(Cholamandal Artists' Village, Chennai)
I remember two analogies with Delhi’s cold. A coconut fell
on someone’s head. He did not realize anything. He did not feel any pain
either. But he felt something fell on his head. He took it up and looked at it.
It was a coconut. Seeing it, he fainted. The other story is about a guy with
less knowledge of English language. He read some pornographic story. Nothing
happened to him. He went home. Pulled out a dictionary from the bookshelf. He
flipped through the pages and he had a huge erection.
I did not know about Delhi’s cold while heading towards the
Indira Gandhi International Airport. In the flight, I flipped through the
newspaper and found that it was the coldest day in Delhi since last forty four
years. I started shivering. But the shiver did not last long. Two seasoned Air
India airhostesses who came from Lucknow and were heading towards Chennai,
warmed the atmosphere around me with their deep sleep waves. They were just
sitting next to me. The other hostesses on duty were extremely nice to them. They
were literally respecting their age and experience. Old is gold. In front of
Air India hostesses, passengers including the most mischievous kids behave. So
did my kids. So the flight to Chennai was rather eventless.
(The Cholamandal guest house)
Airports attract me in a different way. In airport everyone
is special, except for the parents who take their kids for a vacation. They are
miserable in similar ways. I see kids howling at an invisible god sitting
inside the vending machines and demanding packets of wafers and packaged
juices, and their parents gloriously ignoring them by vacantly looking into
space or peering into their laptop screens or even rolling eyes at the
screaming kids. I look at one parent and he turns into a mirror. I see myself
there and he seems himself in me. And we smile at each other as if we knew well
in our previous life. I was a pig and he too was one. It is our human phase.
This too shall pass, I tell myself.
I digressed, I know. Digressions are inevitable habit of
story-telling human beings. If there are no digressions most of the stories
could be finished in three lines. He was born, he loved, lived and died. The in
between things could be sufficed in two or three lines again. He fell in love
with a woman. He married her or lost her. Invariably he married to some woman
thanks to the unavoidable hormonal drive which is often dubbed as familial
responsibilities, suffered, fell in love with another woman and died. I
remember O.V.Vijayan explaining how Bhagavat Gita was written. In Haryana,
there lived two families. They were blood related. They had some issues related
some farm land. One day they gathered a placed called Kurukshetra. They were
supposed to fight it out. There was this guy called Arjun on the one side. He
looked at his relatives and felt bad. His friend Krishan was exhorting him to
fight. Arjun did not relent. Krishan got really irritated. He said,
‘Bhen...od..Maaro saalon ko’ (Sister fucker beat them). Some poets were around.
They listened the whole abuse and they sang it in poetic meters. This was the
birth story of Bhagavat Gita, according to late O.V.Vijayan.
(Interior of the guest house)
So, airports are nowhere places. They are sort of no man’s
lands. You may have a passport and a ticket. However, unless and until you get
into a flight and reach your destination you are in transit. Airports are
transit places. You may try to show off. But if your flight is delayed then you
are a screwed up refugee in a no man’s land. There was a time when the former
USSR was rapidly disintegrating into smaller countries. Some people from the
former Soviet Union were travelling. When they were in some transit lounge at
some airport, their country had become something else. Their passports were no
longer valid. They were refugees without a land all of a sudden. Fortunately,
we Indians have learnt to live with our Indian-ness. Despite the reformation of
new states carved out of earlier states, we still remain Indians. If we have
any problem, we will be dubbed as Maoists and could become the guests of state
very soon. So we remain polite citizens in the transit lounges.
I had my tryst with state once. I was about to be called a
Maoist. Stars were in my favour. It was in 2008. Art market boom was in full
swing. The party was on. It was the day of the annual display of Baroda’s fine
arts faculty. A friend of mine booked a ticket for me from Delhi to Baroda. I
was travelling like a mad person in those days. I was supposed to go in the
morning and come back at night. Next evening I was supposed to fly to Seoul.
Kingfisher was my flight to Baroda (today both Boom and Kingfisher are in bad
shape). I got my boarding pass and got into the flight. As I was coming back in
the same evening I had not taken any bag with me. I was wearing a black jeans
and black T-shirt. To add value to my presence I was holding one book in my
hand.
When I entered the flight, I had a sense of uneasiness. The
people who were going to Baroda were not looking like the seasoned Gujaratis.
They were all looking like people from North East. I shirked off my doubt and
tightened my seat belt. The doors were closed. The airhostess announced. The
flight would take three hours. I jumped up. Where was it going? I asked loudly.
Someone rushed to me. Sir, she muttered. I wanted to go to Baroda. How come a
Baroda flight took this much time? I asked furiously. She said the flight was
going to Bagdogra in Assam. I looked at my boarding pass. Yes it was a boarding
pass to Bagdogra. My friend had booked for Baroda and the agent had booked it
for Bagdogra. We were all drunk by the market boom so we did not even care to
check the ticket once. I raised alarm. My Seoul trip was going to be screwed
up. The flight had already started moving. I insisted I wanted to get out.
(Kids playing on an installation)
Airhostesses ran. People shouted at me. Suddenly there was a
situation. An ordinary Indian citizen appeared in front of them as a potential
terrorist. Was I looking like one in my black attire? The plane came to a halt.
Something was happening outside. In five minutes commandoes entered the flight.
They got me. They checked me thoroughly. Their suspicion increased when they
came to know that I was travelling without any luggage. Finally with a lot of
commando security I was led out of the flight. I was taken to a destination
which I never thought existed in an airport. They made me sit there. Many
officials interrogated me. They told me I could go free but the flight should
land at Bagdogra Airport safe. If not... For the first time in my life I prayed
for the safe landing of a flight in which I was not travelling.
Two year ago I had written about the airport bookstalls.
They display a very eclectic collection of books. May be you chance upon a good
book perhaps you never intend to read but by accident you see them, pick them
up and then fall in love with them. Today too when I am at the airport I check
three different bookstalls full with the latest hot books. But none attracts
me. My son says he is attracted to many books. I buy a couple of books for him.
I pick up Vishnu Sharma’s Panchatantra. I have read it so I keep it back. Then
I pick up Khushwant Singh’s latest work on spiritual sayings. I keep it back
too. I look for something very light to read. But when I touch each book they
tell me I know the content. Or I feel that I don’t have time to read them all.
I go through the Narcopolis by Jeet Tayyil. I flip through the pages of Guru
Charan Das’ latest work India Develops at Night (or something like that). Then
I go through Manu Josheph’s new novel. I keep it in its place thinking that I
would read it later. I open the Open Magazine. The lead story speaks of how the
new urban couples lead an underground life. I feel some kind of agitation in me
and I throw it back. Somehow today I found the airport bookstalls not
attracting me.
So I think of writing something that I would like to read.
It is not about my arrogance or ego. Sometimes it is always good to write in
order to read. In another bookstall I feel like stalling my ego by touching a
travelogue written by R.K.Narayan. Also I chance upon the latest work of
Umberto Eco’s eclectic collection of essays written on different contemporary
issues. I read a few lines and I feel that I know the content. But then I also
know that I don’t know the content. But I don’t feel like reading. I should
have read them all for polishing my style of writing. I postpone the reading.
Then I flip through the pages of an Osho book. But I can hear each word printed
in there in Rajneesh’s voice. So I decide to write what I want to read. All
what I have written so far is what I want to read today.
(The guest house campus)
In Chennai airport the people who alight from the flight
look like the people from an alien land. They all rush to reach the lavatories
to remove their woollens and jackets. They are now in a land where the
temperature is thirty degree Celsius. I too remove my layers of clothes only to
reveal my slimmer self to the world. At the pre-paid taxi counter they tell me
that they don’t know Cholamandalam Artists’ Village. They ask me for a correct
address or a phone number. But I am adamant. I tell them that it is their duty
to find out the place otherwise why they are running a pre-paid taxi service.
Finally the man at the counter makes a couple of phone calls and finds out
where it is. It costs me Rs.800/- And we get into the old rickety ambassador
car and drive towards Cholamandalam Artists Village.
At Cholamandalam we are received by Mr.Nagayya, a black
complexioned man with white facial hairs that give him the appearance of a
negative that has yet to be printed positive. He does the rituals of a
receptionist and allots us the pre-booked guest house. It is a studio apartment
with an attic for a bedroom. Spacious, roomy and properly lit (that
unfortunately sheds no light on my face when I am video chatting with friends)
the guest house accommodation is quite cosy. The canteen attached to it is so
inexpensive that you tend to tell the owner of it that he should charge a bit
more for food. Mr.Nagayya had personally introduced me to Mr.Augustine who runs
the canteen. The food is good and the humble price of it make you think about
all kinds of food that you have eaten from different restaurants at different
places and times.
Cholamandalam is frozen view in the history. Started in
1960s by the illustrious painter, theoretician and the former principal of the
Madras College of Arts, K.C.S.Panicker, Cholamandalam was started off as an
artists’ co-operative at Injambakkam, a sea shore village thirty kilometres
away from the historical site of Mahabalipuram. The artists and the disciples
of K.C.S live here. K.C.S’ son and noted sculptor, Nandagopal is the head of
the institution who manages the running of the K.C.S Museum here. The campus
has a huge old banyan tree and around which there strewn are the sculptures of
noted artists from India and elsewhere. It was one of the most happening places
in Indian art some point but by end of 1980s, the charm of this place started
waning. Today also people come here to visit the museum and live here and work
for a while. But somehow the ghetto attitude of the artists who live here has
pushed it out of the mainstream art activities of India. Or is it because of
the apathy of the mainstream art historical discourse of India? One needs to
probe.
(Maitreya under the grand old Banyan tree at cholamandal)
In the evening, I walk towards the beach with my family. My
children are excited at the prospectus of playing in water, a rare experience
in Delhi. But we are disappointed. The beach, half a kilometre away from our
guest house and the Cholamandalam estate is a desolated area though resorts
have come up along the sea shore. The private resorts have colonized the sea
shore. In the competition, the Cholamandalam sea shore is seem to be lost out. In
Chennai, while we were coming towards Cholamandalam I had seen such losing out
villages to suburban activities. New townships are in the making. The horizon
line once there was only the vast expanse of space and heat, today has defined
architectural structures coming up as in any other satellite cities in the
world. For a moment I felt like I was travelling from Kolkata airport to
Kolkata city. There too a new Kolkata is in the making. May be it is already
made. It is one year since I visited Kolkata last.
(JohnyML)
When I write this, my son sits with me with his head leaning
over my right shoulder. He keeps reading the words that I type out as if he
were a word prompter. When a word is refused to be accepted by the Microsoft
word he asks me why it happens so. You may wonder why I am writing about him. I
don’t find writing this particular aspect about my son a bit show off why
because it is what most of the artists do when they paint the portraits of
their sons. It must be out of sheer joy of painting it. I find the same joy
when I write about it. Interestingly, one hour before he too was writing about
his arrival in Chennai in his note book. Perhaps, it is a part of his class assignment:
what have you done during your vacation? He writes both in Hindi and English.
Who knows one day he too would write something like this and his son would lean
his head on his right shoulder and read what he writes. Wouldn’t it be like a
reflection in the parallel mirrors, never ending and immense?
awesome !!!!
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