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From Outhouse to Backwaters

Ratnottama Sengupta tracks the journey of Leslie Carvalho over a quarter century

Leslie Carvalho
Photos provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

It seems like only the other day. The International Film Festival of India, IFFI, 1998 was on. Along with a colleague, I was seated on the steps outside Siri Fort I auditorium connected to a long corridor going to Siri 2. Someone introduced Leslie Carvalho. “Aha! The young filmmaker from Mangalore?”  I responded. “There’s a write up on you in The Times of India today. It says there’s a lot of expectation from The Outhouse.”

The “delightfully sweet” film had lived up to the expectation of the critics. It was bestowed the Aravindan Puraskaram, presented by the Kerala Chalachitra Film Society to commemorate the iconic Malayalam director, and the first Gollapudi Srinivas award, another national level award to recognise filmmakers marking their debut in Indian cinema. So I was not surprised to meet him next as a co-member of the jury for the National Film Awards 2000.

The Tennis coach who is also a German language teacher with a passion for painting has now published his first novel, Smoke on the Backwaters. It centres on Rosa, a twenty-year-old from Mangalore, who is forced to flee overnight because of the storm of gossip, fear and shame unleashed by a single incident in her life. Her unexpected journey across continents becomes a path of healing. Seven years later, armed with education and maturity, she returns home, determined to pursue her purpose in life. But how much had the town she left altered from its old ways?

RS: Leslie, before we talk Backwaters, can we briefly revisit The Outhouse? From where did you derive its content? And what was your compulsion for choosing that subject?

Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

LC: The Outhouse was a simple, linear narrative about moving on in life despite the odds. A young mother’s need to gain economic independence to supplement the family income; the help she received from her financially independent sister; a kind hearted Bengali landlady’s generosity which causes stress and violence in the Anglo-Indian couple’s day to day life, and how it affects the two children growing up.

RS: Why did you choose this subject as your debut vehicle? If you were to travel in a time machine, would you choose a ‘mainstream’ subject?

LC: I chose this subject as my debut vehicle as I had seen quite a bit of violence in the Anglo- Indian community in the Lingarajapuram area of Bangalore I grew up in.

I was itching to make a movie after my six-month course at the New York Film Academy. As I was working on a very tight budget, I just stuck to what was taught — to keep it simple, straightforward and just tell a story using the various tools of cinema — in short, to make it cinematic.

If I were to go back in time, I don’t think I would have chosen a ‘mainstream subject’. I derived immense satisfaction along with the cast and crew as we felt we were working on something we were passionate about. We all felt drawn towards the characters, the story and the theme of the film.

RS: How did you get interested in cinema? And what were the problems you faced while filming The Outhouse – in terms of funding, casting, shooting location, distribution?

LC: I grew up watching Tamil, Kannada, Hindi, a couple of Konkani and lots of Hollywood films. My mother tailored clothes at home, and she taught a whole lot of women stitching. They were fans of Tamil cinema, especially of Sivaji Ganesan, MGR, and the heroes of Kannada cinema, Dr. Rajkumar and Vishnuvardhan. She also enjoyed the Hindi films of Rajesh Khanna, Dharmendra, Hema Malini, Amitabh Bachchan, Sanjeev Kumar, Jaya Bhaduri and Rekha — that is the popular cinema.

And my father, being an Army person, took us to see English films, like The Ten Commandments, The Bible, Hatari, To Sir, With Love[1]. Also, St. Germain’s School where I studied, screened English films every Friday afternoon in the Hall, from spools off a projector that made a jarring sound. It was an amazing experience — black and white Charlie Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy films and also Patton with all the bad words. Later, when in college, we would bunk classes to watch most of the popular Hindi and English movies.

At the New York Film Academy, I was exposed to an entire range of the world’s best in cinema. Satyajit Ray, Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, Antonioni, John Ford, William Wyler, Fellini, Jean Renoir… And I watched a whole lot of films on the American Movie Chain (AMC). There I discovered all of Spencer Tracy’s films and fell in love with his sense of timing and under playing. It was also a time when I discovered Guru Dutt and marveled at his brand of filmmaking from Pyaasa, Kaagaz Ke Phool, Chaudhvin Ka Chand, Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam to Aar Paar and Mr & Mrs 55[2].

It is hard to believe I began the shoot for The Outhouse on September 18, 1996, and completed it in 14 days – on October 1. After we went through the rushes, we required two more shots to link the gaps. Since I was on a shoestring budget of a few lakh rupees, I had rehearsals with the cast for close to three months. I doff my hat to them in gratitude as 90% of the film was canned on first takes. I could not afford retakes, and I worked with a brilliant cameraman, S Ramachandra, who was very supportive and encouraging. He shot most of B V Karanth, Girish Karnad, and Girish Kasaravalli films as well as the popular tele-serial Malgudi Days[3]. A number of first-time directors like myself, had benefitted immensely by his generosity and patience.

Since it was an independent film, whatever little finance I had, I sunk into the film. And then it took me a year to complete post-production for lack of finance.

I was particular about the casting. I wanted the Anglo-Indian look, feel, mannerisms, costume, interiors to be authentic. I met each cast member and spoke to them at length about the vision I had for my film. Almost all of them were from the Bangalore English Theatre, and all of them were cooperative. Moreover, Cooke Town is a quaint little place with many English bungalows and outhouses. After some struggle, I found one on Milton Street which suited my story perfectly.

After The Outhouse was selected for the Indian Panorama in IFFI ’98 and received the two national awards, I just walked into Plaza Theatre on MG Road in Bangalore and met the owner, Mr Ananthanarayan. He had heard about the film and asked me to meet the distributor, Nitin Shah of Hansa Pictures in Gandhi Nagar, the biggest distributor of English films. He put it on for a noon show for three weeks while Fire was on for the matinee and evening shows. The distributor then put it in Mangalore and Udupi for a week. And when I received the Gollapudi Srinivas National Award in Chennai, Aparna Sen was one of the honoured guests. She saw a small portion of the film and said that she would speak to Mr Ansu Sur to screen it at Nandan in Kolkata — founded by Satyajit Ray to help screen small independent films. A theatre owner in Kolkata recommended a person who took the film to the North East. It was also screened in parts of Kerala.

Coincidentally, this April 30th, The Outhouse will be screened in the leafy neighbourhood of Cooke Town next to the outhouse where the film was shot.

Still from The Outhouse, provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

RS: In the last 50 years we have seen films by directors like Aparna Sen, Ajay Kar, Anjan Dutt. Even before these, Ray had touched upon Anglo Indians in Mahanagar. These are all films made in Kolkata. Is it because this is the erstwhile capital of the Raj?

LC: Many of the films on Anglo-Indians were based in Calcutta. It was the influence of the British Raj and its culture that was so much a part of their long history of ruling there. Of course their influence was in other parts of the country as well like Madras, Hyderabad, Bangalore, Whitefield and Kolar Gold Fields, the railway colonies all over the country, the hill stations, and many other cities which has pockets of Anglo-Indians.

RS: I remember one Hindi film, Julie that had an Anglo-Indian protagonist. How has the community been projected in popular culture? Was it lopsided or biased?

LC: Throughout our film history Anglo-Indians have played bit roles here and there. Some significant roles came their way in Bhowani Junction, the teleserial Queenie, 36 Chowrighee Lane, Bow Barracks Forever, Bada Din, Cotton Mary, The Outhouse, Saptapadi, Mahanagar, Julie, and Calcutta I’m Sorry[4].

Some of the characterisations have been quite biased; some not well fleshed out; some in passing fleeting moments of drunkenness, prostitution. The song and dance sequences have not helped the community, sadly.

RS: What led you to writing? The screenplay for The Outhouse?

LC: I wrote the screenplay of The Outhouse on plain A4 sheets of paper, on both sides. This is not done but I did it to save on cost. I gave the screenplay to my cinematographer S. Ramachandra, and in his generosity he understood my purpose. I went by what was taught at the New York Film Academy. Of course, I had to combine all the elements to make it whole. The idea of the screenplay came to me while I was at the film school in 1995.

RS: What was the trigger for writing Smoke in the Backwaters?

LC: As an artist, filmmaker, and writer, I have tried to combine all the elements of story-telling – fact and fiction — keeping in mind the flow of ideas, pace and momentum to engage and interest my audience and readers.

I remember beginning to write the novel two decades ago when my mother — who studied in Kannada medium — said, “I hope you will write it in simple English so I can read it too.”

And I wanted it to be reader friendly with regard to the font size, the brightness of the paper, the spacing, the clarity and the size of the book. I was lucky my publisher ‘Anglo-Ink’ was supportive and combined well to find that centre.

Provided by Ratnottama Sengupta

RS: How are you marketing the book? Through Litfests? Bookstore readings? Airport bookstalls? A H Wheelers?

LC: Since Anglo-Ink is a small-time publisher, we’ve had a dream launch in my hometown Bangalore at the Catholic Club. My book seller is Bookworm on Church Street in the heart of Bangalore and for people in Cooke Town it is in The Lightroom’ library.

We are looking at launches in various cities as well, through book readings, LitFests, Airport book stalls, AH Wheelers, readings at schools and colleges.

Since a major portion of the novel is set in Germany, we are looking at translating it into German. I hope to get it translated in a few Indian languages as well.

RS: Since the sunset decade of 1900s, Anglo Indians have been migrating to Australia and Canada. What triggered this migration? Economics or politics?

LC: The migration of Anglo-Indians was inevitable. It was bound to happen for reasons more than one, be it political, economic or social. First under the ‘Whites Only’ policy, many fair skinned Anglo-Indians migrated — the brown and dark skinned were left behind. Slowly they opened up and even they left. Some felt they would adapt better to a western culture, and have adopted their new country as their homeland.

RS: You were a big support for me when my son joined NLSUI in 2000. Again, when I curated Anadi, the exhibition of paintings by Contemporary and indigenous artists from MP and Chhattisgarh. Bangalore has since become an international megalopolis. How has life changed for the locals?

LC: Bangalore has changed dramatically and drastically. The change was bound to happen because of its growing prominence of an International City. The IT industry brought jobs, slowly other industries, started picking up from real estate, fashion, digital technology and social media platforms, start-ups, academics, sports, games, recreational and tourism.

The moderate climate was a huge bonus that attracted people from all over. Bangalore has always been cordial, encouraging and accommodative of people from all over through their mild manners, hospitality and gentleness.

Today Bangalore is unrecognisable. Still, some pockets retain that old world charm of neat, clean and green Bengaluru from the old Pensioners Paradise of Bangalore.

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[1] The Ten Commandments (1956), The Bible (1966), Hatari (1962), To Sir, with Love (1967)

[2] Pyaasa (Thirsty, 1957), Kaagaz Ke Phool (Paper flowers, 1959), Chaudhvin Ka Chand (The Full Moon, 1960), Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam (The Master, the Wife and the Slave, 1962), Aar Paar (This shore or that, 1954), Mr &Mrs 55 (1955).

[3] From 1986 to 2006.

[4] Bhowani Junction (1956), TV miniseries Queenie (1987), 36 Chowrighee Lane (1981), Bow Barracks Forever (2004), Bada Din (1998), Cotton Mary (1999), Saptapadi (Seven Steps, 1981), Mahanagar (The Big City, 1963), Julie (1975), and Calcutta I’m Sorry (2019)

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

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Categories
Review

An Immersive Translation

Book Review by Rakhi Dalal

Title: Boy, Unloved

Author: Damodar Mauzo

Translated by: Jerry Pinto

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

The Jnanpith and Sahitya Akademi Award winning Konkani novelist Domodar Mauzo’s Jeev Divum Kai Chya Marum is translated into English as Boy, Unloved by the acclaimed writer, Jerry Pinto. The translation succeeds in offering an immersive experience to the reader, especially of the life, sights and cuisine redolent of a Goan village in the backdrop. Although a reader, in the absence of knowledge of Konkani and hence the original work, may not be able to gather the nuances often difficult to translate.

This novel is a bildungsroman which follows the life of its protagonist, Vipin Parob, born into a loveless marriage in a serene village in Goa. It navigates his lonely formative years and explores his friendships in teenage years. While the exploration of his growing up years as a kid wrenches the heart of a reader, those of his later pre-adult years leaves one with an unsettling feeling. And that makes a reader wonder at what went amiss…

At the outset, the harrowing circumstances within the family of five-year-old Vipin are revealed. His house, with its closed windows and doors, restricts his body and mind. He becomes lonesome, finds solace in books and has difficulty making friends at school. In an environment which stifles him both physically and emotionally, he adheres to reclusiveness to cope with his ruthless father and careless mother. An unloved child of a bitter and broken wedlock, Vipin’s plight, as stunningly portrayed by the author, wrings the reader’s core. Mauzo’s incisive insight into the complexities around childhood trauma emerges in his portrayal of Vipin’s manners. His submissiveness in front of his parents, because of the treatment meted out to him perhaps, indicates how distress during childhood years may affect a person’s sense of self-worth. In fact, when his brilliance in academics makes his father’s relation with him transactional, where he is favoured because his father believes he can become a doctor, Vipin lets go off his own desire to study the subject he likes.

During his time in junior college, Vipin comes across people he befriends. Martin Sir, his English teacher from school, is the first person who understands and mentors him. Subsequently, although reluctantly at first, he manages to forge meaningful connections with Chitra and Fatima from his college. Krishna (initially a house help), and Amanda (the nurse caring for his mother later) also become people he can relate to. However, a narrative inconsistency appears in the depiction of the dynamics among teenagers, Vipin, Chitra and Fatima who despite becoming very close to each other, grapple with unnecessary confusions. Where Vipin’s character appears reliable, the characters of both Chitra and Fatima come off as unreliable. Perhaps because they are not fully explored and much appears unsaid in terms of their backgrounds and their mannerisms.   

Regardless of the lack of love and care in his familial relationships, when it falls upon Vipin to take care of his ailing parents during their respective illnesses, he does it with a sense of responsibility and concern, if not love. It is something that also comes forth in his relationships with others, whether it is helping Krishna to study further, helping him financially or protecting Amanda from his cousin.

Mauzo, very strikingly captures the quagmire which makes a vulnerable, unloved child grow up to become a young adult who fiercely feels protective towards people close to him. However, Vipin’s journey of exploration of his self and subsequently of his aim in life, wrestle with disparities thrown at him by circumstances. The loneliness of his heart swells to consume the ties he forged in hope of love, leaving an emptiness he finds difficult to conquer. For the invested reader, it renders a disconcerting mark.

Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .

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Categories
Stories

Terrace

Written by Rakhi Pande

Photo Courtesy: Rakhi Pande

This was her second week in Siolim as a resident, in her aesthetically pleasing, slightly bohemian, rented two bedroom flat. The flat itself gave very tropical vibes with a host of plants – both real and artificial, enhancing the outdoorsy look. Though her building was part of a bigger residential complex, it was miraculously not blocked by views of other buildings. Instead, the windows at both ends of the flat faced east and west, providing stunning views of the morning sky change colour as the sun rose over the dense grove of coconut palms and as if that were not already enough to drive up the rent, a peek of the setting sun, from the opposite end. No less than three spacious balconies with French doors offered an unobstructed view of the quaint sloped roof homes of the ‘locals’, the villagers, bordered by paddy fields beyond.

Except for one house in their midst. From her bedroom balcony that faced east, Anika noticed the one slightly better and bigger home, built with concrete walls and a concrete flat roof, functioning as its terrace. It was not directly opposite but slightly to the right so that she could only see it only from the window or the balcony.

Every morning she would look out in hope of spotting the big fawn dog – the unknown ubiquitous mixed breed — on the terrace. She was always entertained by his movements. He would strut about for a bit, peering over the edge while woofing his alpha dominion over other dogs and cats he spotted. At other times, thinking himself unobserved, he would lie down flat on his back, utterly vulnerable with his legs up in the air, squirming about, tongue lolling, making her laugh.

She had seen the other residents occasionally: two teenage girls who would climb and sit together leaning against the water drum conversing in the evenings as the sky deepened it hues, probably out of the hearing distance of the lady who would sit by herself at the far end staring at the horizon. Anika imagined that this might have been her only place of escape from the endless chores and hubbub of daily life. At other times, a much younger boy of about five followed a slightly older girl, probably his sister (or cousin) of about seven. As she sat to read and do her homework, he would entertain himself skipping about the flat terrace or lolling about on a mattress placed there. After dark, however, the terrace was the domain of the men of the household. Though there were no lights on the roof, the occasional clink told Anika that feni or urak had been smuggled upstairs.

Local families here tended to be ‘joint’ ones with aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins included in the same household. Daily, a slim, capable lady would briskly hang clothes to dry on strings stretched out from stakes. So many clothes every day! The only times Anika didn’t spot too many visitors to the terrace was on extremely sunny days when cotton sheets would be spread out with a brick at each end. They would dry fish on the sheet. She could never identify which of them it was — kokum, shrimp, jambul — from the plethora of spices, fruit and and fish Goans loved to sun dry.

She would have loved procuring some of it straight from them but was still conscious of being the non Goan outsider. She had already experienced all types of opinions. Those who were hypocritical and contradictory – people who welcomed European expats but looked down upon Indians from other states. Those who lamented the growing population due to migration – yet, uncomplainingly, raked in profits from the meteoric growth of the square foot rate. She had also experienced the warmth and hospitality of the majority of the Goans who would go out of their way to help you settle in and make you feel like family.

*

The lady who sat by herself was back today sitting as usual at the very edge. She had the terrace to herself. Something about her intrigued Anika, who realised she had been staring at her instead of being at work on her laptop for the past few minutes. Was it because she was the most frequent visitor? She spent a lot of time staring out over the other end. Or was it because even if others were there, they barely acknowledged her, not even glancing in her direction, or exchanging a friendly word. Likewise, she too ignored them for most part. The only one who paid her any attention was the small boy, too innocent and young to pay heed to family politics, who would wave and go running towards her when he saw her. She seemed to be the family outcast yet was outwardly unperturbed, never getting confrontational, at least on the terrace, from what Anika could observe.

On this day, she was back, presumably ruminating about life. Hailing from a nuclear family herself, Anika mused over the conveniences that a joint family surely had, from shared expenses and chores, to child supervision and upbringing. As she looked at the lady on the terrace, she also thought about the difficulties that living in a large group in a confined space probably entailed, with no privacy, varying opinions and multiple imagined slights.

Today, she seemed restless as she was strolling on the terrace. Anika stepped out onto the balcony to get a closer look. The south-west corner of the terrace with the water drums was the closest point to her balcony. The lady was whiling away time by walking along the perimeter of the terrace. As she wandered closer to the south-west corner, Anika finally got a good look at her.

Her personality was apparent even from this distance, from the way she held her body upright to the confident yet feminine walk. She was neither slim nor thickset but somewhere in between. There was a certain sophistication to her gait. Anika watched as she turned the corner and continued her solitary stroll around the edge of the terrace.

*

The sound of loud arguments in male and female voices interrupted her work the next morning – the family members had reached the downward curve in the sine wave of highs and lows of joint family existence. Adding to the cacophony was a girl’s full-throated wail. Perhaps a fall, burn or injury, with the elders blaming each other for the oversight? 

The staircase that the family used to ascend was on the far east side and never visible to Anika. She now saw a small head make an appearance at the flat edge followed by the body of the boy who had climbed up unobserved. His sister as the designated minder was the injured one then. He looked for the assortment of toys that always lay in a heap in one corner of the terrace. Soon he was revving the toy car and following it about as it raced forward a few feet. Anika was a little concerned and stepped out to the balcony. What if the child wandered too close to the edge? The roof edge was unprotected by any railing or boundary wall. She stood undecided and hoped that someone else would arrive soon. That’s when she saw the lady walk towards the boy. Anika sighed in relief. She had probably been sitting, leaning against the other side of the water tanker, that’s why she hadn’t spotted her. The boy would point the car in her direction and she would then send the car revving back to him. The game continued until she heard shouts and the mother climbed halfway up the stairs gesturing at them to come down. The lady and the boy complied. Anika noticed that as usual she didn’t convey her gratitude either by gesture or a word to the lady who had kept a watchful eye over him. She wondered what had caused the breach in their relations and felt the lady deserved at least some acknowledgement. Maybe she sensed her empathy  because suddenly she turned and looked directly at Anika. Anika felt a voyeuristic warmth flush her ears and stepped back inside her bedroom.

*

Anika noticed over the next few days that the lady had started sitting closer to the south-west edge, closest to her balcony. She would occasionally glance towards Anika. Her eyes were dark, so dark that you couldn’t distinguish the iris from the pupil. Anika felt a little sorry for her unfortunate circumstances. The only time she noticed her smile was on the rare occasions the boy wandered onto the terrace alone. With nobody to stop him from interacting with her, he would sit beside her presumably listening to stories or they would chase each other.

Anika wondered why she didn’t leave this house – perhaps she had no independent income. Anika had been doing the cleaning herself in her apartment but now she took a decision.

*

Anika stood at the gate of the concrete house. One of the teenage girls came to the gate. Anika did not know Konkani, the local language, but it had similarities to Marathi and with that including a mix of Hindi and basic English, conveyed that she was looking for a daily help to sweep and mop the floors, do the dishes and some light dusting. Would anyone from this household be interested? “Okay! I tell to my mother, give me house number,” she replied. As she wrote down the apartment number behind a schoolbook she had got from inside, Anika tried to find a diplomatic way to say that the sturdy looking lady on the terrace who played with her younger brother would be better for this kind of a job instead of anyone else from the household. However, as the girl looked at her uncomprehendingly, she realised that this was a task beyond her communicative abilities and left.

*

It was not quite dusk when her doorbell rang. The younger, slimmer lady Anika had seen so many times on the terrace, stood at her doorstep. Julie spoke English quite well and understood it even better. Anika took her on a brief tour of the flat stopping at the balcony that overlooked her house. “I really enjoy your dog’s antics early in the morning!” she said, to break the ice. Julie laughed.

Anika noticed that the boy had found his way onto the roof again and was lying on his stomach with his head in his hands, absorbed in the story the lady was no doubt telling him. She sat cross legged in front of him, using gestures and making faces while telling the story, hugely entertaining him. Julie noticed them and her face changed to a scowl.

Anika gestured towards them, “What about her? Doesn’t she need a job? I have seen her on the terrace by herself so many times. She doesn’t seem to be as busy as you are — that’s why I approached your house to look for help.”

“Who? Her? Sheela?” Julie looked thunderous. “Look at her! Wasting time, always sitting on the terrace!”

Anika’s face looked a question. “Well, she seems to look after the boy so well.”

Julie turned towards her – the scowl changing to a confused look. “Her boy? How long have you stayed here?”

 “Oh, this is my just my fifth week.” And now, leaping to her defence, Anika continued, “I’ll tell you something you don’t know, that boy has come to the terrace so many times on his own and if it were not for Sheela’s presence, God knows what accident might have happened! Why do you all treat her so badly? Look, even now only she is there with him on the terrace, no one else is supervising him!”

I knew I had probably crossed a line with this as it was none of my business to comment on their affairs.

Julie was struck dumb by my outburst, but her eyes changed. The anger was fading. “Boy?” she repeated. “She lost her five-year-old son three months ago. He drowned in the well behind the house.”

The anger had faded completely from Julie’s eyes to be replaced with fear.  “Look at her — she keeps playacting like she’s doing now, as if she is talking to him and can see him, scaring the children — that’s why we argue. She spends all her time sitting on the terrace from where she can watch the well.”

Anika turned back to the terrace. Sheela had noticed them watching her and walked closer. She looked up at Anika with an appeal in her liquid black eyes, almost as if to say, “You can see him too, can’t you?”

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Rakhi Pande, an experienced education professional, transitioned from a brand management career to become an award-winning teacher and school leader. An avid reader, she tries to write whenever time permits.www.linkedin.com/in/rakhi-pande

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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