The Taj

An edifice of love, a memorial like no other, a poem in stone, what is the Taj?

Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan erected the Taj Mahal in the memory of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Shah Jahan (then Prince Khurram) met Mumtaz Mahal (then Arjumand Banu Begum) at the age of fourteen and fell in love at the first sight. She was a Muslim Persian princess and Shah Jahan was the son of the Mughal Emperor, Jehangir. Five years later, in 1612, they got married.

Mumtaz Mahal, an inseparable companion of Shah Jahan, died in 1631, while giving birth to their 14th child. It is believed that during her last moments, Mumtaz Mahal obtained a promise from Shah Jahan that he will build the world's most beautiful monument in her memory. But this has not been proven to be true, till date. However, Shah Jahan did indeed build a magnificent monument as a tribute to his wife, which we today know as the "Taj Mahal". Shah Jahan, himself also, lies entombed in this mausoleum along with his wife.

The construction of Taj Mahal started in the year 1631 and it took approximately 22 years to build it. An epitome of love, it made use of the services of 22,000 laborers and 1,000 elephants. It was built entirely out of white marble, which was brought in from all over India and central Asia. After an expenditure of approximately 32 million rupees (approx US $68000), Taj Mahal was finally completed in the year 1653.

It is said that even today, on a moonlit night, watchmen and even the occasional tourist have seen the besotted emperor walk along the Taj fountains , hand in hand with she who inspired this exquisite structure! You say you don’t believe, I say Love Never Dies….

Where the dead too tell stories.

Delhi lives, not just in the hustle bustle of the office buildings, the colours and riots of the shopping malls, the pride and efficiency of the Metro, it also lives on every hidden nook, every concealed corner, every broken brick, every cracked stone. They all have stories to tell, intriguing stories, mysterious stories and sometimes stories of love. Stories narrated in the moonlight, stories told by shadows, stories that blow in the wind and stories that haunt much after they have been told.

Purana Qila or the Old Fort, is one spot in Delhi that fascinates more with the atmosphere than the architecture, especially at night. Situated on Mathura Road, this monument is a far cry from the steel and glass of Gurgaon. It’s believed to be built on a mound that conceals the remains of Indraprastha, the Divine City, supposedly the seat of a powerful government during the times of Mahabharat, an ancient epic of India. With a history that transcends the written word and passes on to the era of the sages and saints, its no wonder that Purana Qila communicates with what is untold. At night, in the stillness, one feels the whispers, the emotions, pains and angst of those who are long gone. Puarana Qila is one of the haunted spots of Delhi, though nobody has ever seen a spectral presence there.

Some of the other buildings in Delhi where residents have allegedly lived on even after their deaths are the Salimgarh Fort in Chandni Chawk, Zeenat Mahal in Red Fort, The Khooni Darwaza or the Gate of Blood in Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg and the various Christian and Islamic cemeteries that dot the city landscape throughout.

A drive around these monuments, in an air conditioned vehicle, under the blazing afternoon sun will never tell the stories they have held on to for centuries. It’s only at night that the residents who refuse to vacate, the phantoms who have not been exorcised, the unearthly who still call Delhi their home talk, at night when we sleep they tell their stories and hope that we never hear them.     
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
 

                                                          

The Angel’s Game

I do not know how to write a review for this book, I am too enamoured by it, I am completely obsessed by the story so forgive me if I gush. The Angel’s Game is as much Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s as yours or mine. It is a book that leaves much to interpretation, it is a story that you and I will have to discover as we read. There are very few definitives here, most of the events are left for you to ascertain, the Angel’s Game is a knot that the angel ties and neither the protagonist, nor the author , not the reader can untangle completely. I read somewhere that Carlos anticipated that he might have written a ‘monster book’ with The Angel’s Game, well it is one such thing, if such a thing ever existed.

This book can be loosely classified as a literary thriller, a book that starts off and carries through a mystery that is put down in a book again, to that extent it is a book’s story captured inside another book. This is just one of the many loops which go on throughout the narrative. The story is about a young writer David Martin who inhabits a mythical city that is drawn by the author in the image of 1920s Barcelona. This Barcelona, whose lanes and gullies are frequented by ghosts and murderers like the foggy London of Jack the Ripper is a primary character in the novel.

David writes and lives through his books like all writers but the irony is his book, his story soon starts living through him. From a neglected, ignored childhood where his only refuge was Sempere and Son’s the old bookshop and the bookseller himself, David grows up to fame under a pseudo name as the writer of Barcelona’s most depraved crime novels, he also experiences lost love, shadow writing for his benefactor and occupying a mansion decorated with gargoyles and monsters. It is hard to fathom whether it is David who is preordained to live in that house or it is the house that is destined to have only writers of a certain genre as residents. The story not only acts out David’s life as a parallel to Marlasca, the previous owner’s but also throws a slight hint indicating that the owner before Marlasca, a mad priest also suffered a fate quite similar to theirs.

An uneven balance of good and bad influences in David’s life are described as the narrative progresses, Pedro Vidal, Sempere Senior and Junior, Isabella, Don Basilio Moragas, Christina are portrayed as the good and Barrido & Escobillas, Inspector Victor Grandes and Andrew Corelli, the bad ones. However Andrew Corelli as we soon discover is capable of tipping the scale in favour of evil not only in the story but also in this world if David successfully writes the book Andrew hires him to inscribe. Andrew literarily changes David’s life, no sooner does David take up a commission to write a book for this mysterious Parisian published than the ever increasing body count starts building throug the novel.

There is no point in pondering over the mystery or mysteries in this book, they are for you to discover as you read. The bone chilling sequences are not the graphic descriptions of dead bodies and secret chambers but words spoken by the characters, example, in response to David’s question, Andrew Corelli admits that he wanted to be God when he was young, in another sequence a story is described as that of the Son of the Morning, the angel of Light….Lucifer’s story. The statement that Victor makes about how he has always seen David wear the angel badge that David throughout the book keeps associating with Andrew Corelli brings in another creepy twist in the novel.

Read it by all means, but only if you have enjoyed “The Portrait of Dorian Grey” “The Curious Case Benjamin Button’ or “The Calcutta Chromosomes” because the Angel’s Game will surely leave you with more questions than answers and may turn you into an obsessive brooding fan, as it has done to me. It is a monster book so read it with caution.

Tags: book reviews
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: contemplative

Kurbaan

It’s so cute!!!! Cuteness is a virtue right?

All you guys who enjoyed Cinderella and Snow White while unable to reach the calling bell will love it. It’s a fairy tale, it begins with a statue telling a story…the story of the peasant boy and the captive princess, how the obviously simple hero from a humble background meets the lofty princess of his dreams, except the princess is a tortured soul, maltreated by the step-mother….and auctioned off by the indifferent father in return of a kingdom. But our “high on the hills was a lonely shepherd” may be illiterate but he is no fool. He can use his willy nilly charms to great effect and rescue the damsel in distress each time….every time !! Difficult tasks are set on the way of success, the stupid/smart hero succeeds in all of them, how long could she remain blind to his affection?? Not long…just 3 hours, by the end of which the princess is convinced that here is her prince charming and they unite to “live happily ever after”.

Watch the props, see the city the fictional characters inhabit, the houses are yellow, pink, purple, the roads cobble-lined, pretty much like the illustrations in Hansel & Gretel. Then there is the Jesus Christ, who is dressed exactly like the biblical paintings and what’s more is actually the shepherd!! I mean he has the cute flock of white a woolly lambs following him around, the caption on his car says something to the effect of “the Lord is my shepherd, I will not want” where else but in a fairy tale does God make a personal appearance to set things right?? No rays of light from the hand held in benediction, no sharp shafts from the 3^rd eye…but ‘My Lord’ in person, Jesus Christ in flesh and blood!!

Come on guys, loose the skepticism, this is not a Page 3 or a Omkara, it’s a “Never Ending Story” or better still a “Snow Queen”, see it for what it is, enjoy it for the way it is, laugh with it for what it says…..don’t go looking for sense, don’t use too much of the left brain, don’t fret…just laugh ….Katrina & Ranbir look like princess Jasmine and Aladdin so be the genie and take genuine and pure pleasure from their love and the innocence with which Ajab Prem Ki Gajam Kahani is made.

I do wish though, the movie’s collateral was designed to the fantasy theme rather than the comic book look, that caused a bit of a disconnect for me and is my only compliant about this otherwise delightful flick.

Tags: review
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: cheerful

                          

         Note the eyes                                                      Still spying                                                  Never alone at Bayan


                                                                       

                                      They are watching                                                                      Stony stare


                                                 

                                                                                   The eyes without iris



They saw through closed eyes. 

They saw it all, the rise of the empires, the reign of the God Kings, the city that materialized from bricks of sand stone, the culture that evolved when subjects worshipped the emperors, the life that was busy and then… they saw it fall. The faces in Bayan look upon you from every corner, glimpse at a stone, gray, ruined, ancient and the faces materialize from history, unexpectedly. They are looking, they know….they have seen it all.

It’s not the famous Temple of Angkor Wat, its smaller, its in bricks but Bayan is haunting. Located at cycling distance from Angkor Wat, Bayan is a sight that’s sudden. The gate, it has the faces, the eight eyes that stare, pass under and approach the temple. Nothing will prepare you for what awaits. Everywhere you look, they are watching, for centuries, before history they have started to see, when you are at Bayan, you are never alone.

In the 13^th Century, the benevolent Jayavarman VII built the Angkor Thom, in the middle of the “Great City” he put its crowning jewel, the Bayan Temple. Originally there were 54 towers, each with the eyes….eyes that have no iris and eyes that saw it all. The sculptors froze life in its stones, mothers cooking, babies playing, monkeys, goats, fish, crocodiles, boatmen and the sea. Hands had curved what the eyes had seen. Bayan remained unfinished, workmanship was mysteriously abandoned…but the faces were erected, the eyes were done….the watch had begun.

After Jayavarman VII the Khmer Kingdom started its decline. The sunset did not ring in the closing of a successful day, the sunrise the dawn of joy. The far ends of the kingdom were breaking out, the waves of humanity, the Khmer’s Thai subjects proved more treacherous than the seas they had navigated. The empire was soon reduced to small fragmented kingdoms. And those eyes, those without iris saw the processions pass away, not of victory or conquest, but of despair and dejection, like floods they passed underneath the gate of eight eyes, the mothers did not cook, the babies did not play, the monkeys, goats and boatmen…they just walked, away. Farther from Angkor Wat, far away from Angkor Thom. 

Those eyes shut out the world, they did not want to look upon the demur of what build them. They turned away in pain, in neglect, the forest knew their grief, the forest understood, it gave them cover, pulled the green blanket over those eyes without iris, they slept, they mourned, they vanished….into that from which they had been conjured. Then there was only the forest…..till now.

Archeologists from all over consider Bayan as the best, the most exciting, delicate intricacy, perfect architecture, great engineering, to me…Angkor is a story…of magic, the rise of a kingdom from the foamy seas, the Apsaras from heaven who made it their home, the Gods who ruled over it….the hands that wove Angkor, the vision of the shut eyes that gave us Bayan…to see forever.

As usual my entry describes only my thoughts on visiting Bayan Temple, in Cambodia. Under no circumstance is my piece historically accurate or tourism wise informative,
 
                 

Tags: vacation

        
Lotus                                                                                   Beach 

    
Beach                                                                                Big Buddha
                                                                                      
                                                                                   
                                                                                                   To waterfall

There’s nothing to see. Its not a great place for tourist spots. And yet we want to be back. May be for good. Ko Samui makes you a vagabond, a wanderer, a back-packer, even the hippy Mum always warned you about. Ko Samui makes you want to keep walking ….the narrow streets, lined with shops, the overbearing smell of food, the splash of colours, the drunk crowd milling around, the cycles going in circles, the bikes that make a statement…Ko Samui is not your pristine Maldives or Cairns, it’s a poorer, shabbier, gawky cousin. But isn’t dusky Draupadi always more attractive than the ivory Sita? Don’t you just love the not so perfect? 

Everything happens in slow motion in Ko Samui. The town wakes up late, never goes to work, eats breakfast, opens  shops, sits and talks with neighbours, drinks some, eats some more, keeps talking, a few smokes and some more food, customers, some sales, a lot of bargaining…”Swadika” …”whe a you fo” (where are you from) type of conversation with guests, music on the roadside, laughter , clapping, artificial lights on till dead of night, sleep late and yes, you guessed it, wake up late to start a lazy Ko Samui day all over.

The painting shops, they are like orchids, colourful and growing in clusters. All kinds of paintings for the discerning. Even the comics style. I loved the painting shops. The sweaty artists who barely communicate in English. They talk well in art. Their paintings say all Ko Samui wants expressed. Dingy shops, stench of fresh paints, canvas behind canvas, hands quickly wiped on towels, one furtive look, a calculator and the deal is done. All and sundry are art lovers in Ko Samui.

Shacks like Goa, like Mahabalipuram. Open, dirty, local crowd, cheap liquor, but the girls ? O yes the girls, lovely, petite fairies that serve you food, bring you drinks. You will love the girls, they exist only to please your every hunger, fulfill your every appetite, the women of the night in Ko Samui are virginal. Even their grotesque make-up cannot conceal the subcutaneous purity. They are beautiful.

The beach is incidental, the big Buddha an apology, the waterfall non-existent, the shopping phenomenal, the city? LIVING. Don’t look to see in Ko Samui, absorb. The atmosphere. Only watch what cannot be seen, only feel what cannot be touched. Ka Samui is all in the space between the ears, know it there and you will want to be back like us. May be for good.

Draupadi – The principle female character on Mahabharat, the great Indian Epic. She had 5 husbands, could be resentful and bitter if the situation demanded.

Sita – The archetypal Indian wife. The principal character of Ramayan, the other great Indian epic. A long suffering, forever miserable soul who tolerated misfortunes with protest. 

The Lotus that I want to Eat – The name of my entry is inspired by Lotus Eaters, by Somerset Maugham. It’s a story about a gentleman who visited Capri as a banker, left all, settled there and died a pauper in the Island. Its almost as if the beauty of the island killed him. I have seen cairn too, but that’s a story for another day.

 
 
 
 
 

Tags: vacation
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: content

                                                                                                                         

There are these days. Days when your mind sleeps. When it cries. When it’s sad. You ask why? There is no answer, There’s no silence either. It’s an echo. A hollow sound. Then you know you are in for a miserable time. I am going through those days now. I never know why they come, why they last, I am just so happy to see them go. It is a time when I am sad. Its not a sorrow that cuts through the heart, it’s a sorrow that invades my whole being. Like sugar in milk and not like fruits in the custard. Many have told of this. I have read of such a state. I have also heard it said that this is diversion for those that have everything. The luxury of sorrow. I do not know if that is so. May be it is, because when I am such, I never know why. I wallow in sorrow and am unaware of the motive, I volunteer to indulge in it. I allow my mind to be sad. I luxuriate in sorrow. Only me, only us, only we can choose to be sad, the rest of nature always has a reason. But we are the ones with “reason”, we have intellect, we are God’s chosen ones, our mind makes us we, our mind lets us dominate the rest, our mind also makes us sad. Without reason. The boon and the bane of being us.

There are those amongst us that have never known this feeling. This sorrow that pervades. They usually are those that do not overuse the mind. That do not think so much. The world outside, the real world of tables, chairs, music, conversation is what holds them. They live in the physical world. They feel in the physical world. They feel like the rest of nature does. Sad when hurt, happy when loved….they are lucky . They have “reason”. They are truly God’s handiwork. God meant us to have reason so we know good from bad, not so we can be sad. For no reason.

Sorrow is a feeling. Of the mind. But it’s a feeling that takes over. When you are in a happy state you can expose yourself to tragedy, be sad for a while and bounce back into the happiness that welcomes you with open arms. Happiness is happy that you are back. The anatomy of sorrow is different. Sorrow is a jealous lover. It takes over your life. When you are sad, no comedy is funny. Sorrow does not welcome you back with open arms. Sorrow does not let you go in the first place. 

Sigh, again and again, each breath is an escape for that which is trapped. Cry, as much as you can, each tear is a depletion from that dark pit. Beat it by indulging in it. Be sad, be saturated, an overkill will kill it. Pain will bring relief. You will not know why, but you will escape. Run as far and wait. It will not be long before sorrow finds you again. Before those days are back. Days when your mind sleeps. When it cries.

 

Tags: me
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: sad

                             
                    The shadow that waited                                                                                     The lamp that was dark

                                                                                    
                                                                                                                        Pain that laughs
 
                                                                            
                          A land that never was                                                                                                    God who paints

Its got bad reviews from movie critics, that’s natural, Saawariya is not a movie. It has a story that can be told in two lines, leads who are not stars, not a scene where the male protagonist gets violent, none where he kisses some luscious lips, not even the background of the scenic Swiss Alps or the bustle of the New York City, its certainly not a movie, so why did a movie buff like me love it so?

Because, it’s a painting, that moves. Even before you have caught your breath at its beauty the scene changes, another one appears and you are left wondering if this is the stuff dreams are made up of. Saawariya is made by an artist who paints in celluloid, a painter who creates in motion, a creator who makes only beauty. Sanjay Leela Bansali does not tell a story, he sings a ballad, his song is as much a homage to Dostovevsky’s White Nights, as to beauty itself. Each frame, each set, each prop, each person, each motion signals …only beauty. The focus is on the eyes. You watch till you are not sure if your other faculties exist. The beauty engulfs you till his dreamland is yours , his fantasy ….your life, his city…..your dwelling. Saawariya is to movies what poetry is to the daily, or the humble ‘diya’ to the strobe lights. Its soft but its lilting, its tranquil but its in motion, its liquid but its luminous. However take warning, its not, on any account, a conventional motion picture. 

Therefore Saawariya is not for you if you are a lover of movies, it’s yours, if you are a lover alone. Saawariya is for you only if the Taj Mahal stuns you, the Pieta in Roma makes you cry, the smile on Mona Lisa makes you dream. The ancient man was an artist too, if his spirit haunts you, Saawariya will stay with you, much beyond the theatre and its show time.

It has overtones of Moulin Rouge but the director has bettered the look of that movie. I personally felt the language should have been a bit archaic, more like the soft Hindi that is spoken in Lukhnow, the language of philosophers and songsters and not that of the young of today. The songs too leave a lot to be desired, they pale when compared to Hum Dil de Chuke Sanam or Devdas. Though I hated her in Laga Chunri Me Daag, I loved the prostitute with the golden heart in this narrative. In Saawariya she is a perfect fit, a nautch girl in a fairytale is a harbinger of good tidings, a singer of love melodies. She is pure and she is true.

The actors have done justice to their roles, including the new comers, but that’s about all there is to say. Nobody outshines the mellow glow of Sanjay Leela Bansali, and its his personality that looms large over all aspect of Saawariya. He is the God of his surreal atmosphere and the God is a painter here. Watch Saawariya if you must, but go with the right set of expectations, otherwise you will be left wondering what the creator was trying to say, while you miss how he said it all.

 
 
 
 
 

Tags: movie
Current Location: Gurgaon
Current Mood: impressed

                                                                                
                              Moulin Rouge - Set                                                                         Saawariya - Set


                                                                                        
                      Saawariya - The Blues                                                                     Moulin Rouge - The Blues 


                                                                                                             
          Moulin Rouge- Buzz Luhrmann                                                             Saawariya - Sanjay Leela Bansali

I may be entirely wrong.

 

But I am reminded of Moulin Rouge, the movie, while watching the trailers of Saawariya. The sets and even some scenes are reminiscent of that. I love Moulin Rouge. When I first saw it, I thought the lead should have been one of our girls, Nicole Kidman was just not pretty enough. Saying that is saying a lot, those of you who need to forgive me for that blasphemy, do so now. But she was just too porcelain, our girls are more lifelike, living. Personally I find Indian women far more beautiful than their Caucasian counterparts. Unfortunately that does not extend to the Indian men.

 

The opulence, decadence and retro glamour that pervades over Moulin Rouge is painted onto Saawariya as well. The lights. Yellow bulbs that glow bright, placed in a row, outline the structures…..restaurants, shops….in the centre stage of both movies.  Both movies have a balcony, high up. Where the female lead stands alone, melancholy….ruminating about romance. The lighting is again either those bright halogens of stage performances or velvet blues and violets of the nights. 

 

Sanjay Leela Bansali, the painter who paints in motion has perhaps paid his unconscious homage to a classic in Saawariya. Often times what is very beautiful stays on in the mind long after we have seen, felt, touched it. May be for Sanjay Leela Bansali Moulin Rouge was like that. It certainly was for me. I would, if I could, emulate Moulin Rouge in my creations. Even if I succeeded in replicating a miniscule fraction of what Buz Luhrmann had done in that movie, I know I would have created history…….inspired by history.

 

 

 

 

Tags: movie
Current Location: Gurgaon