What is the nicest thing about falling ill? You find time to lie back, and read some poetry. It’s strange, isn’t it? Regardless of how much you enjoy poetry, somehow it is news headlines that always end up taking priority.
I guess, when your body slows down, the finer things get your attention. You look at the paper, and say: Screw you! I’m already quite miserable. Give me something to laugh about.
I am wrapped up in a blanket today. This unholy alliance of headache, fever and cough are not allowing me to do much, so I have pulled out a copy of this yellowing Eunice de Souza anthology loaned to me by a former lover but never claimed back. The one that humours me most is a poem called ‘Sweet Sixteen’. Here you go:
Well, you can’t say
they didn’t try.
Mamas never mentioned menses.
A nun screamed: you vulgar girl
don’t say brassieres
say bracelets.
She pinned paper sleeves
onto our sleeveless dresses.
The preacher thundered:
Never go with a man alone
Never alone
and even if you’re engaged
only passionless kisses.
At sixteen, Phoebe asked me:
Can it happen when you’re in a dance hall
I mean, you know what,
getting preggers and all that, when
you’re dancing?
I, sixteen, assured her
you could.
Eunice taught at Xavier’s, the college I went to. That old institution with its Gothic architecture, and illustrious alumni, used to be quite a stunner at one point of time. I wonder if it continues to be as amazing, or is managing to survive only on its former reputation.
Eunice had retired by the time I got there but her presence continued to float around. There were stories of her crackling energy, her brilliant mind, how she let up cigarettes in class, how cuss words rolled off her tongue with alarming frequency, how she made students hungry for knowledge.
It seems a bit silly to ask, “Is that true?” Come on, you know how stories are made.
Speaking of teachers, I bumped into one of mine at the recently concluded Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. As I walked into the garden adjoining the David Sassoon Library, I saw a crop of white hair that reminded me of lectures on sociology, gossip from an elite club in South Mumbai, and a person who was always bursting with ideas. I went up, and discovered that my guess was absolutely accurate.
“Oh, it’s you! What are you doing with your life now?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I’m going to moderate the panel discussion you have come to attend,” I replied.
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Ma’am! You don’t remember me?”
“Oho, I do. You see, I teach so many students every year. It’s difficult for me to remember names.”
“I am Chintan.”
“Oh yes!”
I was whisked away to a corner. A lapel mic has to be fixed onto my kurta collar. The discussion on race, gender and identity goes off very well.
At the end of the session, my teacher came over to where I was having a post-discussion chat with some people from the audience. She addressed them all at once, and said, “You know what? He is my student!”
Few are aware of Preity Zinta's connection with the founder of Pakistan, Mr. Jinnah
***
The Kala Ghoda Arts Festival has been happening in Mumbai every year, for the last several years. It is one of those things I look forward to every February.
Though Rhythm House, the iconic music store, will disappear from here very soon, and be replaced by goddess-alone-knows-what, this neighbourhood still has a charm that you cannot deny.
Sure, there is all the usual stuff - art installations, music concerts, poetry readings, dance performances, movies, and such. What stands out for me is the way they use the streets around the famous art galleries. You can stumble upon things that you didn’t notice on the schedule, run into friends that you see only on Facebook.
When the action spills outside the packed auditoriums, and the formal venues, you see the city in both its grace and monstrosity.
As I was rushing to my session with author Venkat Dhulipala at Artists’ Centre, a police constable instructed me to join the queue for frisking. He laughed when he saw Venkat’s book in my bag.
The title read: ‘Creating A New Medina: State Power, Islam, and the Quest for Pakistan in Late Colonial North India’. It was more than a mouthful, and he made sure he read out each word slower than the previous one.
When he realised that I was required to read the 530-pages-long volume of potentially explosive content, he looked at me with sympathy in eyes, and said: “All the best! Aapne bohot mehnat ki hi. Aapka session achchha hoga.” (All the best. You have worked hard. Your session will go off well.) Awww!
Venkat and I were supposed to visit Jinnah House at Malabar Hill in Mumbai but that did not happen. I think he got very busy on his brief visit to the city.
Anyway, it is not a tourist site that you can go and check out. We would have probably got to see only a lock, and a security guard. Or, well, many locks, and many security guards.
Now that Sharmila Tagore has stolen many a Pakistani heart, the next literature festival should invite Preity Zinta
He left me with nuggets about this city that I did not know, especially a connection between the Quaid-e-Azam of Pakistan and Bollywood star Preity Zinta whose last film I cannot recollect. She used to date Ness Wadia, son of Maureen and Nusli Wadia. Nusli’s mother was Dina Wadia, daughter of the man Jinnah House is named after. Pretty neat!
Now that Sharmila Tagore has stolen many a Pakistani heart, the next literature festival should invite Preity Zinta. What do you think?
Chintan Girish Modi is a Mumbai-based writer. That he shares his last name with a Prime Minister is purely a matter of coincidence. He tweets at @chintan_connect
