As a child I grew up on a lot of my grand-mothers make-believe stories. Head nestled on her lap. The harsh afternoon sun held captive outside. Wooden windows filtering out the light in our sprawling Kolkata house. Burying my nose into her crumpled tangail sari, softened after several hand washes, the once robust broad red border, mostly faded, in parts. As a single child. As a single parent child. Till I was I was about eleven or so. This was really the brightest portion of my world. Soldiers, saints, mountains, miracles, witches, wizards, emperors, emeralds, castles, cages, princesses, palanquins. At times, Id clamp my eyes shut. My head spinning out of control. As Mamma lowered her voice, sometimes wheezing, short of a whisper. At others raising her voice to a clear crescendo. Her slender fingers. Moving. Making magic, of some sort. It was a world I believed in. It was a truth that I constantly find myself fighting for now. The simplest story, really. Looking back. An unfinished truth, perhaps. About the world. Any world. Good vs. Bad. Right vs. Wrong. Creativity vs Commercialisation. What sells. What cant. The mighty king fighting to save his usurped kingdom. The prince whos been cast an evil spell upon. The fair maiden who wont stop waiting for her knight in shining armor. To save her. Isnt it strange how it all goes back to the start? I find myself thinking out loud. At the end of a long evening with Adil Hussain, an actor who feels like a teacher each time. Who sounded so much like Mamma. As he listened. As I told him one story. Mine. And Meeras. The sultry summer breeze slapping us softly across our faces. The sound of childrens voices wafting in slowly...somewhere. As if we are all characters. Ourselves. Parts. Pieces. Pages...
Posted on: Fri, 04 Apr 2014 15:33:40 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015