation with Sohini Roychowdhury, who uses dancing to build bridges across cultures
“Meet my daughter Sohini,” Uma Di was introducing the dancer who then lived in Madrid. And my first response was, “Why isn’t she in the movies?!”
Sohini Roy Chowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury
Tall, fair, lissome, agile, Sohini Roychowdhury is the stuff beauty queens and show stoppers are made of. That wasn’t surprising: after all, Uma Roychowdhury herself is the picture of perfection in aesthetics.
It didn’t take me long to realise that, much like the well regarded sculptor’s bronzes, her daughter too was made of enduring stuff. One day she was teaching Bharatanatyam to French, Spanish, and Italian enthusiasts. The next day she was lecturing on mythology in New York. One day she was dancing to ‘Jai Ho![1]’ for the director of the Oscar winning Hollywood movie[2]. Another day she was delineating Durga in an Anthropology Museum…
None of these saw her run out of breath. Nor does she, ever, run out of time. When she’s not holding her fingers in a dance mudra, she is holding a metaphoric pen. This month she unveiled her second book, Dance of Goddess Kali. Yes, she has rings on her fingers and bells on her toes — and wherever she goes, there’s dance on the cards!
Here is what she had to say when I spoke to her:
The Dance of Kali follows Dancing with the Gods. How are the two books different?
Dancing With the Gods and The Dance of Kali are two distinct works, each focusing on different aspects of my artistic and spiritual journey.
Conceived by Monideepa Mukherjee and Sutapa Sengupta, featuring photos from Sohinimoksha
Dancing With the Godsis a pictorial, coffee-table book stemming from my journey as a classical Indian dancer with a multinational dance troupe. Its vivid visuals showcase my onstage performances and behind-the-scenes moments. These are highlights of my career as a dancer, both solo and with Sohinimoksha World Dance and Communications[3].
This visually captivating book focuses on imagery and aesthetics. It offers glimpses into my artistic expression through dance, celebrates my journey around the world, and highlights my life-mantra of connecting civilisations through my craft. This tracing of Sohinimoksha’s journey is for a broader audience: Indian dance enthusiasts, art lovers, and individuals interested in my achievements. The aim is to inspire through visually compelling storytelling.
In contrast, The Dance of Kali is a treatise on the ethos of Goddess Kali and Shaktism. It delves into the deeper spiritual and philosophical aspects associated with the goddess, exploring Kali’s symbolism, mythology, and significance within the context of Shaktism, a Hindu tradition of worshiping the divine feminine energy. The tone of this work is contemplative, as it delves into the profound symbolism and the spiritual aspects associated with the Goddess. It incorporates scholarly research, analysis, and interpretations from various perspectives. Hopefully it offers readers a deeper understanding of Kali’s significance in Hindu spirituality.
May I point out here that The Dance of Kali is not a religious book. It is for readers with a specific interest in Hindu mythology, spirituality, or the myths and legends around the resident Goddess of Kolkata. Those seeking a deeper understanding of Kali’s symbolism and philosophical underpinnings within the context of Shaktism, will find this book dispels disrespectful misrepresentations and unfounded Western misconceptions surrounding the images of Kali as a demonic goddess.
To sum up: both the books reflect different facets of my artistic and spiritual journey. However, they differ significantly in their subject matter, focus, tone, and intended audience. One celebrates my achievements as a dancer through captivating visuals. The other is an academic tome exploring the profound symbolism and spirituality associated with Goddess Kali.
What prompted you, an international dancer, to pick such a rooted in mythology subject?
I have always had a personal affinity with or inclination towards Goddess Kali. Many artistes draw inspiration from their own beliefs, experiences, and cultural backgrounds when choosing subjects for their work. I am no different. For me the depiction of the Goddess is an opportunity for artistic exploration. Kali, with her complex symbolism and multifaceted persona, offers rich material for creative interpretation through the arts, be it dance, literature or visual arts.
This book also celebrates India’s rich mythological heritage and the way it connects to other ancient cultures, in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Spain and France. Kali, with her global soul sisters Ishtar or Sara La Kali, holds significant cultural and religious importance, not just in Hinduism, but other cultures as well, particularly within the contexts of worshipping Mother Goddesses. I delve into Kali’s mythology and symbolism to honour this aspect of Indian life, and its universal resonance.
Yes, Goddess Kali is rooted in Indian mythology. But the themes she embodies — feminine power, transformation, and liberation —transcend cultural boundaries. I hope this book will serve to explore universal themes of empowerment and spirituality. It also aims to provide a deeper understanding of Hindu mythology, and the symbolism associated with the Dark Goddess. Effectively I seek to promote intercultural dialogue and foster greater appreciation for diverse religious traditions. Most significantly, I hope to dispel the uneducated interpretations of Kali as a horrific, savage, demonic goddess. How often she is typecast as a symbol of evil — in popular Western films, books and even as Halloween costumes for disrespectful celebrities like Heidi Klum!
I have witnessed your performance as Durga in an anthropology museum in Madrid. I have noted your commitment to meaningful, even profound themes in your endeavours. What has been your grooming in dance?
I started dancing at a young age under renowned Bharatanatyam Guru, Thankamany Kutty. Later I learnt from Kalamandalam Venkitt in Kolkata. I received rigorous training in Bharatanatyam, the dance that originated in the temples of Tamil Nadu. My dedication to classical art led me to delve deep into its nuances. I mastered intricate footwork, expressions, and storytelling techniques. Over the years, I refined my technique and expression through consistent practice and performance and came to embody the essence of Bharatanatyam.
Your father was a renowned sitarist living in Germany. Your mother is a reputed sculptor of Kolkata. Why did you, an only child, not take to any of these streams of creative expression?
Indeed I was born into a family of accomplished artists. My father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury was a renowned sitarist, and my mother, Uma Roychowdhury, is a reputed sculptor. But I chose a different path for myself.
As an only child, I was exposed to various forms of creative expression. But my passion for dance was ignited after watching a riveting performance by Yamini Krishnamurthy when I was about four years old. While I deeply respect my family’s artistic legacy, I followed my own calling and embarked on a journey to carve my niche in the world of dance.
What are the values you have imbibed from them individually?
My father’s sitar schools in Germany have produced hundreds of students — including distinguished sitar players. From him I imbibed a profound appreciation for music and rhythm. I learned discipline, dedication, and the importance of perseverance in mastering an art form. From my sculptor mother I inherited a keen love for aesthetics and eye for details. I learned the importance of expressing emotions and stories through visual and performing arts.
Together these values have steered me towards excellence and innovation in my journey as a dancer and communicator.
Mixed genre performance by Sohini Roychowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury
You have lived in Moscow and Madrid. You are guest professor in far-flung Universities, in America and Columbia. You have danced Bharatanatyam and you have danced to Jai ho! at the premiere of Slumdog Millionaire. What have you gained through your international exposure?
My international exposure has enriched me both personally and professionally. Living in cultural environments as diverse as Moscow and Madrid have broadened my perspectives and deepened my understanding of global arts and communication.
More than 2000 students have ‘graduated’ through my two dance schools in Spain — Casa Asia and Sohinimoksha Artes de la India. In Moscow, more than 80 Russian students performed with me on stage at the Embassy of India and Nehru Centre at the end of their course. As a guest professor in universities across Europe, USA and Latin America, teaching dance, Natyashastra [theory of dance] and Indology, I have not only shared my expertise — I have learnt from students, artistes and scholars from different backgrounds.
Through my performances of Bharatanatyam, and collaborations with international artists, have bridged cultural divides. My dancing to Jai Ho! at the European premiere of Slumdog Millionaire showcased the universal appeal of Indian dance and music. It highlighted its ability to connect with people across borders. Today I can confidently claim to have promoted cross-cultural exchange globally.
Coming from an aristocratic, old Calcutta background, what merit do you see in Bollywood dancing?
Despite coming from an aristocratic background rooted in old Calcutta, I recognise the merit in Bollywood dancing which has become a global phenomenon. Not surprising. For, characterised by vibrant energy, expressive movements, and fusion of multiple dance styles — from Salsa to Tango, Twist to ChaChaCha – Bollywood dancing holds mass appeal. It serves as a platform for artists to showcase their talents to diverse audiences and has contributed to the popularization of Indian culture worldwide. It is rooted in traditional Indian dance forms, yet embraces modern influences. And it reflects the evolving tastes of contemporary audiences.
Since the 1960s, Bollywood has drawn inspiration from various musical traditions across the world. This imparted its films a rich tapestry of global influences. This fusion of world music and dance enriched the aesthetic of Bollywood — and in turn contributed to its cultural significance and global appeal.
In the 1960s, Indian cinema underwent a transformation with the emergence of filmmakers like Guru Dutt and Raj Kapoor, who infused their films with elements of Western music and dance. The most iconic example of this is seen in the song Mera joota hai Japani [my shoes are Japanese] from Shree 420 (1955): here Raj Kapoor’s character sings about wearing Japanese shoes, English pantaloons, and Russian caps — all of which symbolised the growing influence of the West in post-colonial India. And yet, as the song stresses, at core these films are Hindustani — Indian.
Throughout the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s, the industry witnessed the rise of dance and music directors who played a pivotal role in incorporating world music and dance forms into Hindi cinema. Composers like OP Nayyar, Shankar Jaikishan, SD Burman, C Ramachandran, Kalyanji Anandji, RD Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, and Bappi Lahiri experimented with disparate musical styles. These ranged from rock-n-roll, rumba, flamenco to disco, reggae and jazz. This infused their compositions with international flavours.
Similarly, choreographers Sohanlal, PL Raj, Herman Benjamin, Suresh Bhatt, Saroj Khan, Chinni and Rekha Prakash, Shiamak Davar, Farah Khan, Remo D’Souza, Terence Lewis, Vaibhavi Merchant, and Prabhu Deva have blended Indian classical dance with Western styles. This has created the unique dance style that is now identified as Bollywood dancing. It has homogenised movements from hip-hop to salsa and contemporary dance.
Soon stars like Shammi Kapoor, Helen, Asha Parekh, Hema Malini, Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty, Jeetendra, Govinda, Hrithik Roshan, Madhuri Dixit, and Sridevi became synonymous with Bollywood’s larger-than-life dance numbers. For, it showcased their versatility and flair for different dance steps. Embracing the twist and turn era of the ’60s to the disco craze of ’70s and the hip-hop-inspired moves of the 2000s, Bollywood stars captivated audiences with their energy and charisma.
Along with Western influences, Bollywood also drew from traditional Indian dances. Its choreography incorporated elements of Bharatanatyam, Kathak, and Odissi. Dance sequences like Dola Re Dola from Devdas (2002) and Pinga from Bajirao Mastani (2015) exemplify the fusion of classical and contemporary dances, blending intricate footwork with dynamic movements and expressions.
In recent years, Bollywood has continued to evolve, reflecting the changing tastes and preferences of global audiences. Directors, like Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Farah Khan, have pushed the boundaries of traditional filmmaking, creating visually stunning spectacles that showcase the diversity of world music and dance. Stars like Priyanka Chopra, Deepika Padukone, and Ranveer Singh have embraced this eclectic mix of styles, bringing their own unique interpretations to the screen.
Spanish, Bulgarian and other European dancers from my own troupe, Sohinimoksha World Dance, have performed specially choreographed fusion dance items set to popular Bollywood tracks. Kristina Veselinova danced toMere Dholnafrom Bhool Bhulaiya; Violeta Perez and Lola Martin to Senorita! from Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara and Maria Sanz on Padmavat’s Ghoomer on stages across India and the world. So I readily acknowledge the significance of Bollywood dance in preserving India’s cultural heritage while adapting to changing times.
Would you say our films are taking our dance traditions to votaries abroad? Just as Indian musicians of the 1960s had taken our ragas to the West?
In the 1960s, Ravi Shankar, Ali Akbar Khan and other maestros played a crucial role in initiating the West in the rich notes of Indian classical music — and that had enriched the global cultural landscape. My own father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury, spent more than 40 years in Germany and other European countries, spreading and popularising Indian classical music through concerts and classes. Today Indian films, particularly Bollywood, are carrying forward this legacy. They are showcasing the wealth that is Indian dance — often fused with world dance influences. Just as our musicians shared the wealth of ragas with the West, Bollywood films are spreading the infectious exuberance of Indian dance to enthusiasts around the globe. This is fostering cultural exchange on an international scale. Small wonder that Bollywood is now acknowledged as India’s most potent soft power.
What, in your opinion, is needed to make GenNext learn from our past traditions?
If we want GenNext to learn from our past traditions, we must provide them with comprehensive exposure to our rich cultural heritage. For this, we must integrate our arts and cultural practices into educational curricula. We must foster appreciation through interactive experiences — workshops, performances, cultural events. Additionally we must leverage modern technologies and platforms to disseminate information. Let’s make traditional arts more accessible and engaging for the young. Let’s cultivate mentorship programs and intergenerational exchanges. For, we must bridge the gap between past traditions and contemporary lifestyles, to ensure their relevance and continuity for the generations to come.
Sohini I have seen you at close quarters, as a mother, wife, daughter, and daughter-in-law even as you criss-cross the world for your dance. How do you still find time to write, which is such a demanding, reflective expression?
I am fortunate to be able to balance my roles as a mother, wife, daughter, daughter-in-law, and a performing artiste. My experience as much as my dedication to my craft honed my time-management skills. Despite crisscrossing the world for performances, lecture tours, and other professional commitments, I carve out time to write, for I recognise its significance as a reflective form of expression.
To effectively manage my time, I set priorities, create schedules, and maximize productivity during the available windows of time. I designate specific periods for writing, be it early mornings, late evenings, or during travel downtime. I try to integrate writing into my daily routine, seizing moments of inspiration and reflection to jot down ideas or draft passages.
My passion for writing is a driving force — it motivates me to make time for it amidst my busy schedule. Writing provides a creative outlet for introspection, and intellectual exploration. It complements my artistic endeavours and enriches my personal and professional growth.
I am grateful for the support I receive from the network of my family, friends, and collaborators. They play a crucial role in facilitating my writing pursuits. My latest book, The Dance of Kali, was co-written with my son Rishi Dasgupta, an Economics MSc from the University of St Andrews, UK.
However, at the end of the day, that I find time to write amidst my multifaceted life, reflects my passion for engaging in reflective expression. Because? It contributes to my holistic development as an artist and an individual.
[1] A song from the 2008 Bollywood movie, Slumdog Millionaire
[3] A dance troop started by Sohini Roychowdhury with presence in Madrid, Berlin and Kolkata
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Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
An introduction to Ratna Magotra’sWhispers of the Heart: Not Just a Surgeon (Konark Publishers) and a conversation with the doctor who took cardiac care to the underprivileged.
“I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy?”— Tagore, Whispers of the Heart: Not Just a Surgeonby Ratna Magotra
“There are at least five estimates of the number of poor people in India, which put the number of poor in India between 34 million (equivalent to the population to Kerala) to 373 million (more than four times the population of West Bengal). This puts the number of the poor between 2.5% of the population to 29.5%, based on different estimates between 2014 and 2022.”
How are the healthcare needs of the poverty stricken met in a country with a vast number who are unable to foot their daily food, housing, and potable water needs? This has been a question that confronts every doctor in cities where labourers who build housing for the middle class are themselves homeless just like the street side immigrants who beg. Even dwellers of shanties that spring up around colonies of the well-to-do to provide informal labour to the affluent are hardly any better off. Few in the medical profession move towards finding solutions to bridge this gap.
Dr Ratna Magotra, who moved from Jammu to find a career in healthcare in Mumbai, is one such person. Recently, she wrote an autobiography which has consolidated the work being done by cardiologists to bridge this gap. In her book, Whispers of the Heart: Not Just a Surgeon, while identifying this divide, she writes: “Poverty, inequality, deficient primary healthcare, unequal access, and the escalating commercialisation of medical care were causing an angst that I found difficult to make peace with. As medical practitioners, our expertise lies in providing treatment, but we often overlook the broader social factors underlying ill health. It might escape the attention of a surgeon performing intricate heart surgery that a child who survived a complex heart surgery could succumb to diarrhoea due to the lack of access to clean drinking water. Issues like malnutrition, skin infections, superstitious beliefs, and poverty may be the harsh realities in the patient’s actual living conditions beyond the confines of sanitised medical environment. /Medical training, regrettably, seldom includes the connection between poverty and disease.”
The land reforms laws that followed post-Partition[1] led to her family losing their wealth. But Magotra bears no ill-will or scars that have crippled her ability to contribute to a world that needs to heal — of taking healthcare to those who can’t afford it. She starts her biography with vignettes from her childhood: “I recall that the agricultural land we owned in our village in Jammu was considered very fertile with the best Basmati rice grown there. Though I was very young, I have faint memories of the house amidst lush paddy fields and a small stream that we had to cross to enter the village. It was very close to the international border between India and Pakistan. The way my mother was respected reflected the high esteem that villagers had for my father. Though their tenant status had changed to that of being landowners, the villagers visited the house as they did before and received generous gifts from her. /They would indulge us children with home-made sweets made of peanuts, jaggery and spices. Rolling in heaps of post-harvest grains piled up in open fields was great fun.”
She lost all that and her father. But with supportive family and friends, drawn to healthcare, she became a doctor in times when women doctors were rare. If they at all specialised, it was mainly in gynaecology. She chose cardiac surgery trained in UK and US. She made friends where she went and with a singular dedication, found solutions to access the underprivileged. She elaborates: “The quantum leap in India’s healthcare sector occurred during the 1990s following the economic reforms and the liberalisation of the economy. The end of the licence raj system facilitated the imports of advanced technology and medical equipment. Specialists, who had long settled abroad, began contemplating a return to India.”
While she attended an International Course in Cardiac Surgery at Sicily to update her skills, she tells us: “During our interactions, some German surgeons raised questions about the rationale behind a developing country like India engaging in an expensive speciality like cardiac surgery. I realised how biased opinions can be formed and spread, though rooted in ignorance. /By this point, however, I had grown accustomed to explaining the paradox — why it was essential for India to advance in specialised care alongside its priorities in basic healthcare and poverty alleviation.”
She cites multiple instances of cases that she dealt with from the needy rural population, for who to pay prohibitive costs would mean an end to their family’s meals. Magotra writes, “I had seen numerous poor heart patients who suffered not only from the ailment itself but also from financial burden of the treatment. The medical expenses incurred for a single family member affected the well-being of entire household, depleting their limited resources and savings. Unfortunately, medical education does not include health economics as a subject. As a result, doctors, especially specialists, trained in a reductionist approach to diseases tend to move away from a holistic perspective. They readily embrace new technological advances, often neglecting proven and cost-effective treatment options. This, in turn, drives up healthcare costs and makes it unaffordable for the common man.”
Living through a series of historical upheavals, she brings to light some interesting observations. She came in contact with Jinnah’s personal physician while looking for a placement in Mumbai. There she mentions that many wondered if the Partition of India could have been averted if this doctor had shared the information that Jinnah had limited life expectancy as he had advanced tuberculosis. She has lived through floods in Mumbai and riots and wondered: “I was staring at the blood on my clothes, which had come from multiple patients. In that quiet moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a ‘test’ to distinguish between a Hindu blood and a Muslim blood.” She joined the anti-corruption movement started by Anna Hazare and fasted! She has travelled and watched and collected her stories and she jotted these down during the pandemic to share her world and her concerns with all of us. In the process, recording changes in health care systems over the years… the historic passing of an era that documents the undocumented people’s needs.
Dr Ratna Magotra
An award-winning doctor for the efforts she has made to connect with people across all borders and use her experience, she talks to us in this interview about her journey and beliefs.
What made you write this book? Who were the readers you wanted to reach out to?
I had asked myself the same questions before I started and even while I was writing: Why and for whom?
Some younger friends and family members would find the anecdotes and stories, I would relate to them from time to time, interesting. They would often prod me to write about these. People, situations, my travels to places — not the usual popular tourist destinations, invoked further curiosity in them to know more about my life. As such I like to write my thoughts (usually for myself) and have been contributing small articles to newspapers, magazines, and Bhavan’s Journal for their special Issues. The pandemic provided me an opportunity to contemplate further when I seriously considered about writing an autobiographical narrative.
As I progressed with my account, I envisaged a wider readership outside the medical community as multiple facets emerged about places, people and events of varying interests.
What were the hurdles you faced while training as a doctor — in terms of gender and attitudes of others?
Fortunately, I can’t recall any specific hurdle or adverse experience because of my being a woman. Studying for MBBS degree at Lady Hardinge Medical College (LHMC), made it a normal affair as LHMC was an all-women medical college.
The struggle that I faced in getting PG admission in Bombay also had nothing to do with gender. The problem was being an outsider in Bombay when number of seats were limited. Students from local medical colleges and rest of Maharashtra had first preference for selection to PG courses. Anyone in my place would have had to go through a similar grind as I did.
Once PG admission was secured, it was smooth sailing through training and working alongside male colleagues! I asked for no concessions being a woman and worked as hard as they did or may be little more. We had a very close and harmonious working relationship with healthy mutual respect leading to lasting friendships.
What made you choose cardiac surgery over other areas of specialisation?
The decision to become a doctor and a surgeon was firmed very early in life. Interest in Cardiac surgery was acquired much later when I started working with Dr Dastur in Bombay. Seeing and touching a beating heart was fascinating and at the same time very challenging at that time. I was tempted to take it up for further specialisation. And yes, it was a very glamorous specialty at that time with names like Denton Cooley[2] and Christiaan Barnard [3]making waves in mainstream conversations!
Cardiac surgery was perceived by some as the forte of the rich, but you have shown how many villagers also had the need for the same specialised care. So, what was it that made you realise that? What could be seen as the incident that made you move towards closing social gaps in your horizon?
Heart disease affects the rich as also the poor. In fact, in earlier times when lifestyle diseases were not as common, it was the poor who suffered more from many afflictions including heart disease. Rheumatic heart disease was the bane of the underprivileged, living in overcrowded spaces with repeated streptococcal throat infections that eventually ravaged their heart valves. Congenital heart disease was common though not diagnosed as often. While the rich and affluent could afford to travel abroad to get treatment, in turn costing precious foreign exchange to the nation, others had to make do with whatever was available. Indian surgeons stretched their resources, skills and imagination to fill the gaps in the infrastructure.
Working in teaching hospitals, I saw the suffering and helplessness of the poor from very close. Inadequacies in healthcare stared at us every day. Moreover, those days cardiac surgery was being performed only in 4-5 teaching hospitals in the country.
I tried looking beyond the patient, connecting their illness with the social and economic environment they came from. Their personal courage, resilience and faith in overcoming difficult moments of life stirred something inside me. One such incidence involved a patient, Ahir Rao, from interiors of Maharashtra. His surgery at KEM and my subsequent visit to his home opens the chapter on ‘Reaching the Unreached’ in my book.
Ironically flip side of development and changing economic status, is that lifestyle diseases like hypertension, diabetes and heart disease are affecting less affluent even more. Lack of awareness about diet, and rapidly adopting urban fads have changed the rural-urban spectrum of heart disease.
The prejudices and biases of the developed countries influenced many in the country also to question a developing country like India from investing in super-specialty like cardiac surgery instead of focussing on providing basic amenities to the people.
It was amusing to see the BBC presenters asking the chronic questions as recently as the landing of Chandrayaan on moon in August 2023 — whether India should have space missions? Persistence of same mind set exposed their ignorance about the benefits the technology and the science bring to common man as also reluctance to accept the progress India has made!
How did your travels to other countries impact your own work and perspectives?
Traveling is a great education to broaden one’s horizon. My travels in India and to different countries contributed towards my personal growth by helping me connect to the geography, nature as also the people belonging to different cultures and sensibilities. Different foods, attires or attitudes but with one common underlying bond of humanity with similar aspirations.
Professionally, going to advanced centres exposed me to a work culture that was very different from ‘chalta hai’[4] attitude back home. Staying ahead with the best research, better working conditions, new technology were just the stimulants I needed in doing better for our patients.
There were many people you have mentioned who impacted you and your work. Who would you see as the persons/organisations who most inspired and led you to realise your goals?
I owe so much to so many people, whom I met at different stages of my life and who influenced my thinking, values and my work. It is difficult to pick one or two, however, if asked to narrow down to three or four most important individuals, these would be my mother and Prof Rameshwar in early years, and Dr K. N Dastur in my professional choice and career. However, biggest influence in my later life has been my Guru, Swami Ranganathananda — who imparted the wisdom of practical vedanta giving ultimate message of oneness and freedom of thought and action for universal good as propagated by Swami Vivekananda.
Why did you join Anna Hazare and his organisation? How did it impact you? What were your conclusions about such trysts?
I had heard of Anna Hazare as an anti-corruption crusader and had met him once at his village while accompanying Dr Antia. It was very admirable the way he had motivated the village people to participate voluntarily in the economic and social development making Ralegaon Siddhi a model village. This simple rustic person could stand up to the high and mighty and often made news in local newspapers; the politicians took his protests seriously at least in Maharashtra. When India Against Corruption (IAC) came into existence in 2011, I didn’t think twice before joining the unique coming together of civil society to fight corruption in the highest corridors of power. I was personally convinced that corruption had eroded and marred the dream of India keeping the common people poor and backward even as the corrupt flourished. As an individual, one could not do much beyond complaining and paying a price for a principled life. It required the civil society to stand up collectively to oppose the corrupt who were (are) actually very powerful!
There was nothing personal to gain by joining the protest but only lend my voice to the common objective of checking, if not eradicating, the menace of corruption.
The experience, highs and lows of the movement form a chapter in my book. The movement becoming political and losing the momentum of a countrywide movement was a big disappointment.
What would be the best way of closing the divides in healthcare?
There has been some forward movement in healthcare at grass root levels in last two decades or so. These gains need to be streamlined as at present we have islands of excellence with vast areas of dismal healthcare — the imbalance needs correction.
Increased spending by the State for healthcare, forward looking national health policy keeping in mind the diverse needs of such a vast country, rural urban realities are the way forward. Investment in medical and nursing education, primary health care, paramedics, rational use of appropriate technologies — all these need to be considered in totality and not in isolation.
Lot of the healthcare work is bridged by NGOS as per your book. Do you think a governmental intervention is necessary to bring healthcare to all its citizens?
My narrative belongs to the eighties and nineties when NGOs were vital in taking basic medical services to remote places where none existed. These organisations did a herculean task and several continue to be a significant provider even as the governments, both at the Centre and State level, have initiated many schemes that include healthcare besides general rural development. I personally think that the NGOs too need to retune their earlier approach of being stand-alone providers seeking funding from government and foreign donors to remain relevant. NGOs, though a vital link between the governments and the communities, have traditionally taken adversarial position to the governments. While keeping their independence of work, maybe they should strive to avoid duplication of services; provide authentic data, and create awareness. These along with constructive criticism and cooperation would benefit the communities and the stakeholders alike. Health education, women empowerment, strengthening the delivery of healthcare integrated with holistic rural development are best done by NGOs working at ground level.
What reform from the government would most help bridge these gaps and can these reforms be made a reality?
The question has been partially answered as above. Increase in budgetary allocation and intent are the prime requirement with focus on nutrition, clean drinking water, sanitation (end of open defecation, provision of toilets, is a major reform) and clean cooking fuel impact public health at grassroots substantially, especially that of women and children. These alone should reduce the load of common diseases and prevent 70 to 80 percent of maladies in a community. This is similar to what Dr Antia used to advocate — “People’s health in People’s hands”. No medical specialists are required, and community health workers would be fully capable of taking care of routine illness. The gains would need to be evaluated periodically to see the impact by way of reduced infant mortality, maternal health, reduction in school dropouts and increase in rural household incomes. Use of technology is an important tool to connect the masses with healthcare centres for more advanced care.
More thought is necessary for specialist oriented medical care. I am aware that we have some very wise and thinking people at the top deciding on national medical policy that should actually map the number of specialised centres and the doctors in each specialty and super specialities (SS) required over say next 10 years. The number of training programmes should be tailored accordingly. It is saddening to know that so many seats for post-doctoral training continue to remain vacant. It is specially so in surgical SS like cardiovascular, pediatric, and neurosurgery that are seeing less demand with interventional treatment making roads in treatment.
The change in the attitudes of administration as also the medical community is important. The benefits should be harvested with honest appraisals for course correction where needed for better planning in consultations with doctors, civil society, and the NGOs working in the rural areas.
Another idea close to my heart has been to motivate or even incentivise the senior medical practitioners to serve the rural areas for 2-3 years prior to their retirement from active service. They would carry experience and wisdom to manage medical needs even with limited resources as compared to enforced bonds for fresh graduates who are short of practical experience, anxious about their future and that of the families. Seniors on the other hand have fulfilled their responsibilities and may be really looking forward to satisfaction of giving back to the society. Having secured their future and relatively in good health, can be very useful human resource for the governments and the communities. This should be entirely out of volition and not under any pressure from the authorities.
Now that you have retired, what are your future plans?
Life is unpredictable at my age. I would, however, wish to remain in reasonable health to be able to be a useful citizen. I have no firm plans and will go where the life takes me like I have done so far.
I am aware that the age would no longer allow me to continue with specialised and highly technical profession I am trained for. Modern communication has narrowed the distances and made it possible to stay connected. I should be satisfied if I can provide any meaningful inputs, retain the attitude of service and remain contended in my personal being.
A discussion on Prerna Gill’s new book of poems, Meanwhile, published by HarperCollins India
In a social media world teeming with every banality that goes for poetry, Prerna Gill’s is a refreshing voice that does not pander to easy rhetoric and comprehension. If good poetry is all about the silences between words, the spaces between the lines, Meanwhile is a collection that lives up to the test. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri spoke to the poet on her first collection of poems.
Your author’s note starts off almost defensive about ‘putting the book out’. It also provides a glimpse of what poetry means to you: ‘…when the guests leave … room is far too still’. Why do you call it narcissistic, and why poetry? Does it help cope with whatever it is that you seek?
Writing is a way through which I examine how I may still be compromised – by fears, by a stillness that some may call the blues, others ennui or even laziness. I think this form of introspection also helps me see how and where I have healed from issues I struggle with, like anxiety. It is therapeutic, almost, and points to how I may show myself grace and where I have some work to do. When poetry does so much for me it almost feels selfish, as though I put the reader second – which is, of course, not by design. I write what I know, but even this indulgence in examining my own psyche through wordcraft does seem terribly narcissistic, like I can’t stop staring into my own shadow. Not all of my poems are about this, but enough of them to make me a little uncomfortable when I do think about it.
When was it that you first realised the urge to write … and was it poetry or the dark mythology which I know is another passion? Do you remember your first attempt at a poem?
The first poem I wrote was in middle school and was about a bat. Animals are so fascinating, but there was always something about bats. I think they are adorable, really, and in no way deserving of their terrible reputation. As for the darker things that crept in later beginning with gothic novels, I loved the atmosphere, and how it was never too cheerful – this made me comfortable because, at the time I got into it, I was not in the sunniest of places in terms of my own headspace. Even now, when I feel much better and more balanced, it is my favourite genre along with horror and dark fantasy. It is quite an obsession, and has led to a supernatural-themed doll collection and a library of cherished horror computer games. At work, this manifests as a publishing list with many horror novels. I want to publish all the ghost stories and books on dark folklore and myths that I can get away with. It’s going quite well.
Do you read a lot of poetry? Are there any particular favourites who inspire you, or influence your poetry?
I read quite a bit, but probably still not as much as I should. I enjoy Anne Carson’s work, also Ella Frears. Currently I am reading Orexia: Poems by Lisa Russ Spaar. Of the older poets, my favourite is Sylvia Plath for how eloquently she captures small moments of violence. Also her free verse – which I enjoy because, in my opinion, it puts the words first and everything follows – like red chasing the scalpel.
Can you talk about the process – the birth of a poem. And whether you rework/rewrite or come upon the poem in one draft, ready… You can talk about, say, (i) ‘come teatime she will inherit the ice’ (On Not Drowning) … how does that line form, where does it begin, and (ii) ‘we will loosen our consonants’ (No Strings) … where does that line originate, and become a part of the poem?
A poem can begin with a name, a random word or thought. I can dwell on a poem for months and then delete the whole damned thing. Other times, I can return to a piece of verse and tinker it into a new animal. The rule I set for myself is to put all my finished poems in one folder and return to them in a different season, a different mood, and see if they still say something – even if it isn’t what I wanted them to. So many are erased, but the ones I like I keep in a new folder, ready to submit wherever I think they may have a chance.
About the line to do with inheriting ice: This is from a ‘Persona’ poem with bits of my own experiences with dissociating in difficult times – something that will eventually be harmful, in that you avoid confronting it. At the same time, the best way to look at something in the dark may be to look beside it – not at it. I am not a psychiatrist, but it is a poem about a coping mechanism, one I was once too familiar with. That said, I wanted to look at the hereditary nature of things like anxiety. I have, in my later teenage years, struggled with moments where I felt I could not move or feel. Like I was numbed by ice. I do not know where that came from, but the persona from the poem does know. Her mother and sister are mentioned at the end of the poem, pulling her out of the underwater world she creates as she drowns. Or rather, doesn’t. The choice of ‘teatime’ was to anchor this moment to a very domestic space with a certain pressure to be social and civil – a difficult moment in which to find yourself frozen in a way handed down by those sipping at their cups around you. I could only imagine what that is like and then it became this poem.
The second line you mention is from a poem that goes in the opposite direction, exploring a moment of fleeting intimacy. It is a line where caution slackens, and where sewing and strings and threads form a lot of the imagery … this lets language come into the picture of a quick moment. We have more consonants than vowels. They form so much of what we say, a lot of which may be sharper and faster moving, not rounded gently by ‘an’ like the apple it may precede. They are brisque, taut strings played more often. To me, they represent the more common things we discuss. Small talk. When looking into this moment in the poem, a one-night stand, the loosening is framed as a deliberate act to serve a purpose. It is affection implemented with steely resolve.
You have six poems on colours – and the author’s note also says ‘there’s no looking past the greys…’ What is it about colour that it plays through your poems.
The grey in the introduction was mostly to highlight the everyday moments compared to the more dramatic milestones. With the poems, I get to explore colour in a slightly different way.
Red: ‘and plain on every face … some of us are grey by twenty-five years’. Red is the first colour to fade from view under water, and that struck me as quite poetic all by itself. The deeper some of us get in our lives, in terms of time and age, or the deeper we sink into our troubles, I find we are at a greater risk of losing what red comes to mean. In terms of my own mental health, I saw red as the opposite end of a spectrum from the odd forms of silence that I would be overcome by: a silence of regular, reasonable thought that would normally counter exaggerated fears. There were also silences of action and movement with a very strange inability to will myself to get up from wherever I had perched at times during the difficult phases. In those times, I would think of red having gone from me. Once I got better, I could put those images into words.
‘Red loses the deeper it goes
And here the kelp and pale coral
Here silence’
Green (Was struck by the contrast … mother’s rage, green, closing day green): ‘The colour of a closing day …The colour of one mother’s rage’. I do see the connection it has with nature. I also see how nature and a certain vicious protectiveness, especially that which is expressed in a paranoid postpartum state, are inseparable. Motherhood is natural, it is dangerous. The image of the snake on her nest and the way ‘her heart spreads its hood’ comes from a very personal encounter with that sort of anger –which one can do nothing about because it is locked and loaded in case of danger to one’s child. It is a primordial thing. I was very prepared for postpartum depression, so a state of constant, protective anger took me by surprise. It never fully slithered away though. Or rather, it hasn’t yet.
Blue: ‘seas no longer churning wine-dark … Spring draped flat over March … above all memory of the womb’. For ‘Blue’ I could not look past its role in culture, specifically gender. Also, how its symbolism has changed. Some cultures may never have categorised it as a colour and that is so fascinating as an example of how words have such power even over what we see so much of. When Homer described the sea as ‘wine dark’ it was understood to mean blue. It did confuse people for quite some time, that description. This is one of the theories, of course, but it stayed with me: that blue became part of certain languages much later. The poem then explores the link between blue and boyhood. Once, pink was a masculine colour. I suppose people saw that rosy shade as too visceral for young boys then, perhaps too close to the violence that comes just before the guests flood in to coo at a newborn. When you think of the sky and the open ocean it may be easier to forget the nature of birth and blood. Such a stark contrast to life and life-giving. To womanhood.
Yellow: ‘we live between forests … cage small birds in our mouths…’ The poem ‘Yellow’ started out with a different placeholder name: Canary. That’s why the mention of the bird for safety as we go digging deep into the rock for what our predecessors set in stone. The past comes with dangerous problems just waiting to be inherited. The image of having canaries in our mouths was to lay emphasis on how our words, our voices may be all that we have to signal danger when we find ourselves so deep in problems created by evils of the past.
Black: ‘…to a world so tepid green, the fireflies sail white … nothing is as still as you…’ The poem ‘Black’ on the other hand has more to do with very current problems, such as psychological ones, but also others – I wanted that part open to interpretation. What is does specify though is struggle. The way one might gather blood of skin of an assailant one struggles against is reflected in the opening line: ‘You, with nights under your fingernails.’ The rest of the poem moves from a shower stall, where the person, ‘you’, is drained far beneath what they know, to a place that is alien and unfamiliar. Haunting with a strange light, and places you beneath everything you know and remember: like a mute spectator. Unable to move. It ends back in the shower where:
In fogged-mirror silence
Nothing
Is as still as you
Here is that stillness, that silence. This poem lets me confront it, like a pair of gloves keeping me safe as I study something I know to be tricky. Sometimes frightening.
White: ‘mogra … fragrant in their grief, we wear white in yearning … and like this we are sky’. With ‘White’ on the other hand the meaning is rather clear. We do wear white for mourning. Or ‘yearning’ as I see it. There is a softness I wanted to keep, given the subject here – death. I am an atheist, but I do believe in a peace that nothingness can bring. This is why I never write about spirituality – I would not know what to say. The beauty to me lies in the difference between nothingness and emptiness. In death you perceive the world in a way that is no different from how the mogra does. Or the smoke. Or the air.
Do you follow the contemporary poetry scene in India? How tough was it to publish a volume? Did it help being a part of a publishing house? Do you think that there is a lot of puerile wordsmithery that gets passed off as poetry on social media and self-publishing platforms … or do you see that as a boon?
I enjoy most contemporary poetry published in India. So many poems by Indian poets in India read like magic. I will say that social media poetry, though, is not for me. But it is working for many. Most of us don’t really have time to sit and chat about how we feel these days, and on social media all you get is quick and easy content to consume. I can see how the poems on certain platforms help people slow down as they scroll. I cannot say what is and isn’t art, but I know these works, often presented in a way that is easy to read and understand, are serving people. They would not be so popular otherwise. That said, I am still waiting for other forms of poetry to appear on mainstream accounts.
About publishing the book: I had a huge advantage. As a writer and editor, I need to show all my work that I intend to publish, to my publisher. I am extremely fortunate that Udayan Mitra liked the poems. I wouldn’t want to publish anywhere else in India because I know that we at HarperCollins India put authors first. Why go anywhere else?
Not many people know of your connection to Dharmendra ji. Since many of us are aware of his skills as a poet in Urdu, have you read his work, and more importantly what does he think of your poetry? Can we hope for the grandfather’s poetry translated by the granddaughter?
I think my Instagram account has made the connection clear to anyone who might look for me on the Internet. He was also kind enough to endorse the book and support it on social media and for that I am so grateful. I do not have any of his talent, but I am confident that I will always have his blessings. The same is true about my uncles. Many of their admirers and followers bought books, or at least wrote to say they would – that is one of the best ways of supporting poetry, which is always hard to sell. As for my grandfather’s poetry – with great sadness I must admit I know very little Urdu. I cannot read the script at all. If I could, I would love to translate his work, because I know he puts so much of his heart into every verse, just like he puts his soul into every character he plays on screen. I do want to publish his poetry – if only he would let me!
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(Published in multiple sites)
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Shantanu Ray Chaudhuriis a film buff, editor, publisher, film critic and writer. Books commissioned and edited by him have won the National Award for Best Book on Cinema twice and the inaugural MAMI (Mumbai Academy of Moving Images) Award for Best Writing on Cinema. In 2017, he was named Editor of the Year by the apex publishing body, Publishing Next. He has contributed to a number of magazines and websites like The Daily Eye, Cinemaazi, Film Companion, The Wire, Outlook, The Taj, and others. He is the author of two books: Whims – A Book of Poems(published by Writers Workshop) and Icons from Bollywood (published by Penguin/Puffin).
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