No Apologies for the Interruption

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NO APOLOGIES FOR THE INTERRUPTION

a work by Love Anand / Azra Tabassum / Neelofar Shamsher Ali / Lakhmi Kohli / Jaanu Nagar Nasreen / Rabiya Quraishy / Rakesh Khairalia Babli Rai / Tripan Kumar

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veryone’s hands had turned black. Nirmalaji’s hands too were black. She was holding a statue. Someone had gifted it to her son, impressed by his dancing. It was quite heavy, almost three kilos. She ran her hands over it, cleaning it. She blew on it. However, the more she tried to clean it, the more she touched it, the more her hands turned black. She wiped it with a cloth. Her hands turned black again. She looked hard at the statue. She got up, wet the cloth and wiped it again. Its surface became wet, and nothing came off it when she touched it this time. When it dried, she touched it again. Her hands turned black, again. She sank it in a bucket of water. All was well while the statue stayed wet. But once it dried, the stain started coming off it afresh.

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en minutes past five. Fog covered the bridge. When the platform can no longer be seen, how will the train be visible? Small bonfires have been lit at different places to try and dispel the fog. The sounds of people coughing and clearing their throats and the murmurs of the radio slowly lift the veil from the world.

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Honlye sees someone walking in his direction. There is one shop with a lit signboard here, and its dim glow is all that illumines this place. Outside this small circle of light, everyone seems to disappear into the surroundings, the way shadows do in the dark. “Bhai sahib, bhai sahib...” But he kept walking on. How was it possible that he neither heard the voice nor saw the man? He walked on towards the hillock and disappeared. And the man who had called out to him stood where he had been standing and turned his head to look about him. Suddenly he felt a presence behind him. He heard the sound of heavy breathing. But he wasn’t able to turn around.

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M“Could y phone has been ringing all day. Someone called and asked, you please tell us in whose name this number has been registered? We have good schemes on offer.” Someone called from a bank and started telling me about loans on low interest and repayment through easy monthly installments. And that “all you need to do is give us your I-card”. My friend who lives in Chitli Kabr called me, asking me to come over to her house because she wanted me to meet someone. Then I also got this call: “We arrange grooms of all kinds. Rich, poor and middle class. If you would like us to introduce you to rich boys as potential grooms, you have to register with us for Rs. 1,500. For the medium type, the registration fee is Rs. 1,000 and for the rest, Rs. 500. We’ll show you boys for six months. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet the one destined for you!” Why are people making up these excuses to call me in this way? Who’s going to call me next? There’s no knowing when the next call will come. And it’s not like I can just switch the phone off.

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louds covered the sun. A very bright light could be seen on the road. People waiting at the bus stand stepped out into the middle of the road for a better look. It was the same all along the road. But as the hot glow sped on, those nearest to it had to step back towards the edge of the road.

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The light descended down the flyover. It was there for all to see. The road dazzled with its brilliance. The ball of fire kept hurtling forward, unmindful of the wind. The man at the wheel concentrated on steering the vehicle. Such passion for speed! He wanted to live that moment as intensely as possible. What was going on around him, was anyone calling out to him—none of this concerned him. His vehicle swerved to the left, then to the right. It bent, it swayed. The windshield was shattered; the wind made him forget everything else. Wherever his vehicle passed, people halted. They turned, they bent nearer to see more carefully, their lips rounded into an O. It was as if everyone was watching a shooting star speeding through amidst them.

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girl with golden hair who lives in happiness with her hair. She has many kinds of hair—black hair, jet-black hair, curly hair, red hair, hair with split ends, white hair, thin hair, thick hair, multi-coloured hair. Each day, from the moment the first ray of sun cracks the horizon till the hour the last ray leaves the sky, she carefully arranges her collection of hair. And after the last ray is extinguished, she gathers it all up in a bundle, ties it up with a knot and keeps it close to her.

Four good-looking young men. They are all wearing mehendi-coloured salwar-kameez and waistcoats, and black caps on their heads. Not only are they dressed alike, they also have identical dholaks around their necks which they are beating incessantly, matching beat for beat and playing in a steady rhythm. They are directing all the energy in their bodies into the dholak sticks. Every part of their body is trembling with the effort. In the last half-minute of their playing, they drummed with such energy that it seemed as if something was on the threshold of being destroyed. As if the sea were moving to engulf islands. As if some heavy load had fallen from a ten-storey building and was still in the air, about to reach the ground in a few seconds. As if six runs were needed from the last ball of the over, and the bowler was gripping the ball tightly and running towards the batsman.

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o you know why I’m saving up?” the woman sitting next to me asked me suddenly. “I want to make a breathing, living, spectacular tower which will have within it countless small rooms. Each room will have innumerable shelves, and from these shelves, everyone will be able to take of those things that I have been able to understand, those thoughts which I think come to everyone in different ways and in myriad forms, those dreams that have always frightened me. I know splendour is attractive to everyone. Nothing in this tower that I build will be plain.

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“Even the minor spatterings of adhesive and paint, the blemishes left after a construction, will be resplendent. This tall tower I make will be different from all others. Each morning at daybreak and every evening during sunset, the sun will cast its rays upon this tower, and they will scatter into the tower’s many rooms in different, extraordinary colours.”

Tinhere was a stampede. People ran different directions. He too began to run. He ran to a water tank, opened its tap and sat beneath it with his eyes closed. He became drenched and slowly the water flowed into the streets. Soon there was water everywhere. It was difficult for the stampede to continue. One man came up to the tap and turned it off. The man sitting under the tap opened his eyes and looked around. Then he got up and began to walk. It was very hot; the water on the street soon dried. The stampede resumed.

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“In 1984, this entire place was as if totally transformed. “

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Everywhere a silence hung over everything like a heavy, unmoving cloud. No sound anywhere. Not of songs from music systems, not of television sets. Each night, in every house, men took turns staying awake, holding in their hands anything that could be used as a weapon. Life stood still. Locks on the doors of every single shop. No light-hearted, night-long gatherings on rooftops to watch movies playing on rented VCRs; no more anticipating a tempo stopping by a park and setting up a screen to project films on and entertain the neighbourhood. The change was complete and sudden.” Shyamlalji was among those men who stayed up all night, guarding his family and the lane in which they lived, ready to protect them, a long, sturdy stick held firmly in his hands. The tumult in the city had made every neighbourhood quiet, indrawn, fearful. The slightest sound at the door would make everyone’s mouth go dry. 18

“During that time, one day, a big search party came here. Police went into several houses; they entered any house they wanted. Maybe you don’t know how it is in a riot. But in that kind of confusion and chaos, it’s not difficult for things – items, objects – to, you know, be moved from their original locations, from their homes, and be taken elsewhere, to change hands. So... the police came here looking for things. But let’s be clear— whatever had happened had to do with the riots in the city.” He continued, “The day after the raid, many things – all of them new – were found in each and every garbage dump around here. It must have been the fear of another raid which made people throw them away. All of it was expensive and brand new. After landing up in the dump, the stuff stayed there all day, all night. No one dared touch it. All these things which everyone dreamed of owning had become something else today. No one went near them; no one even seemed to acknowledge they were there. There were black & white and colour television sets, VCRs, VCPs, tins of oil and ghee, bundles of clothes, shoes still in their original boxes, radio sets, music systems... more, many more things. Some were dented at the edges, a little bent in. But just a little. It was as if each person had left things there very carefully, maybe hurriedly but still with a lot of care taken not to scratch or damage or break anything. If anything had been thrown, it would surely have broken.”

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The last show

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Late at night,

sitting at the bus stand,

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thinking about the last show at the cinema hall

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– also the last time

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it would ever screen a film –

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images float through my mind.

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The bus arrives.

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utside the cinema hall, there are shopkeepers, but also many young men, all of them ticketless. They are just standing there, staring at the film posters plastered on the walls. They are checking out what film is showing at the moment, what the next show will be. One of them, the one chewing tobacco, spurts his tobacco-saturated spittle into a corner, never letting his eyes leave the poster he is looking at. And all the while, the look in his eyes betrays that he is about to (yes, he would!) take that poster off the wall and with him—if only he could get away with it and be excused for the act. But there’s no question of that, so all he can do is take the poster with his eyes. But there are men who do not care. Whether a poster be pasted on a wall or a pole, they abduct it and make off with it, yes, they do. Some manage to take possession of the entire poster, while others carry away any part they can. A half a poster is not only a flourish. Even a portion of a poster speaks of the effort that went into getting it.

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Their backs resting against the wall, these young men stand with countless dreams in their eyes. Their eyes rove over the cinema hall building, sticking on the actors peering at them from the posters and hoardings. A show has just ended. The young men glance furtively at those emerging from the hall, and try and puzzle out what the eyes of those who have just come out might be fixed on. Are they still playing a character they’ve just seen on the big screen? Maybe someone without a job is feeling what it is like to have one. And someone is convinced he has now finally found the way to plant the seed of his love in the heart of his beloved. After every show, every pair of eyes dreams many dreams, if only momentarily. Dreams that are dreamt with open eyes can’t be called strange dreams. These aren’t dreams dreamt while one sleeps, belied once sleep is spent and one awakens. Nor are they daydreams, meant to be tucked away in the far recesses of the mind. These are dreams that add fuel to fantasy, making imagined worlds stronger, their possibilities more real. Many set out to fulfil these dreams. They disappear, take flight one day, in search of that other world which is their own. They head out from home, a small bag packed with a change of clothes in their hands, a few rupees in their pockets. Or then, someone reaches a set where a shoot is on, doing everything within his means to get a chance to show his skills. And this in front of someone who must have come here before him to become an actor too and who is even now in line. And someone else, finding his love thwarted, takes off with his girl, steals her away from her home. These are not dreams, they’re reality. Sometimes cinema learns from lives, and sometimes some lives learn from cinema. These young men, these friends of mine, hang around the cinema hall for hours as if stuck to its walls, waiting for that moment which will reveal to them that, yes, it is possible for what they have thought,

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what they have seen, to become reality. It is with these thoughts that sometimes they even return to their work. And when something pricks their minds again, they come back here, to rest their backs against the cinema hall, to laze, to rest a while, to look about, at the posters, the people entering the hall, the people emerging, their friends and, if nothing else remains, themselves. A police constable, baton beating the ground, comes near them and says, in a way which sends waves through bodies, “What the hell are you standing here for? Just loitering? Selling tickets on the black? What do you keep doing here? Here to pick a pocket, are you? I’ve been watching you.” These young men who dream with their eyes open (these “pickpockets”, these “ticket blackers” and these who-knows-what-theymight-be-called-next) listen quietly, or they sometimes become gutsy and talk back. They aren’t about to produce any bribes, so the constable can bear down on them a bit harder. For now, these young men will move away. But for sure, they’ll be back again tomorrow.

These are bodies that cannot be sent to work; they are also not ready to make a family. In a sense, you could call this These are bodies that cannot to work; they areItalso a meaningless body. Itbe is sent a body without aim. is a body not ready to make family. youyou could call this in stasis. Youacan see In thisa sense, body, but cannot admonish a meaningless body.ofItthis is abody bodyiswithout aim. It to is aus.body it. The voice not accessible How then in stasis. You seethis thisbody? body,Here, but you cannot admonish can wecan think it is done through this body’s it. The voice of this is not to us.given How to then attraction tobody cinema andaccessible the warnings it by the can we police. think this body? Here, it is question done through this body’s Interesting. But the remains. attraction to cinema and the warnings given to it by the police. Interesting. But the question remains.

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What the postman knows

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e said, “Arre, where bhaiya? I don’t get even a moment’s respite from my shop. Well, I do go in once in a while. But usually, just sitting here, I get to know the story of the film that’s playing on the day, the very day, the film is released. One viewer or another comes to my shop and narrates some scene or the other. Someone like you, for example. In this way, slowly, I get to piece together the entire story. Someone hums a song from the movie, another repeats a dialogue. And I get to know which song or which dialogue is going to be a hit. These I then narrate to my own friends. It makes them think I’ve seen it, I’ve come back from the first day’s first show! And if you’re thinking, ‘But he hasn’t seen the hero-heroine of the film,’ then let me tell you, I get to know about them from the posters pasted around my shop. I’m a shopkeeper as well as a lover of cinema and a purveyor of cinema too.”

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“I ’m a bride for just one night; you’re a groom for just tonight...” Does anyone remember which singer sang this song? Or the actress filmed singing it? Perhaps not many recall. But many would remember for sure how they finally understood this song. This is from the time when I was in Class IV. That’s about sixteen years ago. My elder sister, Gullo baji, was three years older, and she had many friends her age, around a dozen or more. There were smaller, more intimate groups within them. One of her closest friends was Gudiya, a young woman whose house was the first in the neighbourhood to own a cassette player. She had a gigantic collection of songs from movies, qawwalis, praise for Allah, etc. Mostly, Gudiya’s mother used to be away from the house. And her father was always busy in his shop on the main road, right outside the neighbourhood, from which he sold wood. Gudiya was an extremely beautiful and restless girl. Every afternoon, she’d gather young women and girls from around the neighbourhood, and they’d play music loudly and dance to it. Songs about love and longing. “Aj mere pyar ki jeet ho jaane do...” Songs about giving up one’s life for one’s beloved. “Zindagi yaar ke naam aa jaye to main khuda ki kasam zindagi chhor dun...” Songs to forget one’s self. “Mujre wali hun main, mujra karti hun...” Songs to the lover, inviting him. “Dil cheez kya hai aap meri jaan lijiye...” Songs about unmasking and disowning the world. “Inhi logon ne le leena dupatta mera...” Songs teasing the lover. “Mujhe naulakha manga de re, o saiyan deewane...” The girls would lip synch and spend hours finding and perfecting the gestures that could go best with the song they were dancing to. The cassettes would keep changing, newer songs would be played, and music would echo through the lanes. When they were first heard in the neighbourhood, everyone enjoyed the songs. But when they realised these songs were being played everyday, and sometimes even twice each day, everyone found it a nuisance: What kind of person enjoys listening to songs of this kind every single day? That day after my sister came back home, and ammi found out she had been at Gudiya’s house, she sat her down and spoke with her very affectionately. She told her it wasn’t advisable to go around dancing to such songs. She told her not to go to Gudiya’s house again. 40

“Salaam-e ishq meri jaan zara qubool kar lo. Tum humse pyaar karne ki zara si bhool kar lo. Mera dil bechain hai hamsafar ke liye...” Today, the neighbourhood is swaying to the words of a young woman teasingly calling out to the man she is smitten by, urging him to take her, letting him know she is impatient to become his. As soon as the sound of this song reached her ears, my mother went about the house looking for my sister. She wasn’t there. Ammi picked up a long piece of wood from the stove which had cooled by now. She walked up to Gudiya’s house, opened the door slightly and peeped in. She stood at the door silently and watched, unseen, for a long time. That afternoon, when my father came home for lunch, all of us sat down to eat together. We were still eating when ammi whispered something into abbu’s ears. Abbu waited for some time before asking, “I hear we have an excellent dancer amongst us. So tell me, who among you can dance well?” My sister immediately raised her hand and said, “I”. Seeing my ammi smile, I too raised my hand and said, “Me too!” And then my two younger sisters also joined in, “I can dance well”, “I dance well”. Abbu asked Gullo baji to dance. She sang a song as she danced. “It was these people, all these people, who stole my dupatta...” Her body and her hands played out the song. Abbu smiled as he watched his eldest daughter lost in her dancing. When she finished, I too danced. Abbu gave my sister one rupee and gave me fifty paise after we finished. “Why don’t you teach Bushra and Shabana as well?” he asked my sister. “Teach them so they dance together, matching step for step, giving each other company.” From that day on, Gullu baji started taking all three of us with her to Gudiya’s house.

From where does dance come into our body? From where does dance come into our body? When this question was posed to us, we knew almost immediately it was one of those toWhen whichthis no question answer will beto available. Rather we realised over time wasever posed us, we knew almost immediately it wasitone of was thethose kind of question that takes you on a search in which pieces of our livestime it to which no answer will ever be available. Rather we realised over come together. Fragments that otherwise stay dormant, beyond thought, was the kind of question that takes you on a search in which pieces ofand our lives yet remain decisive in many, so many, come together. Fragments thatlives. otherwise stay dormant, beyond thought, and yet remain decisive in many, so many, lives. 41

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hat is the difference between something being, or becoming, private and something or someone being in, or in search of, solitude? Is it that we conceptually remove ourselves from thinking something by calling it private? By associating the multitude with noise and the singular with solitude, do we inadvertently lose out on recognising the multitude’s possibility for solitude? The proliferation of things and the way things are becoming smaller and smaller— do these confuse our discernment of privacy and solitude?

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is name is Manan. He has been repairing TVs and radios for the last thirty years. I wanted to talk to him to learn from his experience and his life. In interviewing him, I began by asking how it was that he started to do this work. On hearing this question, he smiled. Raju: Which places have you worked at? And what‘s the work you’ve done? Mananji (turning to look at me): I’ve done repairing jobs ever since I started working. In the beginning, I used to work in Govindpuri. That was around 1980. Raju: How long did you work there? Mananji: Two years. Then I worked in Madangir, then Malviya Nagar, then Garhi, then in different areas around Badarpur, different shops. Before I began working in this shop, I worked in the one next to this. I started working here in 1984 and have been here since. Raju: How did you know this work was the best for you? Mananji: Every person has an interest. For instance, children like doing many things alongside their studies. This was my interest when I was a student. Raju: Did you ever do any work other than this? Mananji: No. This is what I have done from the beginning. This is the work I started with. And I made it into my livelihood. Raju: Is there a story to how you began working in Govindpuri? Mananji: I came to Delhi from a village in Punjab. My brother used to live in Delhi. He worked as a carpenter, the work my family has done for generations. I was very thin when I first came to Delhi, so my brother thought carpentry would be very difficult for me. “You’re not cut out for work like this,” he said. He told me I should look for lighter work. I thought I’d like to be a driver. But learning driving needs time, which I didn’t have. I would have needed a year or two to learn driving well. And driving is not without risks or hassles. So my brother spoke to someone who did repair work. At that time, new radio sets used to be made in that shop. I worked there for two years. I learnt a few things, and I particularly got to know a little bit about materials. Also, if you work in one place for two years, you learn a lot. That’s how my interest, or hobby, became my work.

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It was mostly radios before 1984. Everyone used to roam about listening to radios. At best, radio sets used to require sound parts repaired. Or there would be requests to have small speakers connected to the radio set. In my two years at Govindpuri, once I had learned enough, I also used to teach the newer apprentices who came to work there. We would distribute minor works among them. The rest of the work, the owner would do on his own. And, by being with him, I learned the work too. I’ve worked a lot but always with someone else. Now, too, I work for someone. I never set up my own place. Raju: So getting into this work was not your own decision? Mananji: No. I was about fourteen or fifteen then. At that age, one gets shaped according to the mould one is cast in. Beyond that, how things pan out depends on each person’s inclinations and interests. Raju: What preparation is required in leaving one place of work and going to another? How does one know, ‘I have learnt enough and I am now ready to move on and to the next level’? Mananji: That’s not how it happens. Rather it’s, ‘I’m not getting enough pay where I’m working’. Or, ‘I want to move to some place that will give me more’. So if I get Rs. 200 where I work and a possibility opens up for getting Rs. 250 elsewhere, where one may benefit more, then one moves on. This is also related to learning more. Because a place that pays you better is also a place where they get more business. That means you’ll see and grasp more things. In the old place, you’d be doing one kind of repair work. In the new place, you’ll get newer kinds of work to do, over and above what you already know. And then, as you know, repair work keeps increasing. As time goes on, more and more things require repairing. Earlier, radios used to have a tube component which one doesn’t see any more. Then transistors came, then sets which had ICs. Today sets come with ICs, CDs, cards. Electronic items have kept changing with time, and the work too has changed. Earlier TV sets were black & white. Then colour TVs came. Now TVs come with ICs and can play DVDs.

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Raju: Outside your work, what kind of relationship do you think people had with technology? Mananji: It was like this... The government had installed TVs in different places. These places used to be called TV centres. People used to be given information through these centres—for instance, information about agriculture. The government had set up many such TV centres in different places. At that time, only people who owned shops that sold TVs used to own TV sets. I used to live in Block 6 here, and there was a TV centre in the park in that block. I used to go there every evening to watch TV. The centre was a small room with a TV kept in it. The TV had a shutter which would remain closed till viewing time, 7 PM to 9. News, Chitrahaar, plays, etc. used to be telecast. And a film on Sundays. Raju: Which films? Mananji: Films for the entire family. Raju: Do you remember the names of one or two films? Mananji: I don’t really remember. But Dushman, Dharmveer, Gopi are films from that time. Religious films also used to be shown. Raju: Before TV came, what was people’s relation with the radio? Mananji: Almost everyone had radios in their homes. At that time, radios were what people had mostly. News, information about wars, announcements by the government, the President’s address. BBC and Radio Ceylon were the only two channels. Vividh Bharati came later. Raju: What kinds of conversations around the radio and the TV centre do you remember? Mananji: Lots of conversations used to happen. These were like new hobbies people had. If people saw something new, they’d discuss it amongst themselves. Plans used to be made in advance about going to the TV centre. People used to wait eagerly to see new things. People anticipate the introduction of new things even now. Earlier there were VCRs, now there are CD players. Then, when DVDs came, people started preferring DVDs. Earlier there were tape recorders, now it’s stereo systems. Things change, they improve.

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Raju: Was there any aspect of repairing which made you afraid? Mananji: Yes. When I started working in Govindpuri, we used to be taught how to talk to our customers along with being trained in how to repair things. We used to watch the owner and learn. People don’t know these things when they first come from the village, like I didn’t know. I had come without this knowledge. Raju: How many kinds of radios were there? Mananji: First, there were radios with tubes. They used to have a circuit with a bulb and five or six tubes. Then circuits began to become smaller. Now technology is even smaller. Take the example of bicycles—they used to be so heavy earlier. Now they’re much lighter. Also, technology has become less expensive, and more people can take it home. Raju: So you’re saying that technology has become smaller, and it has spread everywhere... Mananji: That’s not what I mean by smaller. I mean it’s being made better. Finer, with more precision and also better looking. The speed of making things also gets affected in the process. I’m speaking, after all, from what I’ve observed and experienced over the last twenty-five to thirty years. Today, work is done less with hands and more with machines. Earlier, labourers used to dig holes. Now, machines dig holes. Raju: Is there any debate about the world of machines between you and your friends? Mananji: No, there’s no debate as such. It’s good that there is progress; one gets to encounter new things. I don’t have anything against machines, but one gets to see changes so much faster today. People are annoyed with machines, but there is also an understanding that that which gets things done faster will become more relevant and will be in greater demand. With machines, work gets done quicker and in the way we would prefer it to be done. Yet work too has increased with machines. Things that need to be learned have also increased.

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Raju: Because of your experience of repairing, what are the things you have become more observant of or which you keep in mind more? Mananji: When you work with technology, you always have to keep your focus. You have to work so that things don’t get spoiled because of what you do to them. There are metres with which we can check parts. Earlier, we used to gauge what might have got damaged just with our eyes. Now, we confirm what we have gauged with the metres. It’s important because otherwise the loss is your own. And because of my experience, I can repair all kinds of things at home myself, like coolers, fans, irons. People also bring these things to the shop, and I repair them. Raju: What kinds of relations have you formed with people because of the repair work you do? Mananji: Many kinds of people come here. You get to know some. If your work doesn’t turn out well, arguments also ensue. And since we are running a business, we have to bear with what the customer says. Raju: Is there anyone who came to you a long time ago and is still connected to you? Mananji: Yes, some people become friends and also keep returning for advice when they want to buy electronic items. Some come just to chat, and others come for their work alone. Raju: How do you welcome changes in technology? Mananji: Earlier, technology used to be large-scale. But now, when it is smaller, it has become easier and more possible to share. When one works, one sees changes and one’s curiosity also keeps increasing. One waits and watches for new things to come. About things which you feel are beyond you, you ask people who know more than you. In this way, you create a relationship with them in which they share what they know with you, and this is important for us. We are the ones who benefit in this because it is our knowledge which increases in such a relationship. No one knows everything. Everyone has to take someone else’s help at some point of time. Everyone—from the small apprentice to the big master.

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Raju: So, sharing and helping are important in your work? Mananji: Yes. Because when we repair something, our value in the customer’s eyes increases. Otherwise their regard for us falls. Raju: How do you recycle old things? How do you make them useful again? Mananji: We don’t sell everything we have. In today’s time, it’s difficult to find some things. So what we don’t find, we take out of the older things we have with us. Some of the things we have are twenty or twenty-five years old. Sometimes someone leaves something here and doesn’t come back to take it. So, making a storage space is very important. You never know when something may come in useful. Raju: Have you made something by recycling parts? Mananji: No, never for myself. But I have used old parts often to repair things. These are experiments people who repair things do. For instance, if you don’t find the cover of a radio or a tape recorder, you use something from the old things you have. Through such jugaad, such improvisations, you can bring many things into use.

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Raju: When someone brings something old for repair, say a twenty- to twenty-five-year-old radio or tape recorder, what do you say to them? Mananji: First, we put our minds to thinking about how this thing can be repaired. When we have some ideas, we think about whether we’ll get the parts we need for the work. Challenging jobs do come one’s way time and again. If things look difficult, we tell the customer, “What’s the point of getting this repaired? You may as well buy something new at the same cost.” Often people who come to get old things repaired are insistent, “Please repair it. It’s so old”. It’s someone’s memory, or a keepsake, or they are very attached to it, or they’ve kept it safe for so long that they can’t imagine parting with it. For sure, people form attachments with old things they don’t want to lose. One doesn’t see too many such things these days. In the market, it’s always new goods, and they get replaced by newer ones so soon. Raju: Something new comes, then stops coming or changes... How do you view this? Mananji: It’s the old which is transformed and comes before us as the new. It’s in the attempt at making the old better that the new gets made.

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eople would roam the streets, looking for places where they might sit and rest a while. Not just that once but every day. They would be searching for a radiance, an atmosphere of excitement, not dependant on them alone. The heart is always in search of a place which is something else, something apart, something more. At that time, every place here was such that everyone had the freedom to either step in or pass by. There were no restrictions of any kind. So, their feet would guide people to many places; there was no demand for them to be still and settle at one place alone. As if people were on roller skates! They’d run about, rushing to immerse themselves in different places. And they recognised too that this desire to make many places their own, or to be enchanted by multiple places, was not theirs alone but was shared by others too. This was the atmosphere in which people built their houses at that time, when this place was just beginning to be made. While they made their homes, it was as if the foundations for the shape the entire neighbourhood would take over time were being laid through words, scenes and gatherings in each heart. After all, who doesn’t want to be a wanderer? Who doesn’t want to find paths that lead away from himself, his work and the settled worlds that are part of his routine? Who doesn’t want to drift away, become lost? Amidst such places that were embedded deep inside hearts, and places which sometimes find expression in words but have no other reality, and places that are nurtured in the spaces in between other places, and places in which one searches for that place which comes close to the idea which one has within one’s heart, was this place—one whose construction was now almost complete. It had drawn everyone to itself, excited everyone even before it was fully ready. It was a big room. Outside, a board announced: TV Centre, Public Library and Community Centre “Will a TV be installed here?” “Will movies be screened here?” The reality of this yet-tocome-into-being place had been sacrificed to the expectations people had about it, and this is what created an epic about it even before its construction. The room is dark. A candle has been lit. Four people sit amidst a circle of onlookers, one with a harmonium and one with something which looks like tongs. The harmonium everyone recognises, but the tongs are strangely shaped—broad at the tips and they make a beautiful sound when the tips are hit against each other. Singing fills the air. Joyousness and hullabaloo in the room all night long. 55

The room is dark. Seating arrangements have been made all around the room. Pools of light surround these cots, but otherwise the walls and the people are in darkness. Late into the night, amidst the singing and dancing, if someone, tired from his day’s exertions, falls asleep while listening, who can tell?

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The room is now full of electric light. A TV has been set up. The number of people in the room is continuing to swell. The TV is still not switched on. The man in charge of operating the television has been screaming for a long time now: “Don’t crowd here!” Everyone is being asked to sit down, to not stand around. But there’s so much excitement and energy that no one can sit still.

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All through the day, the search for places and environs to gather in continued in the lanes. Perhaps the intoxication of the night spent singing, dancing, watching, discussing, being amidst others added fuel to this fire. Wherever a few people sitting around on cots set up in a lane are spied, many more join in.

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his common-looking square, formed by the intersection of two common enough roads, has been a place of gathering for years now. At any point, one will find anywhere between eighty to a hundred people gathered here. Many people in one place, where each person has enacted innumerable roles in his life. The role, at times, of being one among the many who constitute a gathering, and, at other times, the role of one who conceives or organises a gathering. As if countless characters make up each person. Characters that sometimes offer a cooling shade to others and sometimes become a restless shadow that trails others. That’s how nothing ever becomes stale and, every day, different and newer companions can be discovered and sought. Standing here, people try to sense in one another the desire to bring something into speech. This square seems to hold within it a deep insight into listening. One listens to another not simply to hear him or her out and praise him or her, not only to wait for the other to finish their piece so that he in turn may get to say something, not only to hear and then offer one’s critique or understanding of what she has heard. Not only all of these. Someone who may have come here for the first time can immediately find thirty listeners. Or thirty people, none of whom have been able to earn their wage that day, can gather around one another, eager to hear what the other person has to say and so perhaps stitch together an image of themselves and of each other which may be larger than what they would allow themselves otherwise. Here, someone who whitewashes houses can become someone whose imaginative ideas about how a house could be made captivate everyone. A bricklayer can get promoted through the enchanting tales he can spin to the status of a head mason.

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Each person who comes here forms a pair with another, and what comes alive between them is a magic chair. When a man speaks, sitting on this magic chair, he finds his listener can intuit through what he speaks the outlines of the hazy image of the self he carries deep within him. Or she finds in her listener the joy of being able to recognise that part of her self which she holds closest to herself. When someone sits on the magic chair, his listener actively tries to imagine his desires and to amplify everything he utters with all his energy. This is how each person who comes to this square gladly surrenders her insights, stories and ideas from all the long years of being in the world. By the time midnight approaches, everyone in the square would have had a chance to sit on the magic chair, would have played the role of a teller and of a listener at least once. And if each night, by the time the clock strikes twelve, one person remains who found no one to tell him a story, no one to lend him her ear, what then? Someone who had the lyrics for a song but found no one to sing to. Someone who had composed a musical score but found no one offered lyrics to string into it. When that happens, then, unlike in the game of musical chairs, where the player who is left without a chair is eliminated from the game, for this person who gets left out, this square has devised something too. When the clock announces it is midnight, the magic chair is placed in the middle of the square. The person who heard no one and told no one his own tale is sat upon it. Everyone present gathers around him. Now he will speak, and all others will become his listeners.

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The speed and routine of daily life make it di cult to access the range diversity and density of expressions around us. These expressions are hinted at intimated and intuited in di erent ways in our daily encounters The magic chair is that space fulfillment Thewhich speedtakes and these routineseriously of dailyand lifeseeks maketheir it difficult to access the range, diversity and density of expressions around us. These expressions are hinted We carry the magic chair inand ourintuited heads What we search occasions of The magic at, intimated in different ways infor ourare daily encounters. gathering and chair of solitude that can activate theseseriously magic chairs Wetheir create is that space which takes these and seeks fulfillment. our magic chairs in moments of stillness when the fullness of an expression vibrates through and around us chair in our heads. What we search for are occasions of Weuscarry the magic gathering and of solitude that can activate these magic chairs. We create The magic chairour is both danger Itof is stillness a desire when whichthe is latent in each magicdesire chairsand in moments fullness of an expression of us for a ight for anthrough unhinging foraround a searchus.But it is also a space of danger vibrates us and as it can disrupt the assured solid surfaces of the bargains on which daily life is played out identity family belonging The magic chair is both desire and danger. It is a desire which is latent in each of us—for a flight, for an unhinging, for a search. But it is also a space of The magic chair is a condition within daily life thebargains place on which danger as it can everyone disrupt thecarries assured solid In surfaces of the of the magic chair diminishes expands depending on what and who it daily life is playedor out—identity, family, belonging. encounters What can we create around ourselves and in what ways can we enter that which has beenchair made others soeveryone that an expansion of the magiclife, the place The magic is by a condition carries within. In daily chair may happen of the magic chair diminishes or expands depending on what and who it encounters. What can we create around ourselves, and in what ways can we What constitutes thethat magic chair are itsby terms What does fracture of the magic enter which hasWhat been made others, so that anitexpansion What does it rebuild What are its resources What inheritance does it speak chair may happen? from and what kind of a tussle ensues between inheritance and capacity This is the question What the magic chair poses it is chair? a question theitsquality life The constitutes the magic Whatofare terms?of What does it fracture? magic chair hinges the intersection of inheritance creativity and capacity does it speak Whatatdoes it rebuild? What are its resources? What inheritance from and what kind of a tussle ensues between inheritance and capacity? This The state fights the question magic chair and not theisexternal costumes we of life. The is the the magic chairmerely poses—it a question of the quality don When onemagic acts chair helpless it means one is letting go of the magic chair hinges at the intersection of inheritance, creativity and capacity. But the magic chair is not only about one s capacity to act It is about the very faculty of imagination on that battle is located The stateand fights the the magic chair, and not merely the external costumes we don. When one acts helpless, it means one is letting go of the magic chair. But the magic chair is not only about one’s capacity to act. It is about the very faculty of imagination, and on that the battle is located.

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ne day, Nandu called me as I was passing by. “I’m writing a script for a play. There are many kinds of characters in it. I need your help in finding actors and also a video director who can shoot it all for me.” I had known Nandu for a few years now but till now had been unaware of this side to him. Hiding my surprise, I said, “Can I hear your script? I might be able to help you better if I know the script.” In response he said, “You could act in my play.” I had never acted before, but I knew some people who performed street theatre, and I told him so. “It’s not some street play that I’m planning. The script is for a serial I want to make. And you will act in this serial.” I insisted on the script, so perhaps to placate me he said, “Okay, you can read my script soon.” Then he whispered to me, “But I can’t pay any of the actors.” “We’ll find people who won’t charge you,” I promised him. “You prepare the script, and I’ll find the actors,” I said. After that day, I searched high and low for Nandu, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, one day, someone behind me tugged at my hand as I was walking through the street. It was Nandu. “You disappeared for fear of having to read your script to me,” I complained. “That’s not true,” said Nandu. “The videographer was asking for Rs. 10,000 to shoot it, whether it was a half-hour or an hour-long serial. Where do I have that kind of money?” Today he had a new idea. “I’m writing my own song now,” he said, “And setting it to music myself. I’m practicing singing it at the moment. I’ve heard you have some experience with editing. Will you help me edit my music video?” I agreed immediately but told him he’d have to record his song first. I told him I could help him with the recording too, but he would have to arrange musicians who would play the music for him. I advised him to compose five to six songs, find some musicians, and then we would work on a music album by him. “Once you release an album, people will listen to it. Then you’ll become popular, and your listeners will demand more music from you,” I said. This made Nandu very happy. He said, “Well said!” And we went our separate ways.

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Six months later, as I was going to meet a friend, I saw a video parlour by the main road. I felt like borrowing a film, so I went in. And who do I see there? Nandu! He saw me and greeted me with a smile. But I was beside myself. “Rascal, what do you think I am?” I thundered. “You think I’m a fool? Each time I meet you, it’s a new idea from you. Then you disappear. Why are you fucking around with me this way? Never mind me. What the hell do you think you are?!” Nandu looked calmly at me and said, “Let bygones be bygones, friend. Sit down. This is my video parlour. I opened it six months ago.” Trying to calm myself a little, I said, “Good. At least you’re doing something.” But my anger wasn’t going to let go of me so easily! I continued, “Good that you’re doing something which has a reality, which can be seen. Otherwise you conjure dreams in the dark and build dream worlds with your words.” But suddenly I felt I was speaking unfairly, harshly. I drew a deep breath, then asked, “How’s the business?” Nandu smiled, “With your blessings, very good.” I advised him, “Concentrate on this work and make something of it.” He nodded, “Yes, I’m giving it all my attention. But I’m thinking I’d like to become a DJ. Actually, becoming a DJ is why I set up this shop. I keep listening to songs all day at my parlour, and in this way, I learn the tunes well, and I keep planning which tunes should follow which as I listen. That’s what a DJ ought to know, after all. If I keep at it, my shop will do well and I’ll also hone my practice.” But I was in no mood for this, and I started digging up old things. “What happened to your music album?” Nandu shrugged, “The musicians refused to play for me. And they were asking for so much money it made me shut up. It was making me crazy.” “Well then,” I said, “I have to be going now. I have to meet someone. But it’s good that I know now where to find you if I want to meet you.” “Yes, you can find me here any time,” Nandu said. We shook hands, and I went my way.

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Welcome to

Love

and

Nandu’s

rescripting studio

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Do you enjoy watching films? Can you tell a story? Do you have ideas you want to share with others? And thoughts that have brewed inside you, b ut you've never been sure if they really ought to be mentioned to others? Would you like to express yourself, elaborate on other's ideas, work out a new vocabulary by being with many other people? Have you always dreamt of making your own film?

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At Love and Nandu's Rescripting Studio, you can do this and more! Every Friday evening, get together with others and experiment, create, invent. Be that person who inserts herself into what has already been made to create it completely anew. Write dialogues, invent scenarios, spin your own tale. Make your own script. Create a new library of images and styles. And do it with many others. Call us any time at 9213192814.

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had taken to going to Nandu’s shop often and sitting and chatting with him. One day, I saw him busy with a register—the one in which he keeps an account of who has borrowed which film, who has paid and who still has to make payment. He also keeps a record of CDs that have been bought from his parlour in this register. That way he knows which movie he must buy another copy of. I glanced at the register. It was clear people were borrowing both Hindi and English films. When he saw I was curious, he opened his register to the page where he had made a list of English movies he had bought for his shop and lent or sold in the neighbourhood. “Earlier people used to watch only Hindi films. Now they watch them in English too. Movies are made in many more languages, and they will also circulate amidst us soon,” I said, and continued, “It took time for English movies to begin to be watched in households. So many conversations would have happened in homes as this change happened; people would have had to make decisions. No? What do you think?” Nandu said, “Whenever my father sits here and some boy comes to ask for an English movie, he refuses to loan it to him. Maybe he doesn’t recognise the names, or maybe he thinks he’ll find it difficult to locate them in the movie stack, or maybe the names of the actors don’t resonate for him, or then maybe it’s something else entirely because of which he refuses to give those movies. He says, simply, ‘Take it from Nandu when he is here.’ But the Hindi movies he gives immediately. There is definitely some tussle inside him, which he can never entirely express.” When I wondered if others had struggled with this, Nandu suggested we both talk to some of his customers. One boy said, “At home they ask me if I understand the language. And if I don’t, then why exactly do I want to watch these movies?!” Someone else said, “My family members don’t watch them, but they have no objection if I do.” These experiences were pretty close to my own, and I thought, “In many English movies young people talk back to their elders pretty freely—that probably has something to do with this. In Hindi movies, people do rebel, but there are many speed breakers to anyone questioning anything fully.”

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I looked through the register again and asked, “Don’t girls take any movies?” Nandu shrugged, “Very few.” I started asking people who came to Nandu’s shop about movies they liked. Lots of people mentioned Dev Anand and his films. “He always seemed to draw a new culture close,” someone said. Another talked of how they thought of him as the first real ‘city hero’. Another said he liked Dev Anand because he never preached in his movies. I found myself returning to Nandu’s parlour every single day. I met some boys. One thirteen-year-old told me he liked movies like Batman, He-Man and Superman best. I understand that well. I always wanted to fly like Superman. I tried to ask some customers what they look for in the movies they watch. What impresses them? One person said he liked English movies best. “They have something new in them,” he said. What is ‘new’? The meaning of the word was not clear to us. Was it a new story? A new actor? Or something else? I battled with this question for several days. The logic of ‘demand’ and ‘supply’ didn’t quite work for me. Then one day I asked what I still think was a pretty stupid question. I asked someone, “Why do you watch English movies?” The young man I asked this to looked at me, and it seemed my question amused him. “How long do you want to keep seeing things you think are ‘your own’?” he asked in reply. Then he gave me a lecture. He said, “You seem to be one of those who think new things are encountered only through news channels, books, newspapers and magazines. Let me tell you, cinema is also a good resource. Try it some time.” I was chagrined. He had read me as a fool. I wanted very much to tell him he was a man after my heart. But he just left, without letting me come clear. But this much was becoming evident to me through my conversations—people like Hindi and English movies. People may not understand English, but through images they try and connect with ‘difference’ and search for means through which they may make these connections. Discernments about Hindi films are also made in this way. I picked up Nandu’s register again and, leafing through it, asked him, “What kinds of conversations do you have with people when they come to return movies?” Nandu said, “People tell me very clearly if they thought a 78

movie was good or rubbish.” Now I wanted to understand what ‘good’ and ‘rubbish’ meant. Someone had just walked in to return a CD, so I asked him, “How was it?” “Rubbish,” he said. “What do you mean?” I persisted. “The same old, tried-and-tested story. The hero remains as heroes should and the heroine behaves like a heroine always does.” He walked away, disgruntled. Nandu and I played the film he had just returned. Meanwhile, another customer came. “Very good movie,” he said. Then he elaborated, “It’s very funny. And you can watch it with your entire family. It’s a ‘full comedy’.” We lined up this movie, too, to watch ourselves, in our ongoing list. When a third customer came, this time one who wanted to borrow a movie, Nandu suggested, “Take this one. Full comedy. Watch it with your entire family.” I watched quietly, charmed by this circulation of comments. Another customer came in to return a CD. “Rubbish film,” he said. “Gave me a headache.” Nandu and I played the film after he left. It was super noisy. Later in the evening, another customer came. “Good film. Compels you to think,” he said. We watched the film. Over a few days, I realised: when someone says a movie was rubbish, he’s in an argument with the story line. He didn’t find anything in the film which captivated his mind. Or, we could say, he knew by the interval what would happen in the next half. When someone returns a movie and doesn’t make any comment, it means he’s already moved on to thoughts about the next movie he wants to see. The anticipation of the next movie draws him into a silence. He’s probably the kind of viewer who tries to find himself in every shot of the film, tries and places himself in every turn of situation that happens in a film. When someone says the film compelled him to think, he means he will watch the movie again because even though the movie ended, it kept going on for him, in his head.

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The uncle: Notice that blanket? Someone’s been using it. Whatever happened here, someone has to have witnessed it. The niece: Well, let’s assume for a moment there was someone sleeping there… You think he left after the event? Maybe he was gone long before.

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The uncle: Look at that rope along that wall… And this lamp! As if whoever was here had to leave in a rush, with no time even to turn it off. The niece: But the broken pieces of glass have been swept to a side. So clearly, someone was here for some time. This looks like the kind of place where people must gather everyday. Why not today? Specially now, when something has happened…

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The uncle: What’s the exhaust fan doing on the floor?

The niece: These are signs there was a scuffle. It’s possible something happened in the ensuing commotion. Maybe it was an accident.

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The uncle: The signs are a bit too clear. Like someone’s trying to get us to focus on certain – certain very specific – things… The niece: You think this could all be a performance? Maybe someone’s trying to get us to believe something happened here.

The uncle: It may well be—a web of performances even! If someone has taken the trouble to do this, then what could it mean?

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The niece: You think… Maybe no event has happened yet! Maybe this is just to waylay us. Maybe we are being waylaid because something is about to happen. The uncle: Maybe it will happen now. Now that we are here!

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The niece: Or maybe if we leave now and come back tomorrow, this scene will be changed, and we will see a completely new stage, get a different sense of something entirely different…

The uncle: Do you think someone planned this for a long time? I mean, things have been removed from where they must have been and carefully rearranged. And whoever did this, left in a rush.

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The niece: Look, the clock has stopped. The uncle: Maybe the one who has done this is from here. He knows this place. But equally importantly, he also knows us…

Narrator’s voice: What happened here? Was there an incident, after which someone staged an accident and left hurriedly? Or did someone leave quickly first, and then in order to hide this disappearance, a web of clues was staged so that the uncle and niece remain in the dark about what really happened? Or is this a premonition of an incident that is yet to happen? Or is it something entirely different? How will uncle and niece find out? How will they resolve this problem? Find out this Thursday at 9 PM in the next episode of Uncle and Niece: The Detective Duo, on Show-TV, your favourite local channel. 86

How is it that the words through which our capacities may otherwise be talked about – lacking, insufficient, deficient – these words, this language fails when it confronts how people inhabit media? Howon is itour that the words through which our capacities otherwise Are the limits ability to recognise and act on our capacitiesmay imposed on be talked about – lacking, insufficient, deficient – these words, this language us from without? And is it that media disturbs this, which in turn has the effect fails when confronts howdopeople inhabit media? of makingitus feel we can a lot more than we would otherwise? Arewriting the limits on our ability to recognise and act onaccessible our capacities Isn’t it that a script and making a serial seem more thanimposed on us from without? And is it that media disturbs this, which in turn has the effect writing and publishing a book? Isn’t it that when someone says he wants to be of making us feel we can do a lot more than we would otherwise? a DJ, there is a charge in how he says it, an electric charge? it that writing ato script making serial seem more accessible than The mediaIsn’t – from newspapers, radio,and to TV, to theaDVD player – emerges in writing and publishing a book? Isn’t it that when someone says he wants to be one way or the other as part of every person’s biography. Is it that the media a DJ, there is a charge in how he says it, an electric charge? environment is so present around us that we self-learn how to be in it and with it? The media – from newspapers, to radio, to TV, to the DVD player – emerges in way or other of every biography. Is itLike that the media But also,one doesn’t onethe hear all as toopart often: “Wasperson’s the media sleeping?” environment is so present around us that we self-learn how the police, the image of ‘the media’ is of something which is meant toto bebe in it and with it? perpetually wide-eyed, awake, omnipresent. Butmedia also, isdoesn’t hear all too often:within “Wasitthe media sleeping?” Like The way the lived inone the everyday combines the behavioural the police, the image of ‘the media’ is of something which is meant to be and the intellectual. Here, things are perpetually in the process of being made. perpetually wide-eyed, awake, omnipresent. The world becomes an expansive space where your utterances travel, and when they return to you, they are global. The media is something that can the media is lived rejected. in the everyday combines within it the behavioural neither beThe fullyway accepted nor entirely and the intellectual. Here, things are perpetually in the process of being made. The world becomes an expansive space where your utterances travel, and when they return to you, they are global. The media is something that can neither be fully accepted nor entirely rejected.

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group of us – my friends and I – had been downloading and watching films for some time now. After a while, we thought, “Let’s try and think of other films, books, stories, questions that build on the films we have been watching and extend our resources in this way.” But I couldn’t think of anything. Each time I tried, I blanked out a little. So I headed out one day for Nandu’s video parlour, thinking I could perhaps begin some other conversation in my mind instead of getting into a loop. Nandu’s father was leaving just as I entered the shop. I said to Nandu, “I would love to narrate to your father the story of this movie called Bladerunner I saw recently. What happens if a human body with a robotic brain starts feeling emotions like a human being? In the movie, people found it too dangerous. They started looking for all such bodies—they were called ‘replicants’ and their hunters, ‘bladerunners’. A male bladerunner kisses a replicant who has a woman’s body and then asks the replicant to kiss him back. It was a five minute-long kiss, and I’m sure your father would object to it very much! He’d think it indecent.” Nandu looked at me curiously for some time. Then he said, “So that’s what you think my father’s question would be. But what’s your own question in this?” “To me, there is a deep question there about what it means to be human, or when we become human,” I said, sensing Nandu was thinking I too had concentrated on the kiss after all! “I’m looking for resources around this question which arises for me from watching Bladerunner.” After a few seconds’ reflection, Nandu turned towards a shelf and pulled out a CD. “Here,” he said, “watch this film, Mithya. Maybe you’ll find something that resonates with your question.” That’s when I realised, yet again, something about Nandu. He was someone who had kept a dialogue on with me in his head. That was why he kept a challenging relationship with me, always. My conversation with him about my questions, perplexities and interests continues even today.

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nother soundless, multi-coloured sparkle burst, then disappeared in the sky, filling the frame of the open window. Sabaa thought she heard a parrot call her name. She immediately headed towards the roof and looked around at the other roofs. Four or five roofs away stood Ikuko, his arms in the air, waving frantically as if he were returning home after a long time and were standing on the runway of an airport. The whistle of a passing train. A hundred pairs of eyes moving through the city, watching the tails of the rockets, the fangs of the crackers lighting up the night sky. Sabaa sat Ikuko down on the low parapet wall of a roof with his legs crossed under him. She stood in front of him and put her head on his lap. The scene stilled for some time. A rocket, its tail blazing, shot up towards the sky, blowing a whistle. Sounds from the city circled the roofs. Now close, now further away, now just ahead, now from somewhere behind. Ikuko lifted Sabaa up in his arms and carried her to another roof. This roof was not so firmly built. It didn’t have a parapet either. Stones lined its four sides to keep the tarpaulin on it from flying away. Ikuko walked softly across it so as not to make much noise. Once he reached the middle of the roof, he laid Sabaa down. He raised her arms above her, parallel to her body, as if she were praying lying down. Then he raised her head and put it on his lap, while he reached out with his hands and his mouth towards her breast. This scene too stilled for a while. Ikuko and Sabaa now sat up, their breathing heavy. They stood up and looked around them at the other roofs. Hopping over the low parapets of two or three brick-and-cement roofs, they reached one whose parapet was higher than the rest. The sounds of their kissing, their quick breaths, began to make room for themselves now. This time nothing stilled—rather, it became mercurial.

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he desire to be a firefly glows in the hearts of many. Someone whom no one would cast a second glance at during the day ravishes everyone by night with his aura. Someone who has in him the power to draw towards himself other people’s love and desires, and so fill his own life with them. Everyone called him Shani, Saturn, the planet of malefic influence. Everyone wanted always to stand on his shadow as, by having conquered ill luck under your feet, you can keep it away. No one knew him but everyone knew of him. Whispers about him circulated further than he ever went. But despite everything that was said about him, everywhere he went, he made friends, found co-travellers. His heart would remain restless if not surrounded by singing and dancing and people who could match his energy as he sang and danced. For this, the community centre in the neighbourhood was his chosen spot. Because of him, the night watchman had had to increase his vigil. His entire life unfolded between the poles of laughter and dance. Each night, soon after sunset, he would sneak into the community centre, and many young men would sneak in after him. Night after night, the numbers of such boys and young men only increased. Young people were eager to learn how to dance. There was no music, just the sound of his voice and the clapping of his hands. Once he began, everyone else would stand behind him and follow him, step for step. When it was time for the night watchman to come on his rounds of the neighbourhood, they would all run out of the community centre and into the public toilet to hide. Everyone knew the watchman’s first visit would be at midnight. The public toilet was not as convenient, but here they would practice till the watchman left and they could go back to the community centre again. Who were all these young people? Where did they come from? Were they all from this same neighbourhood? Where did they live? What did they do during the day? No one cared. All that these young people knew about one another was each others’ names and that they all shared the desire to dance. All night long, didn’t the sound of their claps and thumping feet seep out from the building where they practiced into the streets lined with houses filled with people? No one bothered them. To the neighbourhood, they were like a group of friends that had gathered to do something together, and everyone knew they would disband and run about helter-skelter, looking for corners to tuck themselves away in if someone not part of their group were to drop by to inquire what they were up to. 96

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ain teri dushman, tu dushman mera... Who is to say in how many young men this song stoked the desire to don women’s clothing and dance. Two black speakers, each about two-and-a-half feet high, are kept very close to one another, and the cassette player has been kept on top of them. The doors of eight houses open into the courtyard in which this set-up has been constructed. This courtyard doesn’t have any definite shape. Right now, it is filled with people. People of all ages are standing, lost in something in this shapeless courtyard. Three high-wattage bulbs are shining, powered by a generator. Inside homes, it is candles. All the houses are only one storey high—just the ground floor. People are sitting cross-legged on the roofs. Even some distance away, people have climbed onto their roofs to peep and see what’s going on in this well-lit courtyard. It’s about 2 AM. Two bodies are swaying with abandon in the empty space in the middle of the courtyard. One of them is wearing a red lehenga and shirt; the other is in men’s attire. The golden sequins on the lehenga say it is brand new. Of the dancers, one is the naagin, the snake, the other the sapera, the snake charmer. The naagin strikes the sapera over and over, and sometimes also gets provoked by the audience. Each time she moves towards the bystanders, they start laughing and huddle close to the person next to them as if frightened. The naagin and the sapera are in mortal combat now. The naagin has a long veil over her head which reaches down to her waist. She is on the ground now, slithering her way towards the sapera and then away from him. It seems as if she wants to dissolve her body and the red of her dress into the mud. The sapera is sitting, intently playing his pipes. The naagin can’t resist dancing to its music. The audience is shifting about, trying to make more room for the dancing, embattled pair. There is such joyousness in the body wearing the red lehanga. Who is to say what the source of this joy is, or if it can ever be tangibly known? Husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, the young and the elderly—everyone is present at this gathering. The naagin dances before them and laces her way through them. From time to time, some of the onlookers, both men and women, join in, intervening between the naagin and the sapera or adding to their frenzy. 97

Sahiba khatoon was in the audience. She watched the dancing pair from the roof. Suddenly someone turned to her and said, “Aapaa, it’s your son in the red lehanga. He’s the naagin.” Sahiba khatoon laughed at the joke and played along, “That’s very good,” she said. Then another boy turned to her and said, in all seriousness, “It’s your son, khaalaa. I don’t know which one, but it’s definitely one of your sons.” By now it was clear to everyone that it wasn’t a girl but a boy, tortured by the sapera’s music. “It must be my son, Anwar,” Sahiba khatoon said. “He’s always playing pranks.” But then she saw Anwar standing amidst the crowd, clapping and laughing. She grew serious; she couldn’t make out which of her sons it was. Maybe Akram? But the dancing body is taller than Akram’s. It can’t be Afzal. He doesn’t even listen to music, forget dancing to it! “You’re all mistaken,” she said to herself, “That’s not my son dancing there.” And so she returned her attention to the dancing pair, to continue enjoying the performance. The gathering had discerned it was not a woman dancing as the naagin. The elders stopped wondering and watched, smiling. Anees looked like he was not only watching but was imagining it was his body in the lehenga, dancing before everyone. He couldn’t keep still. But the children grew impatient to know who it was under the veil. They tried again and again to pull it off the naagin, but she would escape them, whirling around the courtyard, or some elder would stop them from tugging at it. It seemed the song was not three minutes but three hours long! It seemed as if each person who had gathered there had been living long years just to celebrate with others a dissolving of gender such as this.

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Power prepares its eyes in such a way that it will recognise us and approve of us only when we don certain costumes.

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But if we were to appear before power dancing, how then would it mark us? How would it locate us?

How then would it speak to us?

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No Apologies For The Interruption CREDITS Texts & Drawings Love Anand Azra Tabassum Neelofar Shamsher Ali Lakhmi Kohli Jaanu Nagar Nasreen Rabiya Quraishy Rakesh Khairalia Babli Rai Tripan Kumar

Editor / Translator Shveta Sarda

Design Amitabh Kumar

Discussants Lawrence Liang Shveta Sarda Jeebesh Bagchi Prabhat Kumar Jha

Text Editing Shyama Haldar

Operations Ashish Mahajan

Production / Operations Assistance Chandan Sharma Sachin Kumar Vikas Chaurasia

Rescripted film sequences Tezaab (1988), Black Friday (2004)

Special Thanks Monica Narula

Acknowledgements Shuddhabrata Sengupta Ravi Sundaram

Collaborating Institutions Ankur Society for Alternatives in Education, Delhi Alternative Law Forum, Bangalore Sarai, Center for the Study of Developing Societies (CSDS), Delhi

Supported by International Development Research Centre (IDRC), Canada

Published by The Director, CSDS, 29 Rajpur Road, Delhi-110054

Printed by Impress, New Delhi Delhi, 2011 ISBN 978-81-905853-3-0 www.sarai.net/publications/occasional/no-apologies [email protected] Also by the authors: Trickster City: Writings from the Belly of the Metropolis, Penguin-Viking (India), 2010 www.sarai.net/practices/cybermohalla/public-dialogue/books/trickster-city

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