On our long drive to Kaziranga, D played a lot of songs, mostly Bhupen Hazarika. I probably surprised him - and myself - by remembering that one of the songs was from a movie called Chameli Memsaab. Back in the day Sunday afternoon was reserved for regional movies on Doordarshan and this was where I saw the movie. The song (O Bideshi Bandhu) was obviously earworm because I still remember it. Here it is in not the best print around, though there is a better audio version.
Thanks to my blog (and on the topic of the blog, two longish pieces I did on 17th century Mughal fashion and Kerala), I am a minor expert on Tamil cinema of the 40s and 50s (though admittedly thanks to the excellent Blast from the Past Hindu column by Randor Guy). I quite enjoy some of the old songs that are a little freer than the latter part of the 1950s and later. Sure these early movies are a bit amateurish but somehow they are also more spontaneous and interesting. Even my aunt, an inexhaustible source of all things Tamil, hasn't been able to quench this obsession!
So apart from Sabapathy (I was surprised no one in the family had heard this, also I love AVM costumes of the 1940s), I stumbled upon Thai Ullam and En Thangai. It kind of speaks of the temporary popularity of works that I had no knowledge of a book called East Lynne, which seems a fantastic potboiler. A lot of the early movies have songs that also featured in Hindi movies - this film has Konjum Purave (Thandi Hawaein in Hindi) - I clearly remember my mother singing the Tamil version. And there is this duet, which for some reason I got hooked on. It's kind of nice to listen to not so well known voices (the 50s in fact resulted in monopolies (ugh Lata M), the 40s and early 50s have diverse voices and music).
My knowledge of Tamil films of the time may be a bit more than required given that I know that the two people in the En Thangai video below starred in Ponmudi :-)
But let's make a complete jump to the present because I remain addicted to K-indie and 10 cm - though it is in B/W:)
I spent a long time in India the past few months and truth be told I wasn't sure whether to return. A lot of this time was spent at home with some family stuff thrown in. This time around I also headed East, principally to meet an old friend D, who I had last visited in 1997. D was my MSc classmate and the brightest chap ever and this hasn't changed much with time.
But first stop Kolkata to meet old colleagues of mine. When you aren't exactly working full time in the profession there are a lot of awkward pauses but on the whole it was interesting to be back in the city and meet them.
As always parts of Kolkata look like they are falling to ruin. Kolkata always makes one feel so till you make a few rapid visits and cease to notice this. Despite it being early January, there was hardly a chill in the air though the evening dark fell as quickly as I remembered it. Park Street looked even more run down until you noticed bits that had changed, like the revamped Flurys. So changed was the cafe that I did not venture in. The much anticipated visit to Oxford Bookstore was a damp squib, it was hard to believe that 14 years back I used to binge shop for stationery and books here. And though I picked up a few Bengali movie DVDs, even this was a meagre selection.
I took a few photographs but walking around I felt that some cities are meant to be photographed, some to be written about and Kolkata is the latter.
On the way to the airport my cab driver a Punjabi Kolkatan (who overcharged me - though I got used to this, Mumbai probably being the only place where the meter has any meaning) told me well to do Bengalis were fleeing the city and migrants coming in from elsewhre. The feeling that things were never going to change was certainly a predominant feature of my conversations with my colleagues. Perhaps like my driver's joke about his Ambassador car - on life support but still going - Kolkata goes on.
From there on I went on to Guwahati. Which had changed a bit of course, given I had last visited in 1997. Still, it is light years away from India's metros in terns of crowding and traffic.
The Bramhaputra, Guwahati, 1997.
Looking across to the Ugra Tara temple, Guwahati, 2015.
Guwahati, 2015.
The last time around I had visited during the April Bihu, this time around for the January one (fun fact: I once knew a girl called Bihu named for her parents Assam posting at the time of her birth). As always D had planned a trip - the last time we did Umananda, Madan Kamdev and Shillong, this time around Kaziranga.
Madan Kamdev Temple, 1997.
Bonhabi, Kaziranga, 2015
Bonhabi, Kaziranga, 2015
Around Kaziranga, 2015.
The resort we stayed at, Bonhabi, took me a bit back in time given it reminded me of the many Inspection Bungalows we stayed in, down to the kind of meals. Though we had of course come for the Park it is entirely possible to while away a week doing nothing much except reading or walking around the adjacent tea gardens.
We did of course do the safaris, an afternoon jeep safari and an early morning elephant sari. To take good wildlife pics you need a good camera and I had my phone on me. On the other hand having a good camera you are so focussed on the shot that you tend to lose the pleasure of the moment. A good number of jeeps passed us with people with really big and expensive cameras, all in pursuit of that one shot and at some point it just seemed part of the rush of modern life and its relentless documenting (of course I am doing it here too!).
Rhino, Kaziranga, 2015
Morning over the Diphlu River, Kaziranga, 2015
Diphlu River, Kaziranga, 2015.
Despite the poaching and fall in numbers, there is a good deal of rhino spotting possible in Kaziranga. As also deer and water buffaloes (the latter are very shy). The guides aren't entirely focussed on the biggies, they take time to point out turtles or birds in the trees. The biggie of the Park is of course the tiger, the reason those big barrels of modern cameras are out in full force in Kaziranga. At one point we thought we might get to spot one given the agitation of the deer but it was not to be - no doubt with about 50 odd noisy people across the stream waiting for the tiger, it decided not to emerge:)
But the actual joy of Kaziranga is just to be there. Of course you can't walk around but the sky, the trees, the birds all conspire to make it wonderful. In the early morning - though the elephants calmly carry us around - you do regret disturbing the animals out for a first meal but the forest itself is beautiful, wreathed in mists, the early morning cold pleasant against one's clothing. And the night brings a pleasant tiredness that is alleviated by a hot bath and a small bonfire (literally!) at the resort. On the trip, I was reading Tanizaki's Some Prefer Nettles which constantly contrasts old Japanese ways with the Western influences taking over the country. There is no East/West dichotomy that I felt in Kaziranga, rather something of the old and the new. Like the feeling of a hot water bath after a dusty day in a forest versus one in a hotel room, the warmth of a bonfire versus central air conditioning. These are not things one normally contrasts, hot water is after all hot water, and yet it all feels different here.In effect, you notice the feeling of the bath, the warmth of the flame.
I returned feeling entirely refreshed but also a bit regretful that I was soon to be plunged back into city life.
Rather unusually for someone my age, I had a taste for Indian music from the 1930s and 1940s. These were the kind of songs that did not even make it to Chitrahaar/Chhaya Geet. Sometimes an old movie would screen on Doordarshan or one might hear a KL Saigal on the radio but on the whole even in the 1980s when I was young, few TV and radio stations ventured beyond the 1950s. Part of the reason for my tastes was my uncle R. When I used to to go to my grandparents place from hostel, sometimes we would be alone and he would be playing an old song that would burn itself into my brain and I would get addicted to the singer. He had the oddest tastes and an excellent ear for music so one could never tell what he would choose to play. This was how I was introduced to MK Thyagaraja Bhaghavthar, better known by the moniker MKT.
Even though their tastes had moved on to the Tamil dramas on television in the 80s and 90s, my grandparents would indulge me now and then with cinema and music tales from their youth if I pestered them enough. Sometimes my grandfather would rent a MKT video for me and though these films were hackneyed I would watch them for the music. And to listen to the spoken Tamil of the time. And much to my mother's chagrin - because she wanted me to be smart and up to date - I wanted to dress like an old time heroine - in a sari, pallu tucked in, hair in a plait - post any such viewing (I still tuck in my pallu!). Unconsciously perhaps I was deeply influenced by my grandparents because it seems strange that I wanted to be part of a time when they were young. A time they didn't feel particularly nostalgic about. Or perhaps I just had an affinity for that time.
Your average 1930s/40s hearthrob
I want to lick that postcard-Average 30s Tam girl.
My grandfather had seen and heard MKT sing. He was a goldsmith's son according to my grandfather and dazzlingly good looking. His voice of course was divine. This fact was corroborated by my grandmother who spoke pityingly and sometimes witheringly about girls who went into a swoon and daze at his very mention, who kissed the little postcards of his that they slyly bought and no doubt were writing some very erotic fan fiction in their heads and diaries. Even married women were not immune to such immature behaviour according to my grandmother - whether she liked him or not I cannot tell because she portrayed herself as above such frivolities as succumbing to masculine charms. If it was today, those girls would have set up a MKT tumblr. For while notions of masculine beauty may change, the rules of fangirling do not.
The eyes, that smile!
In one of the movies I saw (Haridas) TR Rajakumari played an oomphy lady who took the hero for a ride before repenting and renouncing her wicked ways as was the case in movies of the time. My mother had mentioned her beauty and my grandfather had added on information about the many men left devastated by her charms, she was after all Tamil cinema's first dream girl. All of this was no hyperbole, on screen the actress was stunning. It was an alluring beauty - she reminded me a bit of MS Subbulakshmi - but with the sex appeal amped up. And not in the least bit in a sluttish kind of way, she just looked like a woman who a man would do anything to have. Or for that matter the lesbian tumblrs that I see in constant meltdown over some actress of the other - if they had existed in the 30s - TRR would be their girl. Or at the very least everyone's girl crush, she's certainly mine.
Sometimes when I would visit, my uncle would be in that jokey melancholic mood that was a trademark of his. He would then say well soon I shall be old and alone in this house with just a glass of alcohol and MKT singing. That was not to be. But as long as that house exists and an MKT song plays in it, he is bound to be there somewhere around, eyes closed and listening to the music, momentarily free of the tangled thoughts of his mind while he lived.
__*__
My 30s/40s playlist below. MKT sang a lot of devotional songs - which I like - but I will stick (mostly) to the more romantic ones:)
1. Manmadha Leelai with bonus Rajakumari. Not the best dancer in comparison to some others of her time but that blown kiss (about 3.13) was quite a sensation. As it should be, coming from the Princess of everyone's dreams!
There seem to have been a a lot of drinking ladies in Ancient India. There are apparently plenty of sculptures of drinking women. And plenty of verses going on a fair bit about wine being a major beauty enhancer, in Kalidasa's plays for e.g. and especially in the Sattasai. (no face in the gutter modern women in the old texts!).
The above extract is from Malavikagnimitram. Iravati is kind of famous for making a dramatic entry in an inebriated state in this play. Though who can blame Iravati, the second wife? There is already a senior queen, Dharini. And there is pretty Malavika who the king is courting and who is so going to be the king's favourite. And there is poor Iravati with only a maid to extoll her flushed with wine beauty. And a few passages where she berates the useless Agnimitra. Who likens her to a crocodile while Malavika is a lotus flower. Pity Iravati didn't employ the crocodile teeth!
So what is a woman to do? All my sympathies lie with Iravati. I say ditch the King, get an ancient vibrator and embrace the bottle, it is far more constant!
The National Library in Singapore stocks more than a few Indian titles that are not so readily available in India. Or at least I haven't spotted them in the usual bookshops. One of the books I borrowed from the library was Padmavati, one of the first few novels in Tamil. Apart from the milieu and the time it is set in, it is not very interesting as a novel. In fact it made me wonder if a certain timidity is inherent in Tamil Brahmins that makes for safe literature. In Bengal for e.g., the novel was already established when Padmavati was written. And despite certain conventional elements, Bankim's works are complex and morally ambiguous. OK Bankim is a master but you get the drift. Padmavati on the other hand tends to get a bit preachy and the characters are a bit black and white. And despite being billed as a reform movel about the education of women the novel is really about the friendship between the eponymous Padmavati's cousin and later husband, Narayanan and Goaplan. Nevertheless it was fascinating to me because the whole world of Tamil Brahmins at the end of the 19th century is captured in the book. And it speaks of the types in the community that many of the character traits described in the book are familiar to me from my own relatives and acquaintances. And of course it has the usual Tamil Brahmin male preoccupation with devadasis though of course the upright hero doesn't succumb to their wiles.
It's primary interest to me therefore lies in its portrayal of South Indian brahmins at the end of the 20th century. In the deeply conservative community,
there are two forces at play forcing some kind of change. One, modern
education, largely in the hands of missionaries. Two, the administrative
setup under British rule with its minor officials who wielded a good
deal of power over small communities. There are plenty of sharp vignettes throughout the novel that highlight this. To me the most amusing bit was the North-South divide i.e. the divide between Tirunelveli (the setting of the novel) and Thanjavur that is up North. None of the Thanjavur folk in this are up to any good which was kind of amusing given my family firmly has its origins in Thanjavur.
This illustration below for e.g. is of a naughty married Thanjavur lady all ready for a sneaky rendezvous with Gopalan. Her equally amorous husband is planning to seduce the virtuous Savitri, sister of Gopalan. Elsewhere in the novel formidable Thanjavur parents masterfully use their children in increasing their worldly wealth via marriages. What can I say, Go Thanjavur! Just kidding.
There is also a fairly long section on drama companies. There is again that faint ambivalence present in Tamil Brahmin novels. This world recurs in so many texts but there is also a moral stigma attached to it, little good can result by entering it. I suppose it was a concern for families - our family folklore has a relative who burned his way through the family fortune - leaving his wife completely destitute - in just such a manner.
The dissonance between the changes brought about by education and actual community mores occurs throughout the novel. Because the school is run by missionaries, the students are exposed to and aspire to the values of the West. On the other hand there is the world at home and one's own culture that cannot be denied. While this manifests itself in many ways in the novel, the many references to clothing interested me. For e.g. the below paragraph describes a groom's attire which shows the norms of masculine attire prior to Western influences.
After his ritual bath, Gopalan was decked in silk and zari, with
sandal paste and kumkumam on his forehead and sweet scented jasmine in
his hair. He wore jewellery too - a double stranded waist chain over his
silk veshti, a jewelled pendant strung on his golden punul, the scared
thread, a pearl necklace intertwined with a flower garland, diamond
earrings and gem studded rings. Gold bracelets accentuated his youth and
natural charm. The kohl, applied by Savithri, made his eyes appear more
beautiful than ever. With lips reddened by the juice of the betel
chewed and a complexion aglow with shy happiness, he looked enchanting,
like Manmathan with his body restored.
For us today, the flowers in
the hair and waist belts for the veshti
may seem excessive and even feminine, but they seem to have been common in Madhaviah’s
time. This description in fact reminded me of the way idols are
decked in temples. Gopalan’s English education makes
him embarrassed to be so decked, on the other hand he is secretly
pleased to be the traditional bridegroom. And of course it is interesting that bride and groom are equally
bedecked, bar the fact that saris were probably more coloured and elaborate than a veshti.
The novel of course isn't about fashion at all. Rather it is of its time and the stray references here and there provide clues to clothing norms of the time. For example, I often wondered about the origins of the half-sari in Tamil Nadu. From the novel it appears that it was a fashionable outfit worn by young Christian girls. This appears in a section where one of the characters seriously contemplates converting to Christianity.
After a few days, he began to visit the boy’s home in Palayamkottai and met his sisters who, dressed in the daring new style of pavadai, blouse and dhavani (emphasis mine), strolled about book in hand.
That is the kind of detail that is hard to come by for folk like me who blog on history. Happily, the translated novel is available because it was done by one of the author's
grand-daughters (the illustrations done in the 1950s are that of his nephew M. Krishnan). It's one of those moments where you have serious thoughts about an education that privileges English over regional languages, almost all one's literary history is a black box if a translation is not available.
A handsome young man of twenty five, dressed in a vannan washed
zari veshti, muslin shirt and uppada angavastram arrived after awhile.
Such was his appearance that even the old hag in the kitchen would have
concluded that he was an English educated government official. Else
would he wear ritually unclean, washerman washed clothes or a chandu pottu on his forehead? Without a government job, how could he have
sported whiskers or acquired Tiruchirapalli footwear or a silver
wristwatch.
The illustration and text above is of a minor functionary who arrives for Gopalan’s wedding (Padmavati, A. Madhaviah).
Though not senior they apparently wielded a good amount of power in the districts, far far more than a senior functionary in say Chennai, and were therefore to be appropriately appeased at all times.
It's a fascinating paragraph providing visual clues of status in his dressing, both in terms of wealth and a departure from orthodox.
There is also descriptions of jewellery of the time now and then.
All in all despite a very weak plot, the book was enjoyable because of its familiar milieu. And of course I was over the moon with those few throwaway lines on the davani!
For my clothing blog I often add relevant quotes from old Indian texts. As a result of this I have read (or in some cases partially read) more than a few translations hosted at gutenberg and archive. One of these texts is Shakuntala, on which I blog quite often (check out the Chinese performance!). And though the story is extremely familiar to me, I am a little embarrassed that until my posts I had never read Kalidasa's Shakuntala in entirety though it is has been translated often and is a seminal text.
In fact the posts were a bit shaming and made me reflect a bit on the kind of English education that we so prize in India that many of us do not read Kalidasa, if not in Sanskrit at least in a regional language. Instead we rely on English texts, often translated by foreigners. And even if we are to go with English, we are still taught Shakespeare as a standard text though in more ways than one it is Kalidasa who is relevant to our culture and history. In fact Shakuntala's persistence makes it ideal for study, analysis and interpretation much like a play by the Bard.
From memory, Kosambi's book (Myth and Reality) states that the tale occurs as a fragment in the Rig Veda. Or at any rate in one of the Vedic texts and of course in the Mahabharata. In its earliest version, it has none of the embellishments of Kalidasa's tale. Rather it is merely an episode wherein a woman asserts her rights and makes a king accept paternity. In Kalidasa's hands it of course turns into a classic romance (there is a first wife but let's not dwell on that here!). Shakuntala is a forest maiden, Dushyant is a handsome king. There is a love affair, there is the loss of the ring (oh so soap opera), the rejection of Shakuntala and then the reunion. Adding heft to this is the fact that Shakuntala and Dushyanta's son, Bharata, lends his name to the country.
It's later fame resulted from William Jones' translation that appeared in 1789, it's first outing in the West. Though it was hardly a forgotten text in India, Horace Hayman's Select Specimens of the Theatre of the Hindus mentions that there are plenty of copies in circulation amongst the "pundits". Subsequently it seems to have enjoyed a good deal of popularity in the West. Not surprising given all the forest nymph bit, the romance and most of all the enduring nature of the tale which meant that it worked across mediums. Gautier, for e.g., wrote a ballet, Sacountala. And it turns up at the oddest of places, including this 1914 production. On tumblr I have seen recent American school productions. Stage productions are still around. And of course Kalidasa's story, his descriptions, the poetry are still very much around us in Hindi films, albeit sometimes in a vulgarised form.
Given all this you would think that the tale is perfect for all kinds of study - from the original story to Kalidasa's treatment, its presence in modern Indian culture and it's interpretation by the West. Perhaps it is but I can't think of say my cousin's BA Lit including it at all. More's the pity.
_*_
My fav Shakuntala here and here (especially since it mixes it with Ashadh Ka Ek Din).
I have been keeping a record of the books I read on my break (along with very brief reviews) on my facebook page. Partly for friends, partly to record my photographs of the books and partly to jog my memory at a later date.
I cam across Uno Chiyo while doing research for my blog (surprisingly I come across a lot of Asian materials when doing the sari blog) and later found her books in a Singapore library. Chiyo's book, Confessions of Love, must be quite popular here because I have seen several copies in Singapore's libraries.
Uno Chiyo was amongst other things a novelist and kimono designer who met the artist Seiji Togo while researching a gas suicide scene for her book. He had just
survived a suicide pact attempt and arrived in his best "post suicide
pact chic" with a bandage on his neck, the result of a wrongly applied
scalpel (both scalpel and gas appear in Confessions of Love). Chiyo promptly fell in love and moved in with the artist. And
equally promptly penned a semi-fictional account
of Seiji’s love affair and subsequent suicide pact with the pretty daughter of a high ranking
naval official. That book is Confessions of Love. Apparently suicide pacts were quite the thing in 1930s Japan, given the restrictive marriage norms of Japanese families at the time.
The affair in the
book is all interrupted stolen meetings and inaction until the failed
suicide pact. In fact not much happens in the primary relationship in the book between Joji (the fictional Seiji) and Tsuyuko. Between all this the fictional Seiji tries to extricate
himself from his wife, makes a second marriage in which he is cuckolded and has desultory affairs with a few modan gaaru
(modern girls) along the way. Despite these desperate romantic situations, the book is surprisingly light in tone.
Chiyo’s
prose is much praised as supple so it appears the translation doesn’t do her full justice. Neither was I fully convinced by the introductory section which finds the book a subtle indictment of Seiji's weak character, and by extension of the Japanese male. Despite this the book is a
strangely compelling account of an intense but doomed love affair by a writer putting down a tale known to her in an objective manner.
Chiyo died at age 99 proving that "bad girls" go everywhere and live forever:)
Notes: Someone needs to do a literary trail of the train stations that feature in 1930s Japanese books. People are always meeting at railway stations in the books I read - Confessions of Love, Naomi, Quicksand.... Pic 2 was taken in Newcastle. We found the dead bird in the garden one morning. It was perfectly formed and a beautiful vivid red in colour. We buried it later in the day. And while I am normally not the kind to take photographs of dead things, I felt I had to record the bird's existence. Hence it's appearance alongside the Chiyo book.
