The lure of the theatre

We youngsters slog like hell all week long and wait for the weekends so that we may get to do all that we can't find time for. But when the weekend finally arrives, we are left scratching our heads, wondering how to pass the time. Well, movies are an option, yes. But, have you seen the kind of movies thet have been gracing the cinema halls lately? To say that they are pathetic, unimaginative and lack-lustre, would be a gross understatement. Spending one's hard-earned money to watch the same run-of-the-mill girl-meets-guy-meets-girl-they-run-around-international-locales-fall-in-love no brainers seems like a horrid crime. Come to think of it, they hardly fall under the catagory of entertainment anymore. That's when we - my husband and I - decided to hit the theatres and get a load of actual emoting. At first, we were curious. We were entralled watching people perform right before our eyes. And then, we were hooked..!

The other day, we'd been to watch a hindi play called “Bikhre Bimb” meaning “Scattered Images”, at a well-known theatre in Bangalore called “Ranga Shankara”. It was a mono-action, produced by Girish Karnad and enacted by Mrs. Arundhati Nag depicting the inner turmoil of a woman who has recently shot to fame on the publication of her book after the death of her crippled sister who had been in her care. The book is based on the life of her sister, who, although paralysed from the waist down since birth and inching towards death every moment, never ceases to have a lust for life. The writer herself is a dull, drab woman working as a lecturer, living a monotonous life. And all of a sudden, she has a fully completed manuscript within a week of her sister's demise. She goes on to explain how loving and caring she had been towards her sister and had taken care of her every single whim. Feeling the loss of her sister, she claims to have penned down her lonliness. The play is an introspective battle between the right and wrong sides of the writer.

As the play progresses, one gets to learn that the writer and her husband have been enstraged ever since her sister's death which makes her question the nature of their relationship. Slowly, layer after layer, the story is unraveled and one is left dumbfounded at the complexities of the human nature when the truth is finally revealed. I will not spoil it by disclosing the climax of the play, in case you get the opportunity to see the play in the future. The narration, enaction and rendition of dialogues between the protagonist and her inner consciousness were brilliant, to say the least.

Plays are harder to perform, compared to movies. There are no retakes, for one. One blunder, and its out there for the world to see and judge. And no editing, either. What is out, is out. So much like real life. What really enchants me about plays is the passion of the artists. The way they put their hearts and souls into their performance. There are various kinds of plays too. Different genres, different languages, different ideas. And believe me, whether you want to or not, you get drawn into the play and become a part of it. In plays, even the audience are participants, albiet passive. Our reactions, our expression and body language influence the artists on-stage and determine the nature and gravity of the play. Before the play begins, one is requested to switch off one's cell phone and other external stimuli that might distract the artists and hamper the ambience of the play. It is another world in itself and must be experienced at least once in one's lifetime. It makes one delve deep into oneself and question the very foundations on which human nature is based. I have never once felt bored, no matter how the play turns out. It always manages to show me a bit of myself that I never knew existed before.

Donning the chef’s cap...

Since time immemorial, a woman and her kitchen are inseparable. While the man provides the food, it falls on the frail shoulders of the woman to present before a family, a filling meal. Before everything else, her culinary prowess marks her competence as a home-maker. Her social acceptance is, more often than not, based precariously on this very fundamental talent. And being a woman, one cannot shy away from her culinary responsibilities.

Till recently, I too had no faith in my culinary skills. I've always been an on again-off again cook who mostly takes to cooking as the last resort. If push comes to a shove, I tend to make the most of whatever is available at the moment and experiment with the most improbable of ingredients. I have been the butt of umpteen number of jokes for being an incompetent house-wife while my husband has been showered with sympathy at my behest. To tell the truth, I've never really tried my hand at serious cooking, my laziness being the sole reason. When I was single, living the happy life of a carefree young girl, I'd never felt the need to cook as my mother always ensured that I had the best food the moment I felt hungry. This, topped with an inherent sense of laziness, fostered in me a deep sense of complacency with regard to cooking. I'd rather eat canned or packaged food or even go hungry than cook myself a decent meal. The very idea of cooking was enough to douse my appetite. What the heck..! At the very least, I wouldn't be putting on unnecessary weight brought on by the love for food. Things were going smooth and it didn’t bother me much.

Typical of women of a bygone generation, my mother had always warned me, saying “you will have a tough time when you get married. Your mother-in-law will give you a sound thrashing when she learns about your attitude towards cooking”. I'd flippantly reply “Don't worry mother, I'll marry a guy who'll know how to cook.” True to my promise, my husband Arun, who was my high-school sweetheart and happens to know me in and out, is himself an excellent cook and a foodie to the core. And my mother-in-law, being the sweet person she is, has never exerted undue influence over me over the matter of cooking. She'd married quite early into a joint family and initially, she herself had been a novice to the kitchen. “Time will be your teacher”, she'd say, and I'd found wisdom in her words. But, like every other young person, I'd think “There's always time for that”. At any rate, my mother breathed a huge sigh of relief on my wedding day. I'd bagged the guy of my dreams and to my advantage, he is no stranger to the kitchen. Love was going to make up for my lack of interest in cooking and life was going to be perfect. Or so I’d thought.

A few months into marriage and I'd realised how wrong I'd been in thinking that my husband would do all the cooking. I was happy with doing the cleaning up afterwards, but that wasn't enough. Men, they say (especially those with a love for food) expect their wives to serve them scrumptious delicacies as had their mothers. And believe me, no amount of love can equate food. Food is food and love is love and neither can fill each other’s shoes. At one point of time, the comparisons start to seep in. Arun tries his best to inculcate a love of food in me. We even watch a number of cookery shows on TV together and marvel at the way food fit for royalty is passionately made. We’d comment on how it was both a science and an art-form in one. But, when it comes to pulling on my apron-strings, I always manage to weasel out somehow or the other. Arun just smiles sadly, shakes his head and enters the kitchen with a sigh. He is a sweet and caring husband, so he doesn’t mind much. But, as I said earlier, one shouldn’t be under the impression that love will make up for food. For any loving relationship to blossom and bear fruit, one must overcome one’s shortcomings and strive to be better. In my case, laziness and complacency need to be conquered. Someone once rightly said “where there’s will, there’s a way” and I’m going to give it my best shot.

So, I’ve decided, it is time to pave my way to my man’s heart through his tummy. I have finally decided to don the chef’s cap.

A fistful of earth

My eyes are dazzled,
blinded momentarily by the bright sunlight
when I raise my eyes to the sky.
Fascinated, I look on...
wondering what lies ahead.

The vastness entices me
beckons my thirsty soul with a promise of a brighter tomorrow.
And I almost spread my arms that I mistake for wings
as if to soar into the blue horizons
effortlessly, letting the winds guide me on.

But that dream, I know is a distant one.
Almost like a dying refrain
of a song in an alien tongue,
that had once perhaps twanged my heartstrings
but has long faded into nothingness.

Perhaps, I've gazed at that dream too long
to realise that it exists no more.
All that remains in its place is a vacuum, a numbness.
And when the dust settles at my feet in the gathering twilight,
There is a fistful of earth where I must grow my roots.