Ficció

This is on my favourites list since I saw it screened at the India Habitat Centre as part of the 13th European Union Film Festival, India 2008; a festival which lasted from 1st to 30th April and took some twenty-odd award-winning European cinema and documentary to New Delhi, Chennai, Kolkata, Kozhikode and Pune.

On Sunday, 6th, I watched It's Spring in Prague Every Year, a Czech documentary about musicians in a famous mega-concert hald in Prague every year; mostly behind-the-scenes drama, very interesting, and very real. Not to mention I was soaking in the movements of the conductors like a sponge, I have to do this soon enough with my music society!

Then I hung around for a while and realised there was another movie on, from Cyprus, called Honey and Wine, a weird tale of a mother who lost her son ages ago and leads a lonely and enlessly repititive life (the first ten minutes of the movie kill you, they run through three completely identical days) until she makes friends with this gorgeous young actress who lives across the road. They both find a shoulder, and the movie stays, if not very deep-rooted, in your mind as a bittersweet tale of people.


But the movie I really loved was a Spanish film called Ficció, or Fiction. Directed by Cesc Gay, it is the story of a filmmaker (Àlex) about to go over the hill, facing a mid-life crisis and making a movie about a man whose friends come over on his 39th birthday and sit around in the dark, talking. He is on a sabbatical, as it were, from fatherhood (there are two kids, one in a stroller) and his wife; on holiday in the mountains (the film is shot on location in Barcelona, Cataluña, Puigcerdá and Girona in Spain) with his friends, Santi and Judith, who have another friend, a charming violinist named Mònica. The four of them are roughly the same age, Àlex is as he is, Mònica is about to adopt a baby girl with her boyfriend. They all go trekking to the most breathtakingly beautiful lakes and then to higher mountains. Àlex and Mònica get lost in the mountains and talk, sitting on a flat high up in the clouds. They just talk, like the man in his movie might.

- This is a beautiful place to shoot a movie. - Why don't you? - [Shrugs] - What would happen in this movie of yours? - Nothing, he says. This. Two people get lost on a mountain and sit there. Talk.

They get back and all, it's not a high-energy drama like Speed or Twister. They end up spending the day together a couple of days later; he gives her a lift to the clinic in town to get a cut treated; then they just hang around in the prettiest little town. It starts to rain at one point, they enter a pub that's close by; nothing happens - you're waiting - is he in love with her? He looks at her sometimes, with that look. She looks at him sometimes, with that look. Is she in love with him? Nothing happens. They have to part ways soon enough, Àlex's family joins him and Mònica has to leave. He gets up early the morning she has to leave, Judith and her girlfriend are giving her a ride. He catches them midway, he wants to say goodbye.

- I felt something. - I had a knot in my stomach. - I think we've fallen a little in love. - It's good...to fall in love sometimes. - I would have loved to... - I know, me too. But I'm just beginning to do things right. - Maybe I'll see you again.

They kiss heartwrenchingly and that's that.

***

Ficció is a beautiful film - there are scenes which make you want to photograph them, there is music that drifts out from the radio in the kitchen and fills the valley with loneliness. There is a sadness in the dark, when the lights go out and Àlex is sitting by himself. When they are on their way back, by a circuitous route, they get a room somewhere, to rest awhile. There is a piano there, and chess. They start a chess game, both pros, but leave it for the piano, she plays with care, gently, pianissimo, dolce. When they are in the pub, nothing happens. She is smoking a cigarette, he is drinking from a short broad glass, maybe whisky. They are in background and foreground, not more than a foot apart, on the bar stools, so it looks like they are back to back. The focus shifts from one to the other, there is a knot in the stomach. Nothing happens. Are you comfortable? he asks again and again. There is more that is going on, Santi and Judith and subplot, but I couldn't get over that line.

I think we've fallen a little in love. It's good...to fall in love sometimes.

Tobacco Makes Me Sick

Tobacco makes me sick. And no, I don’t intend this as a diatribe. I mean it literally. We had a wonderful day, the other day. Watched a movie called Juno at PVR Saket, and UC made a big fuss and didn’t let me or SM pay. So we bought him lunch at Nirula’s. The movie was lovely, the day was perfect, I was at my hippie best in my rubber chappals and big orange pyjamas. So we were hanging around in the PVR complex and generally just gassing away in the stiff wind. SM wanted a smoke, but UC knew this place only too well, the boys used to come here to underage drink and watch bigscreen matches in some seedy pub; he said Why cigarette? Have you ever had a cigar?

So that’s how we got hold of the cognac flavoured forty five buck thing, I didn’t get to see the packing. So we lit up and it got passed around like the joint that it wasn’t. SM got thirsty soon enough, and suddenly UC disappeared and got four Breezers. So NS, me, SM and UC were sitting around there with a couple of Cranberries and a couple of Lemons which tasted divine in that weather. And then there was the cigar, one to four. Which was sweet and warm, and tasted like brownpapered candy that grew up. I was feeling nice and happy, I didn’t know whether it was the tobacco, the cognac, the sugar, the cool something-point-nothing alcohol or whether I was just in a good mood. I think it was just a good mood.

So we buzzed off from there, in search of pyaaz ke pakore. Which I knew you get the most amazing ones at Amar Colony next to that CD place that charges a hundred bucks to convert tape to CD. Off we went, hogged, then looked around for something sweet. Found an ice-cream place next door and had some kick ass cones and for some reason I had a deep craving for that highly jeera and salt-full chhaas or chhaach or mattha or moru or whatever the hell you care to call it. Then, since it wasn’t curfew yet, and we were more jobless than usual, we went over to GK to that park right after Zamroodpur that’s on the way to M-Block and City Café and all. We hung around there playing dumb charades with me and Tikku on one team and the other two on the other, and more than the usual share of crazy made-up movies with fancy names like Qutub Minar Ki Saathveen Manzil Par Pyaar Ho Gaya and Choodail Ki Aatma till curfew time and then went off back to hostel feeling pretty good.

That night was one of those good-bad nights when your mind works, but then if you’ve got something on your mind it’s like working with an overload. I was composing. It was happening again – the ideas just came. What I wanted to do was get stoned, but that was just a passing thought. After a while I got stuck, the roadblock was reached, and I really could do with a cold whisky. Then I remembered that damned cigar had been so huge it was stubbed out and saved, a relic, as UC said, of SM’s First Cigar Experience. I wanted something, my mind was crying out for a lift, so I said what the hell. SM was asleep, but if you can sleep through somebody pounding on the keys, you can sleep through smoke too. So I lit it and got my ashtray back from K’s room. Yes, yes, I own(ed, now it’s K’s) an ashtray. V had given it to me, it wasn’t intended to store smoke-dregs. It had some glass beads in it. Anyway, I didn’t know the bloody thing would be so strong, I guess UC had known what he was doing – there were four of us doing the thing in the morning, but alone it was like two or three shots of the kind of vodka you get on ladies night and don’t want to smell but just down to get it in the bloodstream, and fast. I felt twitchy and my legs felt like rubber. Duh, I thought, nothing happened with weed and this bloody cigar is killing me. I went and took a crap, they’re right, it really makes you want to shit. And then I had to throw up. I just couldn’t control it, and it was really sick. All that nice grub came tumbling out. Gross. I was done for the night, I didn’t even turn keys off, SM thought I was lying somewhere in a heap on the floor, but I don’t let myself get to that. Ever. It’s a policy thing.

A couple of days back we went to City Café after a long gap, and it was PB, NS, SM and me together, even that was after a long, long time. Zon and Zeri (the pups, John and Jerry) were missing, if that’s a yardstick. And the place was shadier (it had more baize on the ‘roof’) and cooler (it had a cooler and more fans). And they were smoking before dinner and asked me, but I didn’t care for one. And I do actually find it terrible for the smoke to go into my nose, even if it’s me who’s smoking. So I sat tight anyway, thankful for the fans and that it was just one pre-dinner. Of course I got lots of plusses for how tolerant I had become.

Anyway, we had lots of cheap Chinese and walked, very full, to M-Block in search of a Breezer apiece. We couldn’t find any even at Prince Pan and it was too late to go to Kailash Colony, so we got a couple of smokes instead, and then I got a Godang Garam for a lark. I didn’t reckon it was just plain old tobacco that did me in the other day with the cigar, so I lit up, and felt really queasy really soon. I stubbed out half of it and we made back home. That night I felt terrible for a long while because the nausea just wouldn’t die down. Finally when it did, I wasn’t sleepy at all by then, so I spent the entire night chatting to PB and telling my dukh bhari daastan which had recently been resolved with a few words and some major salf-reflexivity. And some help from N.

So I’m off tobacco, after some half a dozen brief encounters with it and nothing coming out of it.

I’m not off weed though. And Carl Sagan had some five tries till anything happened to him, so screw.

Now I feel sheepish and fifteen. So I think I should cut this post short here.
Yawn.

Ziskakan

One of the most unforgettable concerts I have attended was by a band called Ziskakan from French Réunion Island. Réunion is a curious place, to put it mildly.

From Wikipedia, edited:

Réunion (French: Réunion or formally La Réunion; previously Île Bourbon), is an island located in the Indian Ocean, east of Madagascar, about 200 km (130 miles) south west of Mauritius, the nearest island.

Administratively, Réunion is one of the overseas départements of France. Like the other overseas departments, Réunion is also one of the twenty-six regions of France (being an overseas region) and an integral part of the Republic with the same status as those situated on the European mainland.

Réunion is an outermost region of the European Union, and thus the currency used is the euro. It is located in a time zone to the east of Europe.

This is a map of France, highlighting Réunion in the box.

Réunion contains most of the same ethnic populations as Mauritius: Indian, African, Malagasy, Chinese and ethnic French - but in different proportions. Creoles (a name given to those born on the island, of various ethnic origins), make up the vast majority of the population. Whites make up approximately one-quarter of the population, Indians make up 21%, and people of Chinese ancestry form most of the remainder. There are also some people of Vietnamese ancestry on the island, though they are very few in number.

While Gujarati, followed closely by Tamil people make up the majority of the Indo-Réunionnaise people, people of Hindi, Urdu and other origins form the remainder of the population. Reunion is very similar in culture, ethnic makeup, language and traditions to Mauritius and Seychelles.

Réunionnaise Creole is the main language of the country, though French is more commonly spoken. Mandarin, Hakka and Cantonese are spoken by the Chinese community, but their numbers are dropping as younger generations start to converse in French. The number of speakers of Indian languages is also dropping sharply. Arabic is taught in mosques and spoken by a small community of Arabs. The island's community of Muslims from North Western India and elsewhere are also commonly referred to as Arabs.

Réunionese culture is a blend (métissage) of European, African, Indian, Chinese and insular traditions.

The most widely spoken language, Réunion Creole, derives from French, with many idiosyncrasies. Réunion Creole is now taught in some schools. However, an official orthography has yet to be agreed upon.

Local food and music blend influences from Africa, India, China and Europe.

Réunion population is mostly Francophone blacks, with some Indians and French minorities. Réunion is also, along with neighbor Mauritius, home to sega music. Taarab from Tanzania is popular as well. Other popular singers include Maxime Laope, Léon Céleste, Henri Madoré and Mapou, named after a kind of perfumed sugarcane candy. Séga is a popular style that mixes African rhythms with European instrumentation. Maloya is a similar fusion, but with a strong African element reflected in the use of slave chants and work songs.

The song "Madina" deserves special mention. It was frequently played on the island's only radio station in the 1950s and 60s. The song was written by Maxime Laope, one of the island's most popular singers, and performed by another renowned singer, Henri Madoré.

Nowadays Réunion Island is a fish pond of talented bands such as Ziskakan or Baster

(band). In Réunion there is a very strong jazz community and rock culture is also becoming strong on the island. But whatever is the style of music played, Réunionnais music is defined by its cultural richness.

SPIC MACAY had organised a concert by these guys at IIT in Delhi last August. They had the unmistakable energy of people who are creating something unique. They are an island, not even an island nation, but more a nation than any other I can think of. And yet, their language has no script, no fixed vocabulary, no textbooks, nothing. Creole doesn't look like any language you've ever seen before, because it isn't like any you could have seen. It looks like Garble. Never had I come across a language so fluid, so youthful in its dynamic character. I went to the band and asked them, doubtfully, if they happened to have any recorded music on them. They gave me a beautiful professionally cut and released album, called Banjara, meaning Gypsy or Traveller (in Hindi). They wrote it on the road. I wish I had taken their autographs, I really do. I own a slice of history now; the CD has the lyrics. And French versions or translations as well.

In fact, I was listening to Syklone Valval today and tried transliterating the French version by Serge Ulentin via Babelfish and the results, though not so great, since it is only a word-for-for lexical translator, were surprising. The French (without line spaces for the verses, it's closer to the garbles translation this way) :

À chaque femme ici-bas qu’un chien d’homme bat – Serge Ulentin

Zékli d’ciel En bonbon d’miel L’âme au rasoir D’une ondée de fiel Torrent d’effrois Aux abîmes de soi Nervi à cœur de gnons Oiseau à vol d’émois Des ouragans d’horions Comment adoucir le vent Quels chants naissent Des amours de sang ? Orchidées de santal Aux sacres des lunes Le ventre en mire Aux bals des ires Déliquescentes infamies D’une âme en valval Source des vies En écrins des infinis Les embruns vermeils D’un regard de sang Le vent des sorts Envouv les corps Ramures des cieux En murmures de soie Aux pilons des taba Le crâne en fracas La mort en éclat

There is some poetry in this too, I suppose, this Garble that technology makes:

With each woman ici-bas that a dog of man beats

Glares of candy sky of honey the heart to the razor Of an heavy shower of gall Torrent of fears To the abysses of oneself Bully boy with cœur let us gnons Bird with flight of agitations Hurricanes of let us horions How to soften the wind Which songs are born From the loves of blood? Orchises of sandal To the sacrings of the moons the belly in test card With the balls of the angers Déliquescentes infamies Of a heart in blow given to the flight Source of the lives Out of jewel cases of infinite the spray vermeils Of a glance of blood The wind of the fates Imprisons the bodies Foliages of the skies In murmurs of silk To the rammers of the opera hat the cranium in crash Death in glare

It's something else to get a tiny glimpse of the protean melange that is Réunion. It's on the always-wanted list. I hope it never goes to the always-wanted-never-did list.

This is Ziskakan's homepage

P.S. Someone I know just told me today that she has a paying guest (short-term tenant, usually student or single working type) who is from Mauritius and speaks French Creole, i might go see her soon.