Squadron Leader Anil Sehgal

The author’s face is obscured by Dev Anand’s glass. To the right is composer-singer S D Burman

He was a classmate of our Air Force commander. So, whenever he was anywhere around the place Air Marshal Rajaram was posted at, Dev Anand would invariably make it a point to meet. That is when I met him at ‘Air Force Station Hindon’. Seeing him in flesh, holding a glass of whisky in his lanky hands and cheering to you was a scenario I had never imagined!

Thanks to his friendship with Rajaram, he was a darling of the officers’ mess; there was always a small get-together in his honour. I recall him mingling with the officers affably, cheering each one of them, and always holding a glass of whisky in his hand without finishing a single drink! His visits would always be short, sweet and cheerful.

In 1990, I was posted by the Air Force at Mumbai, which provided me a few opportunities of interacting with him in occasional filmy get-togethers. In 1996, I sought pre-mature release from the Indian Air Force. The following years afforded me greater interaction with Dev Sahib. Many of these meetings were along with friend and journalist Ali Peter John who is a great admirer of the actor.

Meeting Dev Sahib was an experience I will always cherish. He was a bundle of energy, full of enthusiasm for life and great optimism. His very presence was invigorating. He was always lively and his enthusiasm was not only charismatic, it was infectious too.

I recall a day sometime in 1997 when I had to meet Dev sahib at his pad in Pali Hill. That was the day I was feeling feverish and short of energy. So, I rang him up to say that I would like to be excused. “Officer, if you are not feeling bright, that is good enough a reason for you to make it. You must come over. After meeting me, you are bound to feel better!”

He shared a sandwich and some hot tea. We spent about two hours discussing subjects ranging from films, society, and politics to social obligations of a public performer and Lalu Prasad Yadav. He was in his elements and kept me in good humour all through.

By the time I left him, I was feeling energetic, cheerful, and full of bounce with all that feverish feeling gone to the wind! He had rubbed his verve and vitality on me. And that is exactly what happened each time I met him.

He was never patronizing, and by his own example, charmed and inspired me to live life to the fullest extent, irrespective of the hurdles or unfavorable circumstances; never waste time on meaningless social interactions, and do all the things you like if these do not hurt others.

As an actor, he was more youthful than most of our younger crop of actors! Enthusiasm, energy, optimism and joie de vivre are some of the synonyms of Dev Anand.

Death he did not recognize; he believed in living. Even after learning of the death of his dear friend, he always referred to Rajaram as if he had talked to him a short while ago only. That was his zest for life. “Officer, zindagi se badi nemat aur koi nahin hai! Just live it up!” he would say.

Also printed in The Express Tribune

Shaival Thakkar 
(Follows ‘Bong’ed at JNU‘)

“24×7″ food-joint at JNU. 

Apart from these pseudo-Bengalis, there also existed a Delhiite in our batch who claimed to be dying of a serious disease. If he was saying the truth then he deserves all the sympathy and empathy in the world. However, if he was lying (which is probably the case) then he deserves to be punished (like a night or two in jail can really put the hypochondria, the attention-seeking behaviour and the urban loneliness in place). Because all the drama about this disease and death only added to the negativity on campus and seriously affected my well-being and that of my batch mates while he remained comfortable at his off-campus house in Delhi. 

A place like JNU that is supposed to be a safe haven for students and scholars turned into a breeding ground for negativity, bad behaviour and aggressiveness due to such characters. And the Delhi ‘ka paani’ is such that it can even make the nicest and the gentlest of people turn aggressive and manipulative. Although I am generally a mild mannered person, even I harboured revenge fantasies about taking one of our Prime Minister Manmohan Singh’s personal security guards (with whom I am slightly acquainted ,whose number I have and who offered to help if there were any problems in Delhi!) on a weekend to the houses of these hot heads and death-faking johnnies and then make them pee in their pants, crap in their underwear, vomit on their shirt, cough on their ears and other such silly revengeful ( and very unhygienic!) things which Delhiites are famous for saying and doing.

University Pride: Library at JNU   From Photogriefs

If you live in Delhi, you end up speaking Hindi and if you live there long enough, your Hindi improves a lot on its own. So instead of ‘raah’, you say ‘intezaar’ while you’re waiting for something. Your ‘accha’ might turn into ‘badhiya’. And your ‘taklif’ might turn into ‘mushkeel’. So these and many such wonderful Hindi/Urdu words suddenly become a part of your vocabulary. At JNU there was also a healthy population of students from Bihar. And I found that my Hindi also contained inflexions of Bihari. At times, I would end up saying the plural Hum(‘We’) instead of the singular, ‘Main’ (I) while referring to myself. One really cool phrase that I learned from a UP friend of mine is, ‘Aap Load mat Lijye’. Everytime, I or someone around me gets tensed about something, I tell them ‘Aap Load mat Lijye!’.

Back home in Ahmedabad, I had South Indian, Gujarati, Punjabi, Sindhi, Parsi and also a Chinese friend. At JNU, however, people from every region had their own little group and people usually didn’t try much to get out of their regional comfort zone. So according to my experience and to my surprise, Ahmedabad is more cosmopolitan than Delhi! However, in a campus full of students from Bengal, Bihar, Assam, Manipur, Rajasthan, Maharashtra and other states; there were hardly any Gujarati students, which is a bit of a shame. Because having Gujju students in a top academic place like JNU can do a whole lot of good to Gujjuland. 

However, on a lighter note, finally there does exist a place on earth where Gujaratis are very rare. And that is JNU!Some time back, when I read that the centre from where I did my masters in literature was ranked as one of the top 100 English departments in the world, I was really proud of being associated with JNU as a student. I think if we let go off all the pettiness and silly regionalisms then we can go much higher as a university and as a country. However, for that we all have to work together and learn to laugh at ourselves and the places we come from.I am quite an optimist. 

I hope the future will be brighter and the Delhiites and the Bengalis nicer! Bipasha Basu, I hope you’re reading this article!

A silhouette of the Rashtrapati Bhavan (where my security guard friend lives, beware! (Photo: Shaival)

The author does not intend to hurt anybody or any community.

Shaival Thakkar

The author talks about his time at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU, Delhi) and his fondness for Bengalis.

I am a Gujarati. However, when I hear disparaging things being said about Gujarat or Gujaratis, I am usually on the side of the people who are saying it. We have many faults; we’re too money-minded, profiteering, lack cultural activities, we’re found everywhere in the world (which can be really annoying!). And of course the communal riots of 2002 are a huge shame on Gujarat. Some of us might have heard the music of Richard Marx, some might know about the comedy of Groucho Marx but most of us don’t have an inkling what Karl Marx was all about! Being from a dry state, many of us go completely bonkers over alcohol when we finally find some [Oh my God, Alcohol! (Glug, glug, glug, glug!) Where were you all my life! (Glug, glug, glug, glug!)].Moreover, one really big pain that Gujarat has inflicted upon the world is the singing of Himesh Reshamiya who hails from Bhavnagar!

When I was in Ahmedabad, I was heavily influenced by a family friend of ours who happens to be a Bengali. After hearing his stories about Calcutta, trade unions and Socialism, I used to really look up to the Bengalis. And the same Bengali uncle had a young son, who like many brats of his age was fussy about food. Many times his mother had to mix rice and dal into small balls and feed him in order to get him to eat. Thankfully, he has grown up now and doesn’t throw such tantrums!

So when I went to JNU to get a masters degree in literature, I thought I had left the Gujjus behind in their Gujjuland and had great expectations from Bengalis on campus. However, my experience with Bengalis is such that I divide them into 2 types: 1) The kind, gentlemanly/ladylike, scholarly Bengali and 2) The mean-spirited, ‘naika’ (dramatic), pseudo-Bengali. The second type of Bengali really lives up to the ‘gaali’ part in the ‘Bengali’.

Usually when you mix two cultures, either something really good or something really bad happens. So when you have Bengalis who are brought up in Delhi, either they turn out to be great movie directors like Dibakar Banerjee who made ‘Khosla ka Ghosla’ or, to put it mildly, they turn out to be extremely difficult human beings. By difficult I mean, coming to campus only to party (which is cool), trying every method imaginable to hurt the good people around them (which is stupid), making life as difficult as possible for outstation students( some of whom have gone on to become IAS officers or are on their way to becoming researchers and lecturers). And then running back home to mommy with their dirty laundry, spending the weekend home relaxing and then coming back to spread fresh negativity on campus.

These difficult pseudo-Bengalis were so much in your face that it was tough to get away from them. And so the good people of my batch usually ended up taking them seriously. However, I used to imagine that after they were done spreading their ‘bad boy’ image on campus for the day, they used to go back home and were fed rice and dal balls by their mommies. So that image helped me in not taking them too seriously! Moreover, when it was time to write exams or submit term papers, I have seen them looking very lost and as vulnerable in the library as a deer caught in the headlights. Too bad the aimless testosterone and the misguided machismo can only go so far and not really help with matters cerebral!

Post Script PJs:

Q: Why can the Bengali intellectual never go hungry?
A: The Bengali intellectual can never go hungry because s/he always has a chip on his/her shoulder!

Q: Why can the Gujarati intellectual never go hungry?
A: The Gujarati intellectual can never go hungry because s/he simply doesn’t exist!

Classroom: Location of blood-baths between Shaival and Bengalis

Photos: Shaival Thakkar

The author does not intend to hurt anybody or any community.

In the next story, Shaival will talk about students (minus Bengalis) and other cultural facets of JNU and Delhi.

Kartikey Sehgal

“Do you have Jay-Z on your computer?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to put it in?”

“No, I don’t.”

She turned to look straight at her table, not far from where we were seated. Her malfunctioned laptop lay there, along with an empty cup of coffee.

“You don’t really listen to Jay-Z, do you? And you don’t like wearing such skirts either.”

“No, I do. I mean I listen sometimes… “, she halted and looked at her skirt, probably worried if it showed too much. She ran her hands along the length of her skirt and till her bare knees. Then she spoke without much confidence. “Actually I am not used to wearing such clothes. My husband wants me to wear them though. Am actually from a small town you know.”

You wouldn’t know if you saw her walk into the cafe making long strides with her slender legs, eyes blinded by dark sunglasses and a figure-hugging top that indicated gym-fad. You wouldn’t know if she walked to you and asked in somewhat accented English if she could use your laptop to send an urgent email.

I was listening to Franz Schubert when she interrupted me with her request. “Only if you have short nails”

It was while typing the mail that we talked about Jay-Z and her small-town roots.

She looked at the music playlist on the screen. “What is this Schubert?”

I told her that he was a classical composer.

“Oh, I had a brother once. He listened to all such people. Loud violins and all. I would then leave his room and get-out you know.”

A definitive pause. Her smile withered at my non-response.

“What’s your mother tongue?”

“Why, I speak in mostly English. And also Hindi”, she hastily dismissed my question. She would excuse herself from my table now, I thought.

—

She told me stories about her home-town; noisy streets, small lanes and secret crushes on teachers; how she stealthily went to her brother’s room and replaced his classical music disc with her ‘Barbie Girl’ disc. When one day, she replaced his music collection with her collection of love songs, he scolded her. She fake-cried until their parents made him apologise. “I lived for such moments”, she said in chaste Hindi. “Just remembering them makes me laugh so much!”

She was slouching, her left elbow on the table supporting her head. Hair strands were not perfect like before. Her skirt had ridden up a little, showing a little of her thighs.

I don’t know whether she saw me looking. Perhaps she did because she spoke about her husband.

“He is the son of my father’s long-time friend. They shifted to Mumbai and then one-day they sent us the rishta. My parents were thrilled about Mumbai. He works in ____ company and puts any kind of music in his computer unlike you! I remember I was in my dotted pink pyjamas and very very untidy hair and not taken a bath for two days when I heard the news.

You know my brother gave me Ravi Shankar classical cd as a wedding gift. As if I will listen. Do you have Beyonce or Hanna Montana on your system?”

“I don’t keep such music on my laptop. We don’t like it.”

“Arre! So rude. We don’t like it matlab? Is he as picky as you or what? I think you too deserve to have your music collection replaced by my songs. Swish-swish swash”, she said making a sword like motion with her hand. And then she laughed heartily at her actions.

I made her read some of my songs. She claimed to like the words. “But how can I trust a girl with a taste in music such as yours?”

“I also listen to ‘super-intelligent’ music sometimes, okay? Never meet my brother. Both of you will gang-up and take my case…
Do you go to places to write songs?”

“Sometimes I walk, sometimes on my bed in messy clothes and unkempt hair and sometimes at the beach.”

That struck a nerve. She didn’t respond to me but just looked away, though she was still attempting to keep her smile. Was it my mention of the beach or was it the messy bed? Perhaps she longed for her carefree messy days…

The smile returned and she attacked me with an accusation.

“I saw you looking at my legs. I saw you so don’t deny.”

I couldn’t deny and she couldn’t wait for my acceptance or denial, or wait to read my eyes. Her husband had walked in. She hastily and formally introduced us and thanked me for letting her send the mail. Her husband looked displeased and walked with her to the table where the girl packed her laptop; a shiny new Mac that appeared to me an artificial though glossy entity; an indicator of something about her.

She packed her bag and checked the hem-line of her skirt. She probably wondered if I was looking at her legs. As she walked to the café counter to pay the bill she dabbed her palm on her hair and adjusted her top. I didn’t see her eyes again; those sunglasses were back to business.

Her husband walked out first. She opened the door and turned to face me while walking out. She smiled from behind those dark glasses. “Everything is fine”, that’s how I interpreted it. Like wanting to bridge two worlds, two different realities. Those glasses were very dark.

I put on the headphones and went back to Franz Schubert. Symphony No. 2: Andante in E flat major.

Submitted as an entry to Dell’s and IndiBlogger’s ‘Change is Easy’ Contest

Kartikey Sehgal

Sitting in a library inside a coffee house. Outside, there are fragrant flowers. I remember a conversation with my friend at this very place a long time ago – between 1948- 1950. The setting was different then. Two friends talking about a girl.

Flowers are in an alliance with the vanity of women. At once, the romantic would breathe the air of jasmine flowers and harbour notions of never-ending love. It is when we can smell the unseen fragrances that we can imagine the unseen future. But the life of both is always at peril. The fragrances will surely fade, and become a memory. And the unseen future, that too may live only in memory.

She never liked coming in unannounced; what if the jasmine fragrance distracted us from her presence?

There she would stand, by the door and smile. She wanted us to turn to look at her.

She would stand there for minutes, waiting for us to turn towards her.

And see her smile.

And see her smile. Then she would walk towards us, with her smile reminiscent of her South-Indian upbringing of manners and courteousness.

Once when her parents caught her with us at this place, she made us her teachers.

I had to explain algorithms to her over reams of napkins while they looked on suspiciously.

And then the fragrances on her; would you still say that flowers are in connivance with women. What if the musk from her body be drowned in the smell of jasmine? Would the ever-lasting romantic fume in agony? Of what value would those jasmines be when he goes out of this place?

If she knew she didn’t show it.

Once I moved in very close and my breathing was unmistakably loud. I think she knew we smelled her perfume. She never showed it.

Who says life’s mysteries are in the distant future? We have bundles of mystery walking beside us all wrapped in innocence.

She wore that musk for us. She put it deliberately. For us.

And neither of us spoke a word about it. It was our life-long secret game.

Life-long…

(pause. They drink coffee and deliberate. Then the scene changes to the present where he deliberates alone. Then back to the past – to the conversation)

Better to have seen and lost than to not have seen at all. The big red flower walked in through the door to where we were having coffee. It offered us its petals. Each petal a different memory. We felt them in anticipation. When the plucking is done, nothing will remain of the flower. And the silkiness of the petals will evaporate. But would you rather not see the big red flower walk in through the door and offer you memories.

Imagine we are seated, with the big red flower when she walks in and we don’t turn. The flower is offering us its memories. She waits but we don’t look. She walks to us a bit angrily and then, the aroma of coffee, the red flower and musk mix around us.

Kartikey Sehgal

On the impermanence of life. And the constant passing of time.

The wind blew into the home by saying hello to the bell of God. A small silver bell hung by a nail and it twisted and danced when wind came to it. ‘Wind is saying hello to us, mother’, the girl would say or keep it in her mind to tell her mother when she returned from outdoors.

Perhaps the wind brings some message, some signal from God. In vacant moments, the girl would reflect –all of her tiny frame – on what God wants to tell her. Her thoughts would be fodder for her future conversations with mother. Sometimes she would grow impatient – when would mother return. Once, in this impatience, her mind wandered to spoons and steel and silver, and how they reflect light. Would she dare to reflect light to the outside sky at night. She could use the torch on the spoon and reflect the light out of the window. Perhaps it would light the sky and she would see something scary. Did she want to see a scary thing?

The minds of children wander a lot. All those wanderings dwell in safety. Like this girl’s dream of walking on a cobbled street somewhere on a very steep mountain. She didn’t see her mother in the dream but she could tell her about the dream and hope that someday they would walk the cobbled street on the mountain. Even scary dreams have their destination in the comfort of mother’s arms. And like this, time passes. Happiness and sadness are based in a certain comfort.

The young girl’s hut was empty. Her mother had passed away. Where once hung photographs was now vacant wall. The girl could, however, remember which photos came where. These were now kept in boxes. They would soon move to another home. The small silver bell of God should stay here, the girl decided. In this lonely hill, where farmers’ and workers’ homes were at some distances, the bell would keep company to this lonely house. It would make sounds at night when the wind would come into the house with force. How lonely would the home be without them now, the girl thought.

She grew scared of dreaming at night. Aunt was nice but she was not mother. The girl was told that she would slowly mature and dreams would get more comfortable.

On the day of departure, the little girl stepped out to the meadow when the sun had cast a golden-yellow colour in the sky. The sun is never green, like the grass.

She played with the grass blades and the wind passed through her hair. Behind her lay the home made of wood, mostly. It was essentially a very large and spacious room with thin wooden partitions to segregate the kitchen and the rooms. This home was on top of a small hill. There were other homes on the slopes and on top of the surrounding hills. At night, you could see the lights at long distances; every home had an attached tube-light to its side and it was a rule to switch it on in the evenings.

The and hill sloped steeply in front of the girl. She was not to go there as mother would be angry. She was not to be out at this hour on a windy day but she took the liberty. She will explain and pacify her mother later. Except that when she dreamed of her, others said it was not good. Perhaps maturity means forgetting, the girl thought.

When you look through the green-paper from the craft bag, the sun does look green, and everything around you looks very green. She thought of getting the paper but remembered that everything was neatly put into the boxes. Aunt had done a wonderful job of packing. Nothing should be disorderly, she said.

The sun left its golden-yellow hue. The wind was feeble, it will pick speed in the evening. The grass blades were the same as the girl had always remembered them. She touched them, feeling their contours and picking out the sharper ones. The wooden home was behind her. With the silver bell of God, she remembered.

Crimson

For a few moments every week, I allow myself the luxury of slipping into my make-believe world where you and I can pretend that the rest of the world ceases to exist, where I can pretend you are only mine. It might have just been a candid conversation for you when you told me how exactly you felt about me. But it tossed me onto a whole new plane of thought and imagination. Yes, it broke the illusion of platonic love with the opposite sex. Yes, it took away from the innocence of our friendship. And yet, it made me feel terribly good about myself. It felt good to know that I was loved and that I was worthy of being loved. It restored my almost depleted self-confidence levels and the ever-so fragile sense of the self. The constant attention from you and the memory of your words gave me a new-found strength to move forward.

But this euphoria is also accompanied with a sense of regret. Had I totally lost my chance of finding true love while I was dreaming of it with someone else? Today neither of us is terribly unhappy with our lives.  We both made our choices and shouldn’t have much reason to complain. But I still find myself getting angry, with a hint of sadness. I do not who I am angry at more – myself for being blind, selfish and inconsiderate or you for being honest with me. I saw a Mr. Perfect in you long before you told me what you felt. But in my mind, you were always unavailable. I would have walked away from a hurtful relationship and thrown myself at you with more alacrity than you think. But the fear of being branded restrained me.

I tell myself to be the bigger person and let go. The consciousness of your love should be adequate to keep me afloat. I have nothing against your partner – no streaks of jealousy, malice or bitterness. Yet, the overpowering sense of regret, and the subsequent ever-consuming feeling of guilt over my love for a married man, renders me numb negating every other feeling I could possibly ever experience or perceive.

Nimesh Advani and
Ipsita Bandyopadhyay

“Snapshot of memories” or simply an awry screenplay? Nimesh Advani and Ipsita Bandyopadhyay think differently about the movie ‘Delhi-6‘.

“…there are so many characters and so many sub plots that I was confused where to look next…”

Nimesh Advani

Rating: ★☆☆☆ 

It’s very irritating when during a movie there is constant chattering from horny middle aged couples but its effect is reduced when the movie is Delhi-6. With an impressive and promising cast and direction by the popular Rakeysh OmPrakash Mehra, expectations are bound to be high. But after barely 20 minutes your desire to see some meaningful cinema starts fading away.

Abhishek Bacchan’s ‘Roshan’ comes to India with Daadi (grandmother) because she wants to die in her Mitti…sob sob. But Roshan gets extra baggage along with him in his fake American accent that should have been left behind (Watch out for him saying “Look Golden Deeerrrrr”). In Delhi he meets his typical family full of bhabhis, buas, and bachha party and two warring brothers (the reason for their quarrel is yet unknown…Still Researching). This movie is a journey of how Roshan finds his roots in Delhi and decides to settle here with the various caste issues and religious problems over a lot of snooker games with Rishi Kapoor. During his stay he meets Bittu (Sonam Kapoor) who is the female lead of the film but is hardly seen and, by the way, she also wants to become the next Indian Idol.

A lot of people want to do a lot of things in the movie; there are so many characters and so many sub plots that I was confused where to look next and in this Bhel-puri, as we may call it, the main issue of the KAALA BANDAR (Black monkey) is lost. There are many characters like the horny photographer, the roadside mithaiwala and the garbage woman but the director does not do justice to any of them. 

Not many people would be able to connect the ‘Ram Leela’ to the story of the film (whatever little there is). The screenplay of this film is disappointing and the sloppy editing does not help the cause either. For instance, Abhishek is seen spending more time with Rishi Kapoor than with his love Sonam  Kapoor and the whole romantic song ‘Rehna Tu’ is picturised on Abhishek and Rishi Kapoor during one of their snooker sessions. Amitabh Bacchan’s cameo in the end could have been avoided as it added little to the proceedings.

The only saving grace of the movie is the music by Oscar winner AR Rehman that is wasted on the film. The song ‘Masakali’ has become a chartbuster, not to forget ‘Genda Phool’ and many others but there are too many songs in the pre-interval period.

There are a few moments in the first half of the film that will keep the audience awake like the rumour regarding Kaala Bandar and people’s reaction on TV and the scene where the cow is giving birth in the middle of the road. Binod Pradhan’s cinematography is pleasant in the first half while we are discovering Delhi but soon the lack of a proper screenplay takes over the few positives.

All in all one starts finding the conversations of the horny middle aged couples more interesting than the movie!

————————–

 ”Do we remember dreams/childhood memories clearly? But some events, images, sights, sounds, smells stand out.”

Ipsita Bandyopadhyay

Rating: ★★★☆ 

As in all forms of art, I repeat an oft-repeated argument: that there has to be freedom of form. I feel the audiences and the media in this country like only plot-based films and not thought based films. A repeated grouse against Delhi-6 (D6) is that it has no cohesive plot.

Is that even required? It’s a cliché perhaps derived from the fact that we love stories…and we are used to a clear message being derived out of a story. Just like my Math teacher in Class II, instead of clarifying the concept of addition taught me to recognize an addition problem in the exam by the presence of the word ‘altogether’. The result: a few years later, I actually forgot the difference between addition and subtraction till I was re-taught some basics.

The film is clearly in the form of vignettes- somewhat like a snapshot of memories from the writer’s past/ his experiences. Do we remember dreams/childhood memories clearly? But some events, images, sights, sounds, smells stand out. In this respect, providing context does nothing to add to the case of the film. D6 is a chapter in the life of Roshan Mehra. To my mind it didn’t matter whether he was a computer engineer or a college student before he came to India. He carried with him a sense of calm, composure and an unhurried manner. So why can’t we just assume that he was on a vacation? The soul of the film is something different- its message lies elsewhere.

I admire the director Raykesh OmPrakash Mehra’s (ROM) ability to translate feelings to visuals. If you watch his films carefully, you’ll feel connected to what he’s trying to depict. As though his thoughts have been translated by a secret code onto the screen and at that point, there’s a strong connect between the viewer and the writer. Pardon me a poor metaphor but somewhat like tuning fork and vibrating string in resonance during Henle’s experiment. I wish I had an example I could quote from the film to demonstrate this point. But I am sorry, it’s a feeling, very strong and resonating at the moment it hits you, but vanishes soon. This adds texture to a film, a certain je ne sais quoi (I know not what) very few works of art achieve- something you can read between the lines.

Many people I spoke to including the film reviewer of India’s leading news channel felt the Hindu-Muslim jhagda in the film was too ‘over-the-top’. This puts me off. Here’s a guy who’s trying to show us a complex problem in its infancy, where it begins, in a simple manner that one should understand. But the audience seems to demand complexity. Throughout the communal tension, the audience is prompted to smile at the absurdity of it all. That’s precisely the point Mehra tries to make. How politics can drive neighbours to madness within a community where religious syncretism actually is such a integral part of life that intolerance seems forced; it obviously is by the media, politicians etc.

In any case, if the film tried to show this in any more serious a manner it would have been banned/ embroiled in controversy.

I must submit that the expectations from ROM post the director’s Rang De Basanti (RDB) are more than sky-high. D6 is nowhere close. The music is brilliant but terribly placed. Very valid points. You came out of RDB feeling something very deep within. In my opinion, a large portion of that credit went to the superb acting by the cast and strong characterization which is lacked sorely here. Abhishek and lead actress Sonam hugely disappoint in D6. That does take away from the soul of the film. But not from the thought Rakeysh has presented. 

Also much criticized is the ‘filmy’ ending. There is a strong argument for showing reality in cinema. Which is that, in real life, Abhishek would have died perhaps. But is there any argument for not showing hope? That violence between communities living together may end when neighbours realize their follies and look into the mirror so to speak. It’s a simplistic but valid solution to show.

An interview somewhere said that the director would have like another month to complete the film. He should have been given that.

Shruti Garodia

Sahyadri School, was a home away from home. At the age of ten when I went to Sahyadri, it was simply an experiment, a gamble that could have worked out either way. But today at 22, I am grateful to my parents for having taken that gamble.

I made many mistakes at Sahyadri and worked my way through. I don’t so much remember the syllabi but what I do remember is the lesson of survival, wherein you stand up for yourself, make your own choices and stick to them. It allowed me space and a great amount of freedom and time to grow and explore the various choices in life.

Nestled amidst the mountains and a river, it was a microcosm of the world outside. At the same time I led a cocoon-like existence, in absolute bliss, unaware of the world at large, feeling so protected and loved that I did not bother to read the newspapers. All this despite being away from home.

These were indeed the best years of my life, in a place where I learnt to accept myself with all my shortcomings and more importantly, to love myself. Today I can stand up for myself because of Sahyadri.

I owe my individualistic way of thinking largely to my experience in school. I internalized many things in my alma mater rather unconsciously and to my delight, I am still discovering them – some of them being quite trivial actually; love for night milk, long chatty meal times, fondness for half-cooked noodles, ability to study only once the sun sets etc. But on a more serious note, I learnt to be independent and confident of my abilities. Today I believe that I am indeed a special person, who is loved a great deal. This sense of security developed in school still prevails. The world no doubt looks very scary and monster-like occasionally but I feel I am better equipped to deal with the monstrosity of the world after having been in Sahyadri.

A lot of people I know criticize Sahyadri for its austere way of living but that’s the only way I ever want to remember that place. Childhood for me was never about computers, video-games, or television; it was about much greater and meaningful things – poring over books and natural beauty, climbing mountains, crying over crimson sunsets, gossiping late into the night with room-mates and writing reams and reams of letters back home. I believe that I lived a special childhood.

Life in Sahyadri meant more than simply attending school. It almost became a way of life. Once out of school, I often found myself defending its ethos and culture on a number of occasions to various people around me but I soon gave up because if the world refused to understand Sahyadri, it was only their loss, not mine.

When in school, we were always told that freedom comes with responsibility.I never fathomed how this was true. It was a mystery that I meekly came to accept because it was told to me by people I held in high esteem.

It was only in college that I realized the absolute meaning of the statement. And then it struck me hard.

On one hand there was so much freedom (my parents had given me a free rein after six years of life in a boarding school) that a lot of people I know could not handle. I tried to view my college years as an extension of my school life except that I now stayed at home. But that did not happen.

There were two options, I could have gone absolutely berserk with the amount of freedom I had or I could choose to behave responsibly. I would like to believe that I have been quite responsible, owing largely to my life in Sahyadri.

After school, I felt that college restricted me quite a bit, leaving me somewhat flustered coupled with a feeling of being out-of-place. Suddenly I found myself being bound by attendance lists, constant nagging by the extended family, the self-created examination stress, pressure to be home before sunset, etc.

I had learnt enough in school to understand early in life that simply acing an examination was not the key to a happy life. I am not going to deny that exams are important but I was fortunate to have had teachers who convinced me that exams were not the only thing that mattered.

At every step of the way in college, I found myself in a conflict over choices. Having to make constant choices in school, prepared me to be able to figure out my priorities in college. I keep telling myself that the journey is important and that I have to be content with what I am doing and that the rest is immaterial. What I am doing may not work for everyone but it will work for me. End of story!

It is almost seven years later I realize that I learnt much more than mere academics in Sahyadri. We learnt some fairly simple lessons in school; those of loyalty, simplicity, humility, dignity of labor, tolerance, forgiveness, acceptance and the ability to stick to what you believe in. It is these that stick with me.

The thought of returning to school is always there on the back of my mind. It is a promise I make to myself every time I am feeling discontent and low. But having joined the rat race and keeping pace with the frenetic pace of life in a metropolitan city, it is a promise that goes largely ignored.

It is not a life I had envisioned for myself seven years ago. But the most surprising part is that I have come to find some solace in this chaotic order of things as well. I have learnt to seek happiness from the smallest things in life – the luxury to able to sleep for ten hours straight, succeeding to secure a seat in the train, an email from a friend who I have been neglecting for a while, etc.

I do not know how to interpret this frame of mind but what matters is that it gives me contentment. It keeps the dark clouds at bay and more importantly makes me feel connected to Sahyadri in some ways.

So when my best friend cheekily writes down in a space asking for a description of her: “the journey…it’s all about the journey…” it simply brings a smile to my face. I know exactly where she is coming from.