The loners stand apart: Thoughts on Halitha Shameem's "Loners"

Writer-Director Halitha Shameem packs a lot into a film.  I don't mean lengthy dialogues or busy frames.  I am referring to the density of thought and intricate detail that she includes in a way that, in her words, is "connection seeking, not attention seeking."  The connection is between not just the lead characters but also between us and the film itself.  Her 30-min segment is titled "Loners" and it is a part of "Putham Puthu Kaalai Vidiyaadha", the latest Tamil anthology on Amazon.  Her love for detailing ensures that nothing comes across as cliched or uninteresting.  The way she stages a wedding that is relayed on Zoom, for instance.  An instrumental version of "Aanandham..." plays unobtrusively in the background.  Nothing significant but the little touches contribute immensely to the verisimilitude that she strives for.  In an online group discussion where supposedly, the point is that the lead pair sees each other again, an elderly lady makes a lovely point about "slowing down", before she signs off.  But such details are the peripherals.  The crux is a poignant, thought-provoking account of a boy and a girl bonding in a deep, giving manner.  That strong crux is akin to the chocolate core of a Cornetto, to use a "Sillu Karupatti" reference, except that the entire contents are a delight to savor, not just the chocolate.

Halitha Shameem's use of English is liberal but it never comes across as artificial or unnecessary.  I truly believe that terms such as "empathy", "vulnerability", "toxic positivity" and phrases such as, "I feel you" might have come across as stilted if translated into Tamil.  The language spoken has to fit the milieu and as was the case with "Sillu Karupatti", the mix of Tamil and English feels completely organic.  Halitha weaves together free-flowing conversations that gradually solidify the bond between the lead characters.

And speaking of the leads, Lijomol Jose and Arjun Das are stupendous.  Having watched Lijomol in "Sivappu Manjal Patchai", "Jai Bhim" (her scene in the commissioner office alone, is worth an acting award) and now "Loners", it is not difficult to predict that she will go places. (Yes, I know I sound like Professor Gnanaprakasm in "Mozhi!") Halitha not only shapes her character but also shapes her performance with a sure hand.  There are two moments in the store sequence that are an exquisite combination of thoughtful writing and splendid acting.  The first is the moment where the characters take off their face masks.  Even though they just met in front of the store, seeing each other after removing their masks feels like a second introductory moment.  And the camera lingers on Lijomol's and Arjun's faces, capturing their bashfulness beautifully. (Without saying anything, the moment makes a statement about how in-person interactions have evolved in the COVID world).  The second is the way Lijomol steals a glance at Arjun when he is looking down.  It is a small yet wonderful bit of acting and staging.  Halitha is fast proving to be an ace in staging these minute moments, trusting us viewers to not miss the nuances.  And Arjun is superbly controlled in the moment where he breaks down, expressing a mix of guilt and regret about his friend.  The importance of catharsis is also brought out in a deeply affecting manner.  Arjun's voice has already become the stuff of legend.  But he is no lazy actor to rest on his innate strength.  Instead, he channels it in service of a well-fleshed out character where he uses his voice to bring out the anguish of the character very effectively.  I hope that the work of these actors opens the doors for many such well-written roles, for they are fully capable of delivering on the trust placed in them.

That Halitha, the writer, is a deep thinker is obvious in the moments such as when Arjun and Lijomol speak about the fake positivity that co-exists uneasily with the tragedy that the pandemic has unleashed on humanity.  But it is a testament to the confidence of the writer that she keeps slipping in important ideas without being overt about them.  A case in point is the way Arjun asks Lijomol if he could join her for her grocery run in person.  He asks first.  She says, yes.  He still takes the effort of asking if she is sure about it.  That little interaction says what we, as a society, need to hear about 'consent' without making a big deal about it.  Even when he proposes an idea for her line of work, he does it with such humility (modestly stating that he is just customizing the concept of open-air theaters) and such dignity, even going as far as to request her to excuse him for any presumptuousness.  That little bit speaks volumes of respect and courtesy that we owe to fellow human beings, without calling undue attention unto itself.  

It is a pleasure to be able to witness the emerging filmography of a filmmaker like Halitha Shameem right from the start of her promising career.  Her "Aelay" did not work for me as well as "Sillu Karupatti" and "Poovarasam Peepee" did.  With "Loners", she has given viewers a deeply fulfilling experience to savor and reflect on, without spoon feeding us.  It is with much anticipation that I look forward to her "Minmini" and other future works because the strains of positivity in her films are addictive in a healthy way, not "toxic"! 

“Bread and jam, please!” – An anecdote and some reflections

“Just give me two days”, was my father’s polite request to me.  On my two-month trip to India in the summer of 2007 – I had quit my job, to start my MBA that Fall - Dad asked that I accompany him to temples in and around Madurai and Trichy.  He said that he wanted me to take two full days out of my trip, travel time included, for this journey where he probably hoped that my piety levels would go beyond chanting ‘Saraswati nabasthubyam’ at every temple regardless of the deity in front of me.  The temple trip itself came a few weeks into my sojourn in Chennai.  By that time, I had indulged myself in a variety of south Indian and north Indian delicacies, both at home and at restaurants.  And a gamut of savory and sweet items had been entertained by my generous palate.  Upon landing in Madurai, the breakfast at the hotel was no different.  I don't remember the menu in too much detail.  All I can say is that lunch felt superfluous.

Oh, I forgot to tell you that I imposed a ‘condition’ - why is that word inextricably linked to Visu and S. Ve. Sekhar?! - on my Dad.  I told him that for the two days in Madurai and Trichy, that I needed breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner at proper times.  You would think that I could take that for granted.  But past trips of this sort had taught me one thing.  When traveling with religious people, their fierce desire to ensure no missed darshans (“thera poatruku” pronouncements were usually as solemn as a dirge) meant that hunger and thirst fell by the wayside.  Not for me.  I need(ed) my calorie intake at regular intervals to prevent me from getting cranky.  On this trip, both Dad and I stuck to our respective promises.  I got my meals on time.  He got His Holiness Yours Truly to ‘religiously’, uncomplainingly follow him to every temple. 

On the second day of the trip, we were to visit the Kasim-Babu brothers, a nadhaswaram-playing duo who lived in Trichy.  Dad was on the phone with them the evening prior to coordinate plans for the next morning.  Mr. Kasim must have apparently shared their menu for brunch.  Because Dad responded, “Oh, idly, dosai, poori, potato.  All this is plenty!”  He stole a glance at me when I said, “Appa, I just want bread and jam, please!”  My rationale was that I had indulged in rich foods all my trip that I wanted a simple breakfast for a change.  But my Dad, whose snicker was effortlessly relayed from Madurai to Trichy over the phone, said to Mr. Kasim, “Oh, my son is saying that he won’t eat all that.  He only wants bread and jam!”  After he kept the phone down, I wondered how it would have been received at the other end.  I always tried extra hard to ensure that people back home would not get the sense that my time away from India had made me the stereotypical, snobbish 'US return' that we have all seen in the movies.  But I thought to myself, “Great!  They are probably wondering, ‘Look at this guy who passes on poori and potato and comes all the way to Trichy to eat bread and jam!’”  That evening, I was sulking endlessly, telling my Dad that he should have offered at least half an explanation for the bread and jam request!  He alternated between laughing it off and assuring me that they would not mistake me. 

The next morning when we went to their house, Mr. Kasim, upon greeting me, said, “Bread jam vaangi vechutom, Pa.  Don’t worry!”  My face turned as red as strawberry jam.  I took great pains to explain myself.  He smiled and said, “Hey, I am just pulling your leg.”  We excused ourselves after a very pleasant couple of hours in their company.  Three years later, I saw him at the upanayanam function of my cousin.  My chief concern was that he shouldn’t remember me as Mr. Bread Jam.  He thankfully didn’t, and just spoke fondly of the nice time that we had at their place. 

Reminiscing about this incident also brought back a spate of emotions and memories of visiting people - especially those older than me - back home.  People whose smiles reached their eye, whose warmth radiated from within their inner core and touched my heart.  I found it enormously touching whenever they would request me to encapsulate the highlights of my life in the intervening years, in a few minutes.  I learned over time that, to them, the gaps between my trips to India were akin to simple ellipses separating two phrases.  And during my time with them, it was their sincere desire to fill in the gaps so that they could feel caught up.  (Sure, technological advances have made the process of keeping in touch easier.  But it is hard to beat the charm of an in-person visit, is it not?)  As I recollect some of the elderly folks who are no longer alive, my heart brims with gratitude for their generosity and thoughtfulness.  The visits themselves may have been short.  But the aftertaste of their generosity lingered for much longer than did the sweetness of the strawberry jam that I sometimes demanded!

Lords for a day, Masters forever: Thoughts on 83 (the film) and beyond

June 25, 1983.  I was one year and 363 days old.  I had absolutely no clue whether my immediate family had watched the seminal event that was unfolding thousands of miles away at the Lord's cricket ground (in London).  As the entire cricketing world doubted the prospects of an Indian win over the mighty West Indies, 11 Indians, led by a man whose self-doubt was as non-existent as his fear, caused the upset of all upsets.  India won the world cup.  And the nation and the sport were never the same again.

It was only in 1991 that I started following cricket.  It is safe to say that in the last thirty years, my fanaticism and love for the sport has only increased in magnitude.  More importantly (at least to me), I consider myself a student of the history of Indian cricket.  No, I don’t have any academic credentials to show for it.  But I have read reams and reams of literature on Indian cricket, its history and its evolution as well as watched every video cassette, DVD and youtube video that I could possibly access.  And talking of evolution, the 1983 world cup is, without a doubt, the tournament that marked a significant turning point in Indian cricket history.  A nation that had been brought up on Test cricket since the third decade of the century, suddenly woke up to the excitement, the unpredictability, and the instant gratifications of the 50-over version of the game. (That T20 is the flavor du jour of cricket now merits a separate piece!)

One of the chief pleasures – actually, make that two – of watching Kabir Khan’s 83 is the painstaking recreation of the high points of all of India’s games.  I said “two” because on the one hand, we have several moments that have been captured in highlights packages over the years.  These have been recreated on screen with an astounding attention to detail both on the cricketing front as well as on the casting front.  But more importantly, we get to see on screen moments that are not available in the form of highlights.  The first group match versus the West Indies, Srikkanth's square drive in the final, and most memorably, Kapil Dev’s 175* at Turnbridge Wells.  The production values are stupendous.  Anyone familiar with the Lord’s ground (the venue for the final) will know that the stadium has evolved considerably in the past 38 years.  Yet we are transported to that era.  The grounds where games take place, the buses that the players travel in, the hotels they are put up in, all appear incredibly authentic on screen. 

If the production design is a sturdy pillar that holds the film aloft, the superbly cast team of actors are the flying buttresses.  If you observe carefully, the actors don’t just mimic the body language and manner of speaking of the real-life cricketers.  Instead, they impressively embody the spirit and character of the players.  Among the actors with considerable screen time, Ranveer Singh (playing Kapil Dev) and Jiiva (Krishnamachari Srikkanth) don’t just employ tics and impressions to bring their roles to life.  They truly internalize the essence of the players, be it Kapil’s fierce determination or Srikkanth’s charming insouciance. 

Two other actors who deserve a special shout-out are Tahir Raj Bhasin (Sunil Gavaskar) and Pankaj Tripathi (manager PR Man Singh).  Tahir brings to life the buttoned-up, polished Gavaskar.  Watch him in the scene where he clarifies that Yashpal Sharma meant, “acidity” when he actually said, “STD!”  Tahir does not indulge in any tomfoolery.  He just clarifies and gets on with his routine.  He is even better in the restaurant scene with the manager.  He is smarting from a perceived insult, chooses to not talk about it and acknowledges the manager’s efforts to pacify him.  But at the end of the conversation, he politely but firmly makes the point that he will not play the next game.  And Pankaj Tripathi is wonderful as the avuncular manager who has to deal with an eclectic bunch of characters and extend support to his captain.  His reaction to an airport official asking for Viv Richards’ autograph is priceless.

83 is an ambitious film not just in terms of size and scale (which it certainly is).  It also is ambitious in ensuring that despite the minutest of cricketing details being brought forth on screen, that the human angle is not sacrificed.  Of course, not every member of the squad gets a fully fleshed character or an arc but there are several little vignettes that give us glimpses into the human side of this team.  Sunil Valson realizing, while stretching, that he is not going to be selected for a game, is a fine example of how Kabir Khan and his team of writers imbue the characters with genuine emotion, some positive, others not so, but every one of them unfailingly real.

The surge of genuine emotion that I felt projected onto me from the film is, above all the technical mastery, the reason why this movie is and will be very special to me.  What I had read about in books and articles and had watched in highlights and interviews, was crystallized and neatly tied with a bow and presented to me as a 2-hour 40-minute package.  This gift of a film served as yet another reminder of why I truly love this sport and the players that inhabit it.  Yes, I was only two years old when the events of the film happened in real life.  But by the same token, my generation was born several decades after India gained independence.  Do we not feel an outpouring of patriotism and love for our country when we read about Mahatma Gandhi?  History can be relived vicariously through not only written literature but also art forms like cinema.  As a result, it is only natural that as we see a captain hold the world cup trophy aloft on screen, that our own cup of joy brims over.

Anbodu Kamal Daasan Naan Ezhudhum... - A letter to Rajnikanth

Dear Rajni Sir,

Wish you a belated happy birthday!  I hope that you are recovering well from your recent health issues and that you have a great day and year ahead.  I watched a 30-second video clip today on Twitter.  It is the video of you wishing a girl called Sowmya whom I don’t know.  But your wish was so lovely, so heartwarming that I felt the need to send positive vibes to someone who seems to be going through a health issue.  As always, there was an incredible amount of genuineness in your voice.  The way you said, “kanna” was, as always, a delight to hear.  What was truly poignant to me was the apologetic way you explained why you couldn’t see her in person.  That you were feeling a little under the weather yourself.  There is a reason why your fans adore and worship you.  All that adulation is fully deserved, Sir.

So, am I a Rajni fan or a Kamal fan?  I don’t think you will mind at all, given your admiration for your friend of 46 years.  Kamal Haasan was and continues to be my biggest influence from the world of films.  As an actor, writer and director, he has been a huge reason why I admire and analyze films more than just enjoying and being entertained by them.  How do I see you?  I see you Sir, as a splendid actor who chose to be a shining star.  I am that film buff who was delighted by your performance in the scene in "Kabaali" where you saw Radhika Apte after a long separation.  Your expression of ecstasy in that scene, the way you held her lovingly were all fabulous.  In “Kaala”, the way you tried to pacify your wife in the car (just before she got killed) was a lovely moment.  I thoroughly enjoyed your villainous act as Chitti in “Endhiran”, though I didn’t think that you were utilized that well in the sequel.

The 90s was a decade where the differing paths that you and Kamal had taken were strikingly obvious.  While Kamal acted in films such as “Guna”, “Thevar Magan”, “Mahanadhi” and “Kuruthi Punal” (while alternating with his comedies), your superstardom was established in films such as “Annamalai”, “Baasha” and “Padayappa.”  I enjoyed your performance in all those films, especially “Baasha.”  That was a ‘commercial’ film in which your acting had the kind of raw power that you had also shown in “Thalapathi.”  But in films such as “Muthu” and “Arunachalam” the star obscured the actor in you.  And I felt this way about your later films too.  I would always enjoy an expression here, a nuanced dialogue delivery there.  But the pitch of your performances and the filmmaking style in those films meant that we admirers of your acting had to settle for the occasional glimpse that would make us wistful about the actor of the past.  Did I think that you became a lazy actor?  Not really.  You just seemed keener on appealing to your fanatics’ wishes than the film connoisseur’s tastes. (I shall hasten to add that the two groups are not mutually exclusive.  It’s more about which part of our film brain do we turn on?)

There are three performances in two films that I consider to be your finest work.  The films were,  unsurprisingly, directed by the man whom you named as your favorite director when your guru K Balachander asked you.  Mahendran.  What a magnificent partnership the two of you had.  Without bemoaning the small quantity of films you collaborated on, we are better off celebrating them for their indelible impact.  As Kaali in “Mullum Malarum” and as Johnny and Vidyasagar in “Johnny”, you were astounding.  The nuance of your acting was matched by the sharpness of the writing and the deftness of the filmmaking.  In “Mullum Malarum”, the way you apologized to Shoba is impactful till this day.  The way you uttered, “valichutha ma” twice with different modulations was sublime.  Ditto for the change in your body language in the scene where Sarat Babu (aka “Law Point!”) visits your house.  The erect posture said all that there was to be said about the pride of the character.  I never tire of waxing eloquent on the proposal scene in “Johnny” either.  As you had apparently shared with Mahendran, it was Sridevi’s scene, yes.  But it would just not have worked as well had you not played such a delightful foil.  The “pada padaa-nu pesiteengaLe” line was marvelously delivered by you.  In stark contrast was how you, as Vidyasagar, proposed to the character played by Deepa.  The hurt in your eyes when she uses the word “barber” in a disparaging manner was understated yet supremely effective.  There were films such as “16 Vayathinile” and “AvargaL” where you had an arresting screen presence as the antagonist.  There were other films such as “Aarilirundhu Arupathu Varai” where you shone brightly as an actor.  But these two films with Mahendran are what I will hold dear to me as I think of your work.

One facet of your onscreen persona that I have much respect for is the space that you give to your fellow actors.  Be it villains like the great Raghuvaran, heroines like Ramya Krishnan (in that career-changing turn of hers as Neelambari) or comedians like Janakaraj, Coundamani or Senthil, you have always given your fellow actors the opportunity to shine.  I once watched an interview with Vadivukkarasi where she mentioned that you led an applause after the panchayat scene that left her misty-eyed.  I am sure that there are many more gestures such as that that have left your cast and crew overjoyed.  I doff my hat off to you Sir, for exhibiting more and more humility as you achieved more and more success.  It is a mix that I am sure that you know is as rare as it is deserving of approbation. 

As I come to the end of this letter, let me, once again, wish you a blessed year ahead.  I hope that in your next few films, you give us something that will make us sit up and take notice, once again, of the actor in you.  With the increasingly rousing reception that film goers, your fans included, have been giving to the fresh, well-executed ideas of the new-age filmmakers, I hope that you derive the confidence to go beyond some of the comfort zones in which your superstardom have confined you.  The sounds of your stardom-imposed shackles being broken will be among the sweetest music to your admirers.

Thank you for patiently reading this, Sir.

With much respect,

Ram

Take 3: My essay on Sivaranjaniyum Innum Sila Penngallum

A short story about a tumbler.  That was one of the things that filmmaker Vasanth S Sai recalled fondly in a commemorative speech on writer Balakumaran.  He went on to elaborate on how Balakumaran, during an outdoor shooting of “Punnagai Mannan”, had brought with him a tumbler that would serve to remind him of his wife.  And that Balakumaran had created a short story around it, infusing the inanimate object with a lot of life.  An avid reader, Vasanth too, over the years, has mastered the art of finding much depth, beauty and meaning in the minutest of details.  With immense assurance, he lets his camera dwell on minutiae for just enough time for a viewer to drink in the details without ever feeling the need to spoon-feed them.  In this anthology, he skillfully adapts three stories (by Ashokamitran, Adhavan and Jeyamohan) and presents richly detailed portraits of three women who seek to find ways to rise above the system that rarely gives them the opportunity to breathe.

A chair, a diary and a trophy.  These are ‘objects’ that gain life during the course of the stories that feature them.  In the first story, the protagonist (played by a stupendous Kalieaswari Srinivasan) never sits in the sole chair of their modest home.  Even during afternoons when she is by herself, she sits beside the chair, never on it.  There is a superb shot where we see her seated on the floor, through the arms of the chair.  But by the time the story ends, her posture while comfortably ensconced on the chair, says a whole lot without a word being uttered.  The way Ilayaraja’s background gradually increases in intensity as the camera gets closer to her is a masterful audiovisual moment where Vasanth demonstrates, “show, don’t tell.”  But as mentioned previously, Vasanth is too secure a filmmaker to not know the difference between “show” and “show off.”  The shift in perspective of the camera is as gradual as the increase in intensity of the score.  (Spoiler ahead) We also realize, as the story wraps up, that the first time we see her smile is in her husband’s absence.  We are left to fill the gaps with our imagination but we are given enough detail to savor and reflect on.

In the second story headlined by Parvathy Thiruvothu, the lead character is rather happy and well-settled at the beginning of the story.  She lives in a joint family setup where she seems to be respected and loved, not least of all by her nephew, through whose perspective we see the tale unfold.  Their relationship is underlined through the most lifelike of gestures such as the gifting of a geometry box.  The manner in which the kid asks her to hug him is delightfully sweet.  So is the amusing “netta Mani…kutta Mani” conversation.  We get an early hint of resentment in the way her sister-in-law refers to her mockingly as “Elizabeth maharani.”  Early on in a scene outside her room, notice how Parvathy waits for a split-second for her sister-in-law to leave along with her.  It is a subtle character-establishing moment where we see that the Parvathy character is acutely aware of her space.  Later on, an issue regarding her diary snowballs into something monstrous with damaging implications. 

The diary and the perceptions around her rights are, as with the first story, focused on just enough to give us something to mull on while Vasanth trusts us with some blanks to fill on our own.  In what is a departure from the typical cinema grammar that we are used to, he does not always give us the payoffs that we are used to.  For instance, there are at least three instances towards the end where we wonder why Parvathy does not make eye-contact with her nephew.  Does the boy feel guilty?  How does Parvathy feel about the kid now?  They do not have a final moment that offers a neat closure to their relationship or for the story, for that matter.  But isn’t that how life is?  Do we always get the goodbyes and the catharses that we get to see in fiction? 

And in the final story, we get to witness a character who does not, on the surface, seem to undergo the hardships of the characters in the first two stories.  But we slowly see how the life that had been chosen for her – not by her – has saddled her with a plethora of familial duties and responsibilities with rarely an instance where anyone seems genuinely interested in her needs and desires.  But the character’s core trait is internalization.  She rarely speaks a word more than is necessary for her to get through her chores, be it instructions for her daughter - the two disparate moments involving the small vs big “Ra” in “Karka Kasadara” is a fine example of Vasanth’s  attention to detail – or responses to her man-child of a husband. 

Sivaranjani (the central character of the third story) internalizes all her emotions from anguish to ecstasy.  And Lakshmi Priyaa Chandramouli turns in an enormously moving performance.  Be it the longing look at the athlete in the playground, the nuanced manner in which she says that she would have “bought” her trophy or the way her eyes widen when she sees the school kids applauding a little ‘feat’ of hers, her work in this film deserves a lot of praise.  In this segment too, Vasanth leaves it to us to determine what will be the future of the lead character.  Is she content with the little joys of her domestic life?  Or will the little bus chase serve as a spark to revive the athlete in her?  What we are left with is a ray of hope as seen in Lakshmi Priyaa’s contained smile as she walks back.

The cinematographers Ravi Shankaran and NK Ekhambaram offer stellar support to the director.  The aforementioned shots of the chair in the first story are astounding yet unobtrusive.  The craft never overshadows the story.  Even with respect to the much celebrated single-take sequence – I timed it; it lasts an astonishing 4 minutes and 24 seconds – in the third story, it is only when we reflect on it do we realize that we ‘experienced’ the exhaustion of Sivaranjani and that we did not get yanked out of the mood of the sequence by the precise choreography.  As paradoxical as it may sound, the craft is as understated as it is palpable.  And as mentioned earlier, Ilayaraja’s score is marvelously in sync with the look and feel of the first story.  In the third story, his score for the moment when Sivaranjani prepares to leave the dilapidated godown, is pitch-perfect.  Although I must say that for the bus chase scene, I preferred the version that I had watched in the NY film festival with just ambient sounds – a special shout-out to sound designer Anand Krishnamoorthi.  Somehow the dramatic flourish of Ilayaraja’s score here didn’t seem as impactful as the grunts and the heavy breaths of the version that I had watched previously. 

In the final analysis, Sivaranjaniyum Innum Sila Penngallum is an immensely fulfilling experience from both a form and content point of view.  I had remarked earlier this year that his “Payasam” episode in the Navarasa series was just an appetizer for the wholesome meal that was Sivaranjaniyum… Now, I will sign off with the hope that this film is the harbinger of a new innings for him where he makes profound, personal films.  Balakumaran may have brought to life a tumbler in his short story.  But having watched this film, it is my tumbler of joy that is brimming!

***

The film is streaming on Sony Liv in India.  Outside of India, it is available on the Simply South app.

That hour was ours

It had been a while since I had spoken to one of my mentors.  I had played phone tag with him for a while.  On a weeknight last week, it was past 10 pm when we finally connected.  It had been a while.  But as is often the case with people with whom you have a genuine connection, the customary pleasantries swiftly made way for a meaningful conversation.  I shall hasten to add that ‘meaningful’ mentor-mentee chats do not have to be dour and didactic.  They can be in fun in fact.  In what has been a running in-joke for the past two decades (!), he pulled my leg about a love-hate relationship of mine that invariably required third-party peacemaking efforts.  Minutiae specific to a relationship can be meaningful in a sense, correct?

More importantly, I had shared a recent development in my life with him via e-mail.  During our hourlong chat, he proceeded to inquire deeper in a manner where he effortlessly demonstrated the difference between sincere interest and superficial curiosity.  Very mindful of the privileges that he had rightfully earned in our relationship, he asked about my finances and whether I was saving and spending in a ratio that would be deemed acceptable by him. (Let me just say that the answer rarely is an unequivocal, “yes!”)  By the time I hung up after our one-hour conversation, I experienced a smattering of emotions.  I felt…how do I say it?  Let’s start with, I felt real.  I felt grounded.  I felt a little special.  Real, grounded and special.  Let me elaborate on the first two in a way that makes the third self-explanatory.

I have known this person since the day I was born.  Let’s scratch that.  I was probably kicking and screaming the day I was born.  He knew me since the day I was born.  But the virtues of longevity get washed away by the tides of time if there is not a sustained investment in a relationship.  Reflecting on his impact on me over the four decades of my existence, I thought of how, at each stage of our relationship, there was something specific to that age that I could recollect about or associate with him.  Be it the time in 1991, when he surprised me with a Jansport backpack because I loved stationery items.  Or how, that same trip, he laughed when I asked him “who his company chairman was!”  Or, when as a teenager, I told him, “I want to do a PhD like you” without knowing how to answer his next question: “PhD in what?!”  How when I was in my undergrad, he minced not even one syllable when giving me a dressing down for poor grades in one semester “on account of being distracted.”  How I took upon the task, as a twenty-something kid, of feeding his child cereal during a family function.  How when I told him during a Masters course that “The class average is 85.  I scored 90!”  Only for him to famously quip, “The mean is fine.  What was the standard deviation?!”  How he once told me that I had put on weight despite seemingly having an exercise routine and my thinking to myself, “That is so thoughtful of him” instead of being offended.  How he asked me to save up money instead of buying my "dream car" soon after getting my first job.  There are many more instances than I can possibly list here.  But the unifying thread that ties all these stray memories is the fact that they were all something real.  And they meant something to me at every juncture in my life.

It gave me a strange but definite sense of pride in thinking that these were instances that were very specific to my relationship with him.  Others might have had similar experiences in their relationships.  But for me, reflecting on the snapshots of our relationship over time resulted in my piecing together a montage that was uniquely ours.  The specificity of the details showed how much he cared to be something meaningful to me through the highs and lows of my life.  The details may have sometimes been seemingly trivial.  But they were real.  They were ours.  And only ours.

The other dominant feeling that I had experienced was that of feeling grounded.  I feel that we all need a few people in our lives who will say things to us in a way where we know that they placed more of a premium on being honest with us than wanting to please us.  I have been witness to people across both the professional and personal settings who, thanks to progress that they have made or success that they have experienced, struggle to keep themselves grounded.  Hubris seems to knock humility out without much effort.  As a result, they are sometimes unrecognizable from a previous, more likeable version of them that I had been fortunate enough to witness in the past.  And I would remind myself of the dictum, “Don’t dish out something that you can’t take.”  I remind myself of how certain people like my mentor have achieved great success in their professional life and have helped many like me in myriad selfless ways yet are completely humble about their achievements and their generous deeds.  To them, goodness, kindness and an attitude sans arrogance are just second nature.  They do not know another way of life.  Reminding myself of them keeps me striving to be rooted in things that are meaningful, as minute as they might sometimes seem. 

And special? Yes, of course.  It is an incredibly special feeling to note that I have people in my life who derive joy from my smiles, who help me summon strength from within by being there beside me, who teach me little life lessons by demonstrating, not posturing, who hear with their ears and listen with their heart.   Yes, we are all fundamentally more similar than we think we are.  Yet we can choose to extract happiness from the ingredients that make a relationship unique, at least in our little microcosm of the world.  For instance, that recent one-hour conversation with my mentor.  You might have had similar ones with your mentor.  And no, I was not there.  But guess what, you weren’t in the one I had with my mentor.  That hour was ours.  And only ours!

Short in the Arm: Thoughts on "Morsels of Purple"

Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar, the author of “Morsels of Purple”, has an uncanny knack.  She draws the reader into her worlds with economy of words, yet packs them with detail after intricate detail.  How a daughter, not the men in the family, knows that “crumbs collect in the folds of skin” under a father’s neck.  How a husband pays scant regard to a post-it note, “Lunch in the Instapot.”  How a mother scrubs her son’s shaving foam from the sink.  The book is a compilation of 54 pieces of flash fiction, all short pieces between a paragraph and three pages in length.  The book is filled with the kind of detail that go beyond cliches, swiftly and elegantly establishing the mood of the individual pieces.  But where her writing truly steps into a different plane altogether are the carefully chiseled lines that mark key moments in her stories.  I lost count of the number of such phrases that truly jolted me from the relaxing rhythms of the stories and the vivid imagery, to make me pause at times, stun me into silence at others.

“The rains, which I hold inside, start.”

“There’s no ring on his finger, not even an indent of one.”

“My mother visited once.  I didn’t know she knew where I lived.  Or, whether I lived.”

The three lines quoted above are from different stories, yet they have a commonality.  There is not one unnecessary word in any of them.  Not one fancy or flowery turn of phrase.  Yet their impact, in the context of the pieces, is indelible.  One of the chief pleasures of Sara’s writing is that despite being similarly stunned at several places across separate stories, I could rarely see any of these profoundly impactful lines coming my way.  That is because she does not follow any fixed template.  One of the most spectacular pieces is one titled, “What if.”  True to the title, the entire one-page piece is a series of questions, culminating in a riveting finish. (The phrase, “island of our mattress” was especially astonishing.) You almost get the sense of these pieces writing themselves, that is how unforced and organic they are!

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

There are some lively, amusing pieces such as “Rose Jam” and “The Watchmaker.”  The aforementioned eye for the keen detail shines brightly in these pieces.  But “Morsels of Purple” will be remembered by me for a long time for mainly three stories– “The Spring Rain”, “Dear Abu” and “How to live with an alcoholic husband.”  I very nearly teared up reading the first two and was amazed by the third piece in which each line starts with “when” –a rather painful journey is captured in a series of increasingly forceful lines.  “The Spring Rain” is a searing account of a woman who has gone through something unimaginable yet finds closure in the most unexpected manner.  (The “rains” line I cited above is from this story.) “Dear Abu”, as the title suggests, is about the feelings of a daughter towards her father.  The visual impact that the writing conjures – a case in point is how the Dad “stood at the gate with a torch in your hand, shining its light on each taxi…” – casts a spell.  The contrast between the last paragraph and what precedes it is a masterful example of ‘show, don’t tell’ that marks Sara’s writing.

As I reflected on the book in its entirety, I got the feeling of the whole being more than the sum of its parts.  And here's why.  With several of the pieces, I was able to not only experience a journey of sorts but was also able to luxuriate in some of the little life lessons and learnings that I took away from them.  In that sense, my personal journey with some of these pieces extended beyond the few pages that I spent with them.  And it was only a small fraction of the pieces that did not work for me.  It was either because they were a little too direct, sans Sara's customary vividness of prose or element of surprise (“Not forever, Snowman” for instance).  Or they were a tad predictable like “The Milkman.”  The misses, as I mentioned, are few and far between, certainly not enough to detract from the rich pleasures that are to be had in the book. 

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Amazon link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09HLW3G8K/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_3DKCHR1CSB6E8VEFPNZ8