Father

“How are you different from your mother?”

“I hope in as few ways as possible.”

-        Martha and Harriet, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Episode 1X05

I made a friend recently. As a single man in his mid-30s, returning to his tier-2 hometown after 13 years, making friends hasn't been easy. So when the chance came upon to have dinner with a newfound friend, I pounced on the opportunity.

The conversation led to how men spend their youth trying to rebel from their fathers, only to end up like them in so many ways. I found this weirdly conflicting and relatable. For much of my adolescence, my father wasn’t really a person I could look up to. He was that presence in my life who was annoying me. In his mind, he might have been pushing me to live better. But the constant disappointment with everything that I did was overbearing. To the point that I really didn’t care what he thought of me. The brief interactions that we did have made me wanting less. Time and distance made it easy to naturally grow apart, and we didn’t even have much to talk about. Having reached the age of 30, father was a figure who existed, but we didn’t really have what we could call a real relationship.

Come to think of it, I didn’t really have any real relationships in my life. I had friends from three different colleges. I had colleagues that I would forget the moment I changed the job. I had dates, but never a stable relationship. But I didn’t really have a relationship that I could rely on. If I were to fall sick, I didn’t have a person who would wait outside the hospital doors. For much of growing up, I was on my own.

Covid changed that. Fate brought me back not only to Kolkata, but to the family business. I now lived at home and worked with Dad, being now witness in hindsight to his life journey, with all its revelries and mistakes. Over the years, I was the one who sat outside hospital gates as I became the person the family could rely upon. This was never the plan. But life has a funny way of disposing man’s plans.

The thing that brought me back to the family was actually the business. The mismanagement of it to be precise. My father comes from a generation of free-thinking risk-takers. This was the generation of the Boomers – the ones who had the world open in front of them and charged at it with full swing. The ones who had nothing to lose. Of course they hit some and missed some. All of them had investments that had gone sour and would have made a killing if only this or that had happened.

Going over the business, I realized that Dad had expanded the business beyond what he could reasonably manage. Coming from more sophisticated jobs, I had some idea of how to organize and manage bigger businesses, but I had never shouldered the responsibility of owning anything of value. There was still much to be learnt. And that is where Dad and I started becoming a good combination. We found common ground in managing the expanding business, and could talk like adults. No more did I have to face the constant disappointment. I would report to him as I would to a senior at my office. Over time, the reporting requirements reduced to him just being a mentor I could seek advice from, but was responsible for my own decisions. In time, I understood the circumstances in which faulty decisions had been made long ago. True empathy came when I made a few bad decisions of my own. It is impossible in this world to live without making mistakes. What is needed is someone who can look at you and say, “so this happened, what next?”

As we spent more time together, I started to cherish it. For once, I had this person with whom I constantly disagreed – over politics, religion, business, and lifestyle. Yet, I constantly found myself to be more similar to him than not. I could always rely that he understands my condition, both said and unsaid. He understood the enthusiasm of youth. We connected on our pursuit of spirituality and constantly quarrelled over the correct way. Coming from totally different upbringings, we were able to offer new perspectives on old problems. Even though we disagreed on practically everything, which continues to be a constant source of irritation and anguish for me, I know that we work on the same value systems. We have common ground. And we can talk to each other like men.

Over the years I have come to consider myself luckier than most of my friends. Many of us escaped our tier-II upbringing settling in cities like Mumbai, Delhi, or Bangalore when home became the new family that we initiate. I miss that freedom and self-reliance. I have given away a part of my life to exist for the family. In that, my world has grown. I am able to spend time with my parents which could not be possible for most of my friends. I was able to spend time with my father while he could still teach me something; and I could add some value to his life. Most importantly, I had one person in my life that I could rely upon and know that his mere existence acts as a calm over the chaos that I live through.

Over the years we have planned trips together, collaborated in legal battles, took decisions for the business and the family, and just sat across the table and shared thoughts about what we are going through. Often, I would caution him against over-extending himself, either physically or financially. But I understand that he needs to feel like the risk-taking entrepreneur that made a life for himself. I cannot pull him too far back. He is old, but he is still a man. When he says that we will climb a snow-peaked hill, I cannot refuse him simply because I see the risks more clearly. Instead, I stay right behind him. And when I stay out late at night, he doesn’t question where I was. Once Mother did try to instigate him into questioning my whereabouts. He simply said that I am a grown-up and will go where I please. He respects my boundaries. It was me who had difficulty accepting his.

And so it continues. I don’t know how much time destiny shall grant me with him. There will come the inevitable time when we will have to part. I intend to cherish every bit of it. I couldn’t discover a relationship with my father while I was growing up. But it was wonderful to meet him as a grown-up. He had to make the wait while I made the climb.

It is difficult for a single man in his mid-30s, returning to his tier-2 hometown after 13 years to make friends. But you don’t really have to look very far from home to find one.

Kashi 3/3 - Dalmandi Road

I had taken an early morning walk southwards from the hostel towards Assi Ghat. I walked till the end of the road where the Ghats ended. To venture further south I would need to walk through the town, which I didn’t want to do. So I returned north to the other end of the city. I reached Manikarnika Ghat beyond the Kashi Vishwanath temple. However, I did not happen to cross the Namo Ghat that I had heard a lot about. Someone said that it was further up north beyond Manikarnika, but boats refused to go there and there was no more road beyond Manikarnika. So I decided to walk through the city.

I followed Google Maps which didn’t show a direct path to Namo Ghat. I would need to detour from deep into the town and come back towards the ghats. It was early and I was fresh. I decided to take the journey. The path would take me through a narrow alley named Dalmandi Road. Varanasi had a lot of alleys, so that wasn’t surprising. The surprises started once I entered the alley.

I walked into Dalmandi Road through the western side and the shift was immediate. The entrance was a bustling market even in the morning close to the entrance of the Kashi Vishwanath temple. There were queues of people waiting in line for the temple, early morning shoppers, breakfast places Varanasi is famous for, or people just loitering about on a vacation. But just around the corner inside Dalmandi Road was a completely different vibe.

The place was almost deserted. I saw perhaps 10 people during the kilometre-long walk. The buildings on each side of the road were ripped away from the ground. It didn’t feel like a city anymore. I imagined this would be what war-torn Palestine or Ukraine might look like. It was also very noticeable that this was predominantly a Muslim locality. The people I saw on the road had traditional Muslim attire and beards. There were broken water pipes which still had streams of water, making parts of the road muddy. It was disturbing that there could be such a view just next to that bustling market outside. It felt as if I had been transported to another planet through a portal, and I wasn’t sure if I could go back. If an accident were to fall upon me in this alley, there was no way anyone could know or I could be found. I felt away from my home planet. These buildings didn’t seem to be demolished in an organized manner. The trail of destruction were left behind. At one point I could see what must have been a dining room at some point, still intact but the exterior wall was missing. A lot of buildings seemed to just have been dropped, without any post-cleaning. As if some bombing had occurred in the street. But why would the bombing happen only on this street, and no other streets adjoining. I wanted to Google where I was and the history of this street. But faster than that I wanted to be out of the other end. This was obviously not safe. I didn’t want to run, lest any stray dogs come after me. I knew that it was important to appear tough when you’re shit scared.

On returning to the hostel I Googled and found that there was an active demolition drive at Dalmandi road. Some articles said that it was because the construction in that lane was unauthorized – an argument which lent little merit. Varanasi is an ancient city. Most of the construction in the city is unauthorized. The residences in narrow lanes predate any civic authority. Even the lanes do not always have names. The other argument was that it would enable a wide and fast corridor from the ghats to the Kashi Vishwanath temple. This was an infrastructure improvement initiative. There is a fierce debate of development vs. preservation that is intense enough at Varanasi, and we will not get into that in this article. I am sure the free and fair elections at Varanasi will give verdict to this debate. But it was interesting to note that only the Muslim locality was targeted for such infrastructure improvement, in a somewhat traumatic way.

Dalmani Road finds its mention in the throes of history. It is populated by silk-shops, brothels, and residences of Muslim shopowners whose shops were on the ground levels of such structures. It is said to be the place where the revolt of 1857 was planned. I would believe that, as the best place to plan a revolt would be a narrow Muslim Lane in a vastly Hindu religious city inside a brothel. There can be no better cover. That history is now rubble. I am sure there will be vast improvements to the Shiv temple in lieu of the destruction. I doubted if the God of destruction appreciated this violence in his name.

Kashi 2/3 - Ghat Walk

I stepped into Varanasi with songs in my heart – specifically “Tu Ban Ja Gali Banaras Ki” and “Tu Kisi Rail Si Guzarti Hai”. I had no agenda or plan on what to do on reaching. My best option was to wander around the Ghats and the lanes. Food was always available everywhere and if I couldn’t find a shop, there was always Swiggy. I walked along the Ghats to my heart’s content. I walked on every step I could find, and I walked every morning and every night.

I found a band who was performing at the Ghats and without a second thought I rushed up and joined them, singing old and new songs, discovering that there wasn’t really much difference among them. I found street food vendors whom I started to recognize and the distinct flavors they specialized in. I found a sketch-artist who made a portrait for me for Rs. 350 in 30 minutes, all while sitting at the Ghat. I walked into a garden from where I was driven away because it wasn’t “for tourists”. I later joked with a Swede couple that how even Banarasi loacs recognized me as a tourist, with no trace of white skin on me. I found a sage basking in the early morning sun surrounded by pigeons. I kept walking till the Ghats ended. Then I turned back and walked more.

There was this one instance with a guy. There’s a large painting of Shiv on one of the walls where Shiv extends his hand outwards. A guy was trying to take a picture with his own hand extended towards Shiv, as if holding his hand. He was trying to work the camera angle. It was one of those things that you pass by without paying much attention, as I would have to. I was walking thinking if Shiv is so different from Varanasi. I have often believed that a man’s home is an extension and expression of his self. If that were so, then Varanasi with all its chaos was undoubtedly the expression of Shiv. As I was passing by that man, I don’t know what came over me – magic or mischief – but I shook his hand and went along my way. I didn’t even break my step. But I will remember the look on that man’s face for the rest of my life, as I know he will remember me. He was trying to reach out to Shiv, and in the process, Varanasi reached out to him. I wondered of all the ways in which Varanasi was reaching out to me as well. Every great or small interaction I was having with the people, dogs, land, and sky of Varanasi was Shiv. Not only was this His home, this was Him.

In another incident there was a protected VIP Ghat. I crossed by it several times, nothing seemed to be happening there. Just 2 police officers sending people away who ventured too far into the Ghat. There was a small Vishnu temple there that I noticed and wanted to visit. I had never seen a Vishnu temple. It was on the edge of the river. As I proceeded towards it the guards signalled me away. I tried to negotiate that I just wanted to visit the temple without venturing into the protected place, but the guards wouldn’t budge. Ultimately I had to go climb back up the stairs. Interestingly, the stairway went right above the temple. I was walking over where the shrine must have been inside the temple. As someone who is brought up in Hindu traditions, it is unthinkable to step over a shrine with shoes intact. But I thought that’s what being in Shiv’s home is like. There is no superior or inferior, not even Gods. There’s chaos. And there’s Shiv. And that’s all that matters.

Kashi 1/3 - Arrival

I landed at Lal Bahadir Shastri International Airport, Varanasi, on a Thursday morning with a suitcase and backpack in a sleep deprived manner. I was not sure why I was there. It was mostly to get out of Calcutta for a while. I have nothing against Kolkata. I mean I do, but that’s not the point of this story. I was basically in need of a vacation. A change of scenery if you please.

Once the thought had hit my mind, it automatically transferred from brain to Instagram without waiting for my consent. For the next two weeks, I browsed through all kinds of trips from solo-group travels (a true gen-Z invention), IRCTC Bharat Gaurav tours (they aren’t that bad), Spiti Valley-like places (the usual), African Safaris (sure to get popular in the coming years), and even an Antarctic expedition! I didn’t like any of them. Each of them seemed to have a different constraint. Till I realized that the real constraint must lie with me. True, I was in a terrible mood. Terrible enough for me not to take any action to come out of it. This was all the more reason to go for a vacation. I decided that if I didn’t like anything in the next two days, I will travel to Varanasi.

Why Varanasi? Because it was logistically feasible, the bookings were convenient, and being a single Hindi-speaking man, I couldn’t go wrong in a touristy place in north-India. Besides, Shiv has a certain allure. Two days passed. I didn’t like anything else. I booked flights and a hostel in Varanasi for the weekend.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Part of me wanted peace. Part of me wanted to talk to someone or many people. Part of me wanted to go somewhere new. Part of me wanted to go somewhere familiar. Varanasi somehow satisfied all those requirements.

As soon as I exited the airport I was huddled by cab-drivers whom I ignored on instinct. I was no stranger to north-Indian touristy places. And I’d done my research. There was supposed to be a bus stand close to the airport that where I could take a bus that would drop me right in the centre of the city. But I saw no buses or bus stands outside the small airport. On some searching I realized that the bus stand was a 1 km walk from the airport. Sleepy me wasn’t going to start my trip with a 1 km walk in the hot Sun. Later during the trip, Varanasi would make me walk a lot. But thankfully she didn’t make me start the trip with that. I ran into a cab-driver who was going on my way for his own work, and would drop me on the way. The fare was considerably less than the other drivers in the vicinity. So I went with him.

You cannot have a conversation with a Banarasi local and not touch upon local politics. I don’t know which of us started, but he gave me his perspective on the local political climate. Banarasi people love to talk. I didn’t have to prod him much for him to go on a full-scale monologue on why his party was good and the other one was not. I tried to play the devil’s advocate which in most cases, only leads people to argue their point more vehemently. But I was beginning to get a sense of the city. I also wondered that if this truly is Shiv’s city, then I should accept whatever I stumble across as Shiv’s blessing, even if it be a blabbering cab-driver.

I had booked a hostel in the deep alleys of Varanasi close to the ghats. It seemed like a vibrant place with a lot of community space. I quickly realized that they had somewhat oversold their community places by brushing them up for Instagram. I also realized that Varanasi was not going to socialize during hot summer days. I was going to spend a lot of time indoors during the days. I planned on sleeping a lot, and roam around in the nights.

As I was checking into my room, I came across Manoj Kumar P’s The Silence Beneath Kashi at the hostel’s bookshelf (singular). The cover seemed to have that familiar allure that had attracted me to Kashi. The book promised great revelations, and I approached it with great expectations. I was quickly disappointed. The author had written the entire book using ChatGPT – very engaging, no real content. The style and shifts were repetitive. The book didn’t make any particular point or led anywhere. I wondered if this was also a blessing from Shiv or whether it was a sign of Kalyug where it had been predicted that even Kashi would run dry. Between musings like these, I fell asleep.

Varanasi had that vibe. There is a lot of lull and a lot of chaos. It didn’t quite get anywhere. But it moves and shifts, often outside and often within you. You can’t really place it in any category. It is not a strictly religious destination. There’s spirituality but there’s also any kind of deviance that you might want to explore. There’s freedom to do anything you want. No one judges. Everyone and everything is Shiv, including the dogs that might block your path. Anger and love aren’t expressed differently. Civility lacks civility, and there’s a lot of it. It is a weird city. I was going to be here for the next few days. I was sure to run into some interesting incidents.

Hanuman Ansh – Review

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” – Albus Dumbledore

My sister and I generally do not agree on movies. She is more of a Dabangg-girl; I am more of an Interstellar-guy. I’ve long learnt not to entertain her recommendations, and she knows this better than anyone else. So naturally I was surprised when she came and told me that not only would I enjoy Hanuman Ansh, but she would watch it again as well.

I checked out the movie. The cast and crew were unknown. Not just unknown, but the director, lead actor, singers… nobody even had a Wikipedia page. The movie barely had one. The songs seemed to be all traditional folk songs with no particular lyricist. Normally, I would ignore such movies as the futile attempt of some overzealous assistant director from Oshiwada who was doomed to fail. But my sister’s excitement got to me. I agreed and we booked a Sunday matinee show.

The theatre was full, contrary to my expectations. Even before the movie began, there were subtle hints of what was to come. There were absolutely no posters of the movie throughout the cinema hall, which was unusual. There weren’t many ads at the beginning of the movie. With a budget of only Rs. 2 Cr, I guess they didn’t spend on marketing at all. Come to think of it, how do you make a movie for Rs. 2 Cr in modern India anyway? Even Masaan was made on a budget of Rs. 7 Cr; but it did enjoy relatively known faces like Richa Chadha and Vicky Kaushal from recent Gangs of Wasseypur fame. Hanuman Ansh seemed to be made by a rag-tag group of theatre actors who wanted to get into filmmaking. But more on that later.

The movie begins with a disclaimer, which was a herald of things to come. Hanuman Ansh is the story of Neem Karoli Baba. It should classify as a devotional movie or a biopic – a controversial genre in contemporary India. Normally such movies follow a long disclaimer. The disclaimer of Dhurandhar: The Revenge runs into 15 lines putting all kinds of legal liabilities behind the movie. The disclaimer of Mahavatar Narsimha runs 7 lines emphasizing the religious nature of the movie and dramatization of some events. The disclaimer of Hanuman Ansh is just 3 lines – more like bullet points than sentences

• This is a devotional movie
• Some events are dramatized for the purposes of cinematic representation
• The ultimate interpretation to the wisdom of the audience

The usual long disclaimers about not hurting the sentiments of any community or any resemblance to any person being coincidental are absent. Rather, the wisdom of the audience is trusted. It has been a long time since a movie has trusted the wisdom of the audience. As a writer myself, I have difficulty trusting my audience anymore. This movie operates on conviction. And thankfully, finds its audience.

There are 2 scenes where this conviction is tested. One is when Baba leaves the town of Neem Karori. The entire town tries to stop him. When Baba does not relent, the town cries for a long time. Another is a scene where a person chants the Hanuman Chalisa in a night-scene in a forest. It is not a musical recitation of the Hanuman Chalisa. It’s just a man reciting it. With abrupt pauses, no rhythm, and no sense of melody. It’s like any average person would recite the Hanuman Chalisa when they find themselves in a spooky forest in the middle of the night. Both scenes run for over a minute on screen. Moviemakers don’t make such scenes anymore. There is always the risk of losing the short-attention span of the audience. People might forward the scene or check WhatsApp messages watching the movie screen-in-screen on their phones. This has been a point of debate among cinematic circles in recent times. Hanuman Ansh moves forward putting two scenes where they risk alienating the audience. The audience doesn’t budge. After a long time, we see a movie made with honesty and sincerity which feels refreshing. This movie does not chase TRPs; and that works with an audience starved for honesty.

Another point to note is given the right-winged times of the world propounded by movies like Dhurandhar and Kashmir Files. This movie does not delve into any politics or propaganda of any kind. It remains true to its devotion to Neem Karoli Baba and does not sway from it.

Coming to the cast and crew, long-time moviegoers will immediately recognize the crew as theatre trained. There is a fair bit of neck-acting, formally known through the Natya Shastra in Indian traditions. The most famous master of the art in recent times being Pankaj Tripathi. The camerawork is on spot, which syncs perfectly with the music, telling you that this is not an amateur crew, but a very experienced one who just haven’t worked on a big budget before. Thankfully, they will be able to now.

The background setting, minimal VFX, and costumes, dissolve seamlessly into the movie with nothing bothering the eye – just as good infrastructure should be. The Director comes with some experience over a few other projects, which I am now excited to watch. The lead actor is experiences as an assistant director with this being his first acting assignment. Like all good assistant directors, he delivers. It would be a miracle if this movie ends up grossing higher than Namit Malhotra’s Ramayan, but that may be a possibility. At least in terms of remaining true to the core message, Hanuman Ansh does a phenomenal job that any high-budget movie will not be able to do due to production constraints.

I walked out of the theatre with an unusual problem. At no point does the movie claim that the story is true. In fact, it takes efforts to disclaim the supernatural claims as fantasy and tricks on the eye. But I came out wanting the fantasy to be true. The engineer in me wasn't convinced. But perhaps that is exactly what the movie intended when it left the ultimate interpretation to the wisdom of the audience. Now that Hanuman Ansh has seen success, I hope it encourages filmmakers to look beyond the familiar mythology and tell more of these strange, forgotten stories of mystical India. We may not believe all of them. Perhaps we don't always need to.

Sitaram!