MAYA BAZAAR

MAYA BAZAAR 

K. V. Reddy's 'Maya Bazaar' has been voted as the 'Greatest Indian Film' in an online poll conducted by a television news channel. The poll was conducted to find out India's greatest film till date, on the occasion of 100 Years of Indian Cinema and people chose 'Maya Bazaar' over other Indian classics. The film is considered one of the enduring classics of Indian cinema and was christened as a landmark achievement in Indian film's cinematography, art direction and VFX with the available technology during that time. The following is a review on the film when it celebrated the Golden Jubilee in 2007.

'Maya Bazaar' forever!

Fifty years ago, director K.V. Reddy or for that matter, producers Nagireddy and Chakrapani, would not have imagined what they were unleashing when they decided to make Maya Bazaar- a bilingual in Telugu and Tamil. 

The finished product hit the screen in 1957 to become a landmark movie in the Telugu film industry. It became a hit not only for the sterling performances of the star-ensemble that it had right from S.V. Ranga Rao, Savitri, NTR, ANR, and Gummadi, but also because K.V. Reddy was in full control over every frame of it.

There is little else one could expect when all time greats like Marcus Bartley (cinematography), Ghantasala (music), M.L.Vasantha Kumari, Leela, Suseela and Madhavapeddi (playback), Gokhale (art), Pasumarthy(choreography) and Pitambaram(makeup) got together to weave magic around an episode from Mahabharatha, Sasirekha Parinayam.

However, the greatness of Maya Bazaar, about which much is said and written, is not just because of these facets alone. It is a tribute to Telugu culture, language and customs of the land. The film was watched repeatedly soon after its release because people identified every character of the film with someone they knew in their immediate vicinity and the audience still do the same now.

The dialogues written by Pingali Nagendra Rao (as well the lyrics) were the same that the people were hearing or using in their conversations every day - if not, those became a part of Telugu life thereafter.Sasirekha, nay Ghatothkacha's Manadi Sodara Prema… became immortalized as much as Suryakantam's antha alamalame kada which has become a way of life in greeting people. As for songs, Aha naa pelli anta still reverberates in marriages and Vivaaha bhojanambu is yet another must.

An entire repertoire was added to the Telugu dictionary by the film. Take for example Talpam used for denoting a cot or a bed. Were Telugus using Gilpam as an antonym of it till the movie's advent? Nor did anyone tell so emphatically until Ghatothkacha that Evaru puttinchakunte maatalela pudathayi and hence if friends are to be called Asamadiyulu then enemies could be termed Tasamadiyulu. Will anyone forget the expression veyandira veediko veeratadu? No exception to hai hai sodara and hai hai naayaka . The story itself is woven around the love of SasirekhaAbhimanyu. With Krishna and Balarama having difference of opinion over it, their wives too take sides as is inevitable in any family. To introduce the theme , the director uses a magic box, (an equivalent of a TV screen) which displays whatever is dear to the viewer's heart.

Sasirekha naturally sees Abhimanyu and Balarama gets to see his sishya, Duryodhana on it. His wife laps up the sight of an array of jewellery and the audience laughed heartily because they knew that someone back home was equally attached to the riches. When Balarama curtly tells his sister, " Subhadra! Aagadalu,aghaayityalu naaku paniki raavu", when he confronted with latter's indignation at his decision to separate Sasirekha and Abhimanyu , womenfolk among the viewers sighed recalling their own tribulations in the hands of such brothers.

Frame after frame impacts viewers with similarities. The greatness of director lies here- he successfully reduces all characters to ordinary mortals displaying all the follies of human beings except Ghatothkacha or Krishna. And then he injects into the Yadava household a Telugu atmosphere, full with its simile, imagery, adage, sarcasm and wit.

The result-a feast for the eyes and soul. That is Maya Bazaar for you. Mind you, this is a story of Paandavas and Kauravas with the Yadavas pitching in. But one never sees the Paandavas throughout the film. We only hear of them.

If any NRI asks you to suggest ways to teach Telugu culture just ask him or her to introduce them to Maya Bazaar first. Further, if they seek to know about their uncles, aunts and cousins back home, bring in their names , “look, this is your Balarama…...

” Any better way of doing it? 

Then onwards it's all Laahiri, laahiri, laahiri lo…….

RENDEZVOUS WITH RAY

RENDEZVOUS WITH RAY 

It was a unique friendship that developed between a French-Canadian priest and one of the world’s greatest film directors, and had a singular impact on Bengali films both academically and practically. It was en-route to India in1961, at a stopover in New York, that 26-year- old Fr. Gaston Roberge was acquainted with the works of Satyajit Ray through the Apu Trilogy. He found the world of Apu so fascinating that he saw all three films in one sitting; and there began his longstanding love affair with the people of India and Bengali cinema and culture, which led to path-breaking work in those fields. In his latest book, Satyajit Ray, Essays1970-2005, a compilation of his essays as the name suggests, being published by Manohar Publishers, New Delhi, Roberge provides a scholarly, original analysis of Ray’s works, giving an insight into the greatness of Ray both as a person and as an artist.

“The Apu Trilogy was, in fact, my first portal to West Bengal and its people,” he told Frontline. In his youth , all he knew of Bengal was through Mircea Eliade’s La Nuit Bengalie, some of Tagore’s poems, and a Reader’s Digest article on Mother Teresa. If the harsh image of poverty brought out by the article on the “Saint of the slums” haunted him, Apu’s world came as a reassurance. “No. Apu, Sarbajaya, even Harihar did not need my help-but how not to love them? I thought it was fortunate that I would soon be among them,” he wrote.

Roberge does not endorse the accusation of Ray’s detractors that the master director made his reputation selling India’s poverty to the West. “What struck me most was not the material poverty depicted in the films, but the enormous spiritual poverty of some rich people is much more deplorable than material poverty,” he said. Roberge does not speak with the arrogance of the West. “ I was here on a quest to know the world and in the process know myself. I did not come here to convert. In fact, I am the one who got converted,” he said.

But it took him nine years after reaching Calcutta (now Kolkatta) and joining St. Xavier’s College, to muster up the confidence to meet Ray in person. “Although I wanted to meet him right away, I didn’t want to just go and see him like he was a living museum piece. I wanted to prepare myself, get to know his works more, so that when we met, there could be a worthwhile dialogue,” he said. When they finally met, it was the beginning of a close friendship that lasted 22 years- until Ray’s death in 1992.

It was a very quiet friendship that developed over the years. Manikda [as Ray was affectionately called by his friends] was a shy person and always very discreet about displaying his emotions,” said Roberge. Though to outsiders, Ray’s massive stature- physical and intellectual- might have made him come across as cold, aloof and even intimidating, he was in reality a very simple and unassuming man with a subtle sense of humour. It was an unspoken arrangement between the two of them to meet on Sundays at 9 a.m. at Ray’s residence on Bishop Lefroy Road, Kolkata. Ray would invite Roberge over for private screenings of his latest films and welcomed comments on them. But this happened only after the friendship had cemented, for in the early days of their dialogue Ray’s shyness prevented him from talking about his own films.

“He was even shy of receiving compliments,” said Roberge. To Roberge, the greatest mark of Ray’s appreciation for him was that he often addressed the French-speaking priest in Bengali, “in spite of my lack of elegance in that language, and the fact that Ray knew both English and Bengali so well.”

Ray’s screenplay manuscripts were an art by themselves, Roberge says, “hand-written in Bengali, with notes in English for his set-designer, with sketches here and there, and occasional staff notation of fragments of music”. One Sunday morning, Roberge found Ray in a disturbed mood. A few well –known personalities of the city had visited him earlier to go through some of his manuscripts. After they left Ray found the Charulatha screenplay missing. Ray was almost sure who the culprit was. “I asked him whether he was planning to take any action, and he said no, and explained to me that he did not want to hurt the reputation of the person. I was absolutely stunned by his humane concern,” said Roberge.

Like Rabindranath Tagore, Ray strode his time like a colossus. Roberge writes, “It is as if all Bengal was in Manikda: the rich and the poor, the powerful and the humble, the peasants and the city persons, children, teenagers, adults and old people, men and women.

” Philosophically too, Roberge feels, Ray took off where Tagore signed out. If one compares the last major prose piece by Tagore, “ Shabhyatar Sankat” ( Crisis of Civilisation), which he wrote at the beginning of the Second World War, which contains his immortal dictum that in spite of what was happening it would be a sin to lose faith in Man, and the last three films of Ray- Ganashatru, Shakha Prashakha, and Agantuk- the analogy becomes clear.

“In these three films Ray was at his most personal and when some critics saw the films as didactic and verbose, he felt deeply hurt. For, in these last films, Satyajit was directly talking to us, conveying his personal message on society and civilization. If the impulse that motivated his earlier films was aesthetics in the last three it was self-expression. And there we were denying him his right to speak. As the saying goes, no one is a prophet in his own country,” said Roberge. An agnostic throughout his life, it is possible, Roberge feels, that in the face of death Ray was searching for an answer. This was suggested by some of the music that he used in Shakha Prashakha.

The last time the two friends met, Ray was in hospital, on his deathbed. It was a Sunday and Roberge, true to habit, arrived on the dot at 9 a.m. “He had grown so weak that he looked frail as a child. I did not stay long, and as I was leaving, Manikda said, ‘Bhalo laglo’ [it was nice]. Those were his last words to me,” said Roberge. 

One important fallout of this friendship was the establishment of Chitrabani, a communication and film institute, the first of its kind in West Bengal, which Roberge founded in 1970 and to which Ray, as a token of friendship, lent his name as co-founder. Ray was in the first governing body and after a few terms readily agreed to be the institute’s adviser. Roberge arranged most of the initial funding from Canadian agencies. “I had no reservations applying for them, for I feel richer countries in the West are indebted to countries like India,” he said.

For 26 years Roberge was the director of Chitrabani and under him the institute not only produced important documentary features, but also became breeding ground for local talent for film-making………..

THE NEVER-NEVER NEST BY CEDRIC MOUNT

THE NEVER-NEVER NEST BY CEDRIC MOUNT

Characters: JACK, Jill (his wife), Nurse and Aunt Jane 

Scene: The lounge of JACK and JILL'S Villa at New Hampstead. The essential furniture consists of tables on which are writing materials, and two chairs. As the curtain rises the lounge is empty, but JACK and JILL come immediately, followed by AUNT JANE.

Jill : And this is the lounge.

Aunt Jane : Charming! Charming! Such a cosy little room! And such pretty furniture.

Jack : (modestly) We like it, you know, handy place to sit in and listen to the radiogram.

Aunt Jane : Oh, have you got a radiogram as well as a car and a piano?

Jack : Why, of course, Aunt Jane. You simply must have a radio set nowadays.

Jill : And it's so nice for me when Jack's away at business. I even make him

move it into the kitchen, so that I can listen to it while I cook.

Jack : Sit down, Aunt Jane, You must be tired-and we've shown you everything now.

Jill : What do you think of our little nest, Aunt Jane?

Aunt Jane : I think it's wonderful, my dears. The furniture-and the car-and the piano and the refrigerator and the radio-what's it- it's wonderful, really

wonderful!

Jack : And we owe it all to you.

Aunt Jane : Yes, Jack, that's what's worrying me.

Jack : Worrying you, Aunt Jane?

Aunt Jane : Yes. That cheque I gave you for your wedding present-it was only two hundred

pounds, wasn't it? I- didn't put two thousand by mistake?

Jill : Why no, Aunt Jane. What on earth made you think that?

Aunt Jane : (relieved) Well, that's all right. But I still don't altogether understand. This houseit's very lovely-but doesn't it cost a great deal for rent?

Jack : Rent? Oh, no, we don't pay rent.

Aunt Jane : But, Jack, if you don't pay rent, you'll get turned out-into the street. And that would never do. You've Jill and the baby to think of now, you know.

Jack : No, no, Aunt Jane. You misunderstood me. We don't pay rent because the house is ours.

Aunt Jane : YOURS?

Jill : Why, yes; you just pay ten pounds and it's yours.

JACK : You see, Aunt Jane, we realized how uneconomic it is to go on paying rent year

after year, when you can buy and enjoy a home of your own for ten pounds-and

a few quarterly payments, of course. Why be Mr. Tenant when you can be Mr. Owner?

Aunt Jane : I see. Yes, there's something in that. Even so, you must be getting on very well to

keep up a place like this.

Jill : Oh, he is, Aunt Jane. Why, only last year he had a five shilling rise-didn't you,

Jack?

Jack : (modestly) Of course that was nothing, really. I'm expecting ten this Christmas.

Aunt Jane : (suddenly) Jack! I've just thought of something. That car-is it yours?

Jill : Of course it's ours.

Aunt Jane : All yours?

Jack : Well, no, not exactly all.

Aunt Jane : How much of it?

Jill : Oh, I should say the steering wheel-and one of the tyres -- and about two of the cylinders. But don't you see, that's the wonderful thing about it.

Aunt Jane : I don't see anything wonderful about it.

Jill : But there is, Aunt Jane. You see, although we could never buy a car outright, we

can enjoy all the pleasures of motoring for a mere five pounds down.

Aunt Jane : And the rest by easy installments, I suppose.

Jill : Exactly.

Aunt Jane : Exactly. And what about the radio-what's it?

Jack : Well, that's the Aunt Jane : And the piano?

Jill : Well, of course Aunt Jane : And the furniture?

Jack : I-I'm afraid so Aunt Jane : I suppose all you own is this leg. (She points to one)

Jill : Well, no, as a matter of fact, it's that one. (She points to another.)

Aunt Jane : And the rest belongs to Mr. Sage, I suppose?

Jill : Er-Yes.

Aunt Jane : Well. I'm not going to sit on-Mr. Sage's part for any one. (She stands up.)

Now, tell me, how much do all these installments come to?

Jack : Well, actually-(He takes out his pocket-book and consults it.)- actually to

seven pounds eight and eight pence a week.

Aunt Jane : Good heavens! And how much do you earn?

Jack : As a matter of fact-er-that is-six pounds.

Aunt Jane : But that's absurd! How can you pay seven pounds eight and eight pence out of

six pounds?

Jack : Oh, that's easy. You see, all you have to do is to borrow the rest of the money

for the payments from the Thrift and Providence Trust Corporation.

Jill : They're only too glad to loan you any amount you like, on note of hand alone.

Aunt Jane : And how do you propose to pay that back?

Jack : Oh, that's easy, too. You just pay it back in installments.

Aunt Jane : Installments! (She claps her hand to her forehead and sinks back weakly

into the chair. Then realises that she is sitting on Mr. Sage's piece and

leaps to her feet again with a little shriek.)

Jack : Aunt Jane! Is anything the matter? Would you like to lie down?

Aunt Jane : Lie down? Do you suppose I'm going to trust myself in a bed that belongs to

Mr. Sage, or Marks and Spencer, or somebody? No, I am going home.

Jill : Oh, must you really go?

Aunt Jane : I think I'd better.

Jack : I'll drive you to the station.

Aunt Jane : What! Travel in a car that has only one tyre and two thingummies! No thank

you-I'll take the bus.

Jack : Well, of course, if you feel like that about it....

Aunt Jane : (relenting a little) Now, I'm sorry if I sounded rude, but really I'm shocked to

find the way you're living. I've never owed a penny in my life-cash down, that's

my motto and I want you to do the same. (She opens her handbag.) Now look,

here's a little cheque I was meaning to give you, anyway. (She hands it to Jill.)

Suppose you take it and pay off just one of your bills- so that you can say one

thing at least really belongs to you.

Jill : (awkwardly)Er-thank you. Aunt Jane. It's very nice of you.

Aunt Jane : (patting her arm)There! Now I must be going.

Jack : I'll see you to the bus anyway.

Jill : Good-bye, Aunt Jane-and thanks so much for the present.

Aunt Jane : (kissing her)Good-bye, my dear.

(She and Jack go out. Jill looks at the cheque and exclaims 'Ten pounds!'

Then she hurries to the table, addresses an envelope, endorses the cheque

and slips it inside with a bill which she takes from the bag and seals the

envelope. Then she rings the bell. In a moment the nurse comes in with the

baby in her arms.)

Jill : Oh, nurse. I want you to run and post this for me. I'll look after baby while you're gone.

Nurse : Certainly, madam. (She hands the baby to Jill, takes the letter, and goes.)

(A second later Jack comes in again.)

Jack : Well, she's gone! What a tartar! Still, she did leave us a bit on account-how much was it?

Jill : Ten pounds.

Jack : (with a whistle) Phew! That's great! We can pay off the next two months on the car with that.

Jill : I-I'm afraid we can't Jack : Why ever not?

Jill : You see, I-I've already sent it off for something else. Nurse has just gone to post it.

Jack : Well that's all right. Who have you sent it to?

Jill : Dr. Martin.

Jill : (nearly in tears) There! Now you're going to be angry with me.

Jack : I'm not angry! But why waste good money on the doctor? Doctors don't expect to get paid anyway.

Jill : (sobbing a little) But-but you don't understand -

Jack : Understand what?

Jill : Why; just one more installment and BABY'S REALLY OURS! (She is holding out the infant, a little pathetically, as we black out.)

 

ANOTHER WOMAN (POEM) BY MS.IMTIAZ DHARKER

ANOTHER WOMAN BY MS.IMTIAZ DHARKER

This morning she bought green 'methi'

in the market, choosing the freshest bunch;

picked up a white radish,

imagined the crunch it would make

between her teeth, the sweet sharp taste,

then put it aside, thinking it

an extravagance, counted her coins

out carefully, tied them, a small bundle

into her sari at the waist;

came home, faced her mother-in-law's

dark looks, took

the leaves and chopped them,

her hands stained yellow from the juice;

cut an onion, fine and cooked

the whole thing in the pot

over the stove,

shielding her face from the heat.

The usual words came and beat

their wings against her: the money spent,

curses heaped upon her parents,

who had sent her out

to darken other people's doors.

She crouched, as usual, on the floor

beside the stove,

When the man came home

she did not look into his face

nor raise her head; but bent

her back a little more.

Nothing gave her the right

to speak.

She watched the flame hiss up

and beat against the cheap old pot,

a wing of brightness

against its blackened cheek.

This was the house she had been sent to,

the man she had been bound to,

the future she had been born into.

So when the kerosene was thrown

(just a moment of surprise, A brilliant spark)

It was the only choice

that she had ever known.

Another torch, blazing in the dark.

Another woman.

We shield our faces from the heat.

BY MS.IMTIAZ DHARKER

Ms.Imtiaz Dharker was born in Lahore in Pakistan in 1954 and brought up in Glasgow, Scotland. She is ranked on par with some of the famous women poets of India such as, Kamala Das, Sujatha Bhatt and Tara Patel. She is not only a poet but also a painter and an accomplished documentary film maker. Her collections of poetry include Purdah, Postcards from God, and I Speak for the Devil, The Terrorist at My Table and Leaving Fingerprints.

THE JOURNEY BY YESHE DORJEE THONGCHI (TRANSLATED BY D P NATH)

THE JOURNEY BY YESHE DORJEE THONGCHI (TRANSLATED BY D P NATH) 

After spending a leisurely Sunday at home, the very thought of returning to work on Monday is tiring. Lethargy creeps in if the holiday continues over an extended period. That is how I felt when I was preparing to return to my place of work after spending six months at home. The fact that I was to leave behind my newly-wed wife and go to a far-off place did not help either. Obviously I did not want to go. 

However, I finally did decide to go. I did not have much to carry by way of luggage – just a trunk. Ours is a hilly terrain, without any motorable roads – and there is no certainty that we are ever going to have any roads. In any case, while coming home we do not carry bedding. Besides, I had come home this time round for a special purpose: to get married. My parents had arranged my marriage according to the customs of our tribal society. Time flew, and five months into my marriage I realized it. Initially I thought of extending my leave – even taking unpaid leave. But after some dilly-dallying I finally decided against it because marriage had increased my responsibilities and I had got into debt.

On my way home from the bus stop my trunk had been carried by a porter. The problem now was we couldn’t find anyone who could help me carry the trunk to the bus stop. At another time of the year we would have easily found someone to help me, but now most of the villagers were busy in the fields. Nobody had time to spare for me. In fact, carrying the trunk should not have been such a worry for me except that my education had made me shun physical labour. After all I was a government officer and the idea of people seeing me carry my own luggage was not at all amusing. Otherwise for a young man like me it should not have been an issue to carry a 20- kilo chest on my back. 

Finally, my father came up with a solution. ‘Don’t worry. I myself will see you off at Dirang.’ 

I protested. How could I allow my old father to carry my trunk? What would people think? What would they say? But I failed to dissuade him. It was decided that Father would carry the chest.

A large crowd gathered at our place the day I was to leave. People had come to wish me luck. It was 10.20 when I left for Dirang. My father had already left. As I had to do a bit of catching up, I walked fast. Three kilometres down the road I caught up with my father. Father said, ‘You are late. Would you like to rest for some time?’

Having walked fast I was tired. Moreover, I had to cross two hills on the way up to the spot. I quickly sat down on a rock. My father laughed at my plight. 

‘So this little distance has tired you? Rest for a while. But we have to be in time for the bus.’ 

Father was quiet for some time. He thoughtfully looked at the sun for a moment, and then his eyes fell on the can of home-made wine that I was carrying. Wetting his lips with his tongue he said in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘I am thirsty’.

I gave him the can of wine. He poured himself a mug and handed me the can. He drank all of it at one go. He then arranged the belt that was attached to the trunk carefully on his forehead. So, this was the picture: my father carrying my luggage on his back and me following him with a tiny bag in my hand. We were walking up a narrow hilly road, and neither of us uttered a word as if we were strangers who spoke different languages. I did not know what was going on in his mind. From time to time it crossed my mind that it was improper for me to let Father carry the luggage. I wanted to tell him that I would like to carry the trunk myself, but my guilt and shame did not allow me to do so. This self consciousness had probably to do with my education, the white-collar job that I had, or quite simply my pride. Somehow, I had the feeling that if I carried the luggage, my father and my people, in fact the whole world would laugh at me and I would be belittled.

Father had provided for my education, and I had been able to realize his dreams. My parents were truly proud of me. It was through me that they had earned a greater degree of admiration and respect from the villagers. My father would not like to see me carrying a trunk on my back and would be very hurt if I did so. I concluded that it would be better to let him carry it. Father was used to carrying luggage anyway. He was stronger and more skilled than me in these matters. I had never got used to physical labour having stayed in hostels right from my childhood. So, in spite of my youth and strength, I was physically useless. I continued walking silently with Father. We rested at two places on the way and had our tiffin but we hardly talked. Finally, we reached Dirang. The bus from Tawang had not yet reached Dirang and so we had some time in hand. We entered a tea shop and sat facing each other. Father appeared tired. I felt sorry for him but couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I asked the waiter to get us two cups of tea. Just as I was going to take my first sip, I heard Father’s voice, ‘Do you have a pair of old shoes?’ 

‘Why? I asked.

‘The road is uneven and full of pebbles. It hurts while walking.’

I looked at Father’s bare feet. Never having worn shoes, his feet had developed cracks and somehow resembled those of an elephant. I noticed this for the first time. I hadn’t noticed that the road was uneven. I didn’t have to since I was wearing a pair of hunting boots. I checked my wallet and saw I still had around Rs.40 with me. A pair of canvas shoes would cost around Rs.12 and the remaining amount would be enough for me to get to Bomdila. 

My father protested. ‘Give me an old pair. You don’t have to spend money on new shoes.’ I couldn’t convince him to buy a new pair. Reluctantly I gave him the hunting boots I was wearing. I then took out my pair of leather shoes from the trunk, and noticed my father’s face lighting up with contentment. Suddenly he looked at me and said, ‘Take care. Write to us...’

Father wanted to say something but the bus started moving. I saw my father gradually receding into the distance. I saw that the road we had come by looked like a giant motionless rope. Father would use the same road to go back home. Simultaneously our journeys started in two opposite directions, with me seated in the luxurious seat of a bus and Father walking back with weary legs on the pebble-strewn road.

BY YESHE DORJEE THONGCHI (TRANSLATED BY D P NATH)

Yeshe Dorjee Thongchi (born in May, 1952) is a prominent name in Assamese literature. Though he grew up in poverty, he studied well and entered Arunachal Pradesh Civil Service and was later elevated to the Indian Administrative Service. He writes fiction, drama and essays in Assamese and English. He has received national recognition with his novel ‘Mouna Ounth Mukhar Hriday’, which won the Sahitya Academy award in 2005. Many of Thongchi’s novels, including Sonam, deal with the cultural life of the Monpa and the Sherdukpen tribes of Arunachal Pradesh.