Six

Happy sixth birthday to us!

I can't believe it's been that long. It seems like just yesterday that I was fresh out of school, on a May day that is the same every year, bored out of my mind. With a domain name borrowed from the Wheel of Time series and a title that...I think I thought about, I jumped right in, figuring I had nothing to lose (except that bad habit of writing without vowels that many of us found so unbelievably endearing).

Here we are, 72 months and 247 posts later. In the next few weeks, I will hopefully get around to telling you about how Berlin looks below the ground, why Prague is possibly the most beautiful city, the people I met in Vienna, and my day walking around in Budapest. I will hopefully also have more stuff going on so that my posts are not all about things and places gone by.

Thank you for sticking around, and here's to growing up together.
 *clink*

Shakespeare in India, India in Shakespeare

Last November, I covered a few events for the South Asian Literature Festival in London. Some of these were published on the SALF website. This is one of the unpublished pieces of the talk 'Shakespeare's South Asian Stage' on 3 November 2012.

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The Bard’s charms have not gone unnoticed in South Asia, and his plays, with their universal themes and theatricality, provide immense room for adaptation.

I vividly recall the cold May evening when my friends and I stood spellbound for nearly three hours in the yard of The Globe theatre. It rained mercilessly down on our raincoats, but we were too busy cheering and applauding the Company Theatre’s Hindi rendition of Twelfth Night to care. The Globe to Globe festival was the highlight of London’s summer, bringing together 37 of the bard’s plays in different languages to an enthralled audience.

Image courtesy of mumbaitheatreguide.com

On November 3rd 2012 at the Bush Theatre, writer, filmmaker and activist Preti Taneja spoke to three men who are no strangers to adapting Shakespeare for the South Asian stage: director Tim Supple, actor Paul Bhattacharjee, and director of the Globe to Globe Festival Tom Bird. Preti asked them why they chose to work with Shakespeare’s plays, and why India was such a sought after choice. Tim Supple, whose Indian adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was widely hailed as original and delightful, said that although he was extremely appreciative of his British audience, he was “wary of the 25 other brilliant adaptations that exist of the same play”. India was an exercise in difference, but not least.

Paul Bhattacharjee, who plays Benedick in Iqbal Khan’s Much Ado About Nothing set in modern India, added that the lifting of normality out of life that comes with Shakespeare appeals to Asian audiences, and the subject matter of these plays, somewhat outdated in contemporary Britain, still finds resonance with Indian people. For example, the problems of the working classes, the father-daughter relationship of King Lear or a chauvinistic character like Benedick seemed far more believable in an Indian context than in the supposedly liberal Britain. Tom Bird, who travelled extensively to meet and select theatre companies for the Festival, said that Shakespeare was popular in India and he saw nearly 20 productions of various plays in only Delhi and Mumbai. The Festival saw a diverse audience, with 83% first time Globe visitors.

Is language a primary concern when it comes to adaptations? Tim’s Dream included 6 Indian languages; although he had initially aimed to make it in English, most of the good actors he met didn’t know English. The play was therefore translated, with every attempt to preserve the verse and metre, rather faithful to the original, and not “Indianised”.

The Globe to Globe festival team had, explained Tom, intended to forbid the use of English altogether, but could not fail to overlook that many colloquialisms, like in Hindi for example, make ample use of English words and phrases. They compromised by using screens to introduce the scenes for an audience that might be lost without translation, while avoiding line-by-line subtitles. As Paul said, audiences work much harder and are less complacent when presented with a challenge in the form of a foreign language, and though one may not understand the language of a play, “the innate theatricality” of a good production carries through. In Indian theatre, according to Tim, there is still a strong connection between song, dance and mimetic elements, which effectively fulfils this purpose. India seems to have embraced Shakespeare with open arms, even if the rest of the world is only just discovering this.

From Page to Stage

Last November, I covered a few events for the South Asian Literature Festival in London. Some of these were published on the SALF website. This is one of the unpublished pieces of the talk 'From Page to Stage' on 3 November 2012.

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Does adapting a novel for the theatre take away the characters from the author? What is gained from such an adaptation? Why do playwrights choose to adapt existing works of literature rather than writing new plays? 

It was a quiet Saturday morning at the Bush Theatre when, with panellists and participants seated in an intimate circle, began a talk about words and characters coming to life. Artiste Sarah Williams interviewed Tamasha co-director Sudha Buchar and theatre critic and playwright Lloyd Evans about the intricacies of adapting novels and short stories for the stage.

In a day and age where nearly every popular work of literature tends to be shortened into a script for the screen or stage, Lloyd proposed the paradoxical idea that even a bad adaptation is good publicity – for the book. Despite this, authors often shy away from selling rights for such an endeavour: J.D. Salinger famously refused to let The Catcher in the Rye be adapted for fear of compromising the authority and effectiveness of the narratorial voice. However, theatre is, as a member of the audience pointed out, becoming bolder with productions like the recent Gatz, a matinee of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby narrated word for word while actors dramatized the scenes shifting between a 1980s office and the jazz age.

Scriptwriters that fancy an existing piece of literature not only have to straddle the expectations of the author, but also of the audience, who command a certain ownership over their favourite works of fiction. It is with immense trepidation and cynicism that a fan will risk their imagined vision of grand Hogwarts, or Romeo and Juliet set to music in 1950s New York, or Aishwarya Rai as a Punjabi Elizabeth Bennet. However, adaptations are, as Lloyd stressed, the writer’s perspective of a story, and not an attempt to present the work verbatim like an audio book would do.

Sudha agreed, saying that “as an artist/producer, you don’t think of the audience first, but whether you can visualise the story as a play”. Accordingly, the story may be reworked to suit the stage, like abandoning stream of consciousness in favour of a linear narrative, or changing the location to make it more relatable. Lloyd claimed that a lot may be lost on the screen or stage, and many aspects, like depicting animal characters, can be extremely tricky and require immense creativity. Sudha’s example of the use of puppets to convincingly play the dog and monkey in A Fine Balance, based on Rohinton Mistry’s novel of the same name, proved to be an excellent way to circumvent the limitations of the theatre which, “if done beautifully”, can allow sufficient suspension of disbelief.

Often, in the face of having several wonderful adaptations of a play, a playwright may choose to change the location of the story to set a production apart from the others. Lloyd said that he was “wary of taking a play out of its time and place because it’s like telling the audience that they are incapable of appreciating or understanding a historical period or a place and culture different from their own”. However, Sudha, who teleported Lorca’s The House of Bernarda Alba from Andalusia to Pakistan as The House of Bilquis Bibi, said that when reading the play, for her it was simply “a new play about Pakistan; the resonance of situations is an interesting way to make a familiar play new”. It was a mark of the richness of this discussion that we saw several nuances of these issues and questions that perhaps have no correct answer.

Could adaptations ever become a substitute for the reading of a tedious novel, robbing the audience of an imagination as they see a story come to life? Only time will tell; but hopefully the theatre and films will never replace books, merely enhance them. I, for one, would relish an opportunity to see Manto’s Toba Tek Singh or a more faithful-to-Fitzgerald Benjamin Button when the curtain rises.

Schnitzel, Prisons and Tales from Heidelberg Castle

(The sixth instalment of the Backpacking with a Suitcase series, in which I document my travels across Europe in July 2012)

14-16 July 2012
Dossenheim & Heidelberg 

The seven-hour bus journey from Paris to Heidelberg was beautiful, to say the least. Blue skies, green land, lakes, and even though the grey clouds caught up, at least there was a gorgeous rainbow to make up for it. My friend and her family picked me up at the Heidelberg bus station and we drove to their house in nearby Dossenheim. After bunk beds and shared bathrooms in Belgium and France, having a room all to myself made me feel rather pampered indeed, and that was before the midnight meal of ratatouille, rice, rhubarb cake AND strawberry cake.

The next day was set aside as a "break day" in my journey, i.e. a day without an itinerary, a day of leisure. We made scrambled eggs, hung out with Zazu the cat and Coco the parrot, headed out for a late-afternoon ramble in the woods during which rain and shine competed fiercely for our attention (I would later throw away two pairs of socks), and ended up at the charming little cafe at Strahlenburg for tea and cake.

Memorials to World Wars I and II

Cafe Strahlenburg

We made it back home to find a delicious dinner being prepared: Schnitzel, Kartoffelsalat (potato salad) and wine. To make up for not taking any photos of the meal, I asked my friend for their recipes; here they are, subject to my questionable translating skills:

Wiener Schnitzel

1. Place the veal cutlets (Kalbsschnitzel) in a shallow pan.
2. Dredge with flour.
3. Beat 1 egg with 1 tbsp cream. Add salt and pepper, and mix.
4. Coat the cutlets in this mixture, and then coat in breadcrumbs.
5. Fry in vegetable oil and lard till golden brown.

Kartoffelsalat

1. Boil small potatoes and peel.
2. Gently roast onions in oil, chicken stock, salt, pepper, mustard and herbs.
3. Slice the potatoes.
4. Pour the onion sauce over the potatoes and mix.
5. Cover for an hour, stir every 15 minutes.

The awesome thing about staying with a German family was an opportunity to practise my rather rusty language skills. Conversation was solely in German, and after a nervous ten minutes of being confused and anxious, I caught on and really enjoyed the experience. The next few days gave me more such opportunities, and I conversed in German in shops, restaurants and even with strangers in Berlin, Prague and Vienna.

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Heidelberg is a small town, as pretty as a postcard. It is famous for the University, but also - and I didn't know this - one of the foremost tourist spots in Germany. There were candy shops, restaurants, churches, a market square, the beautiful Neckar river, and up on a hill is Schloss Heidelberg (Hd Castle). 

Smart phone/ Swiss knife sweets

One of the most interesting places was the university student prison (Studentenkarzer; €1.50), old and graffitied within an inch of its walls. Heidelberg University traditionally maintained jurisdiction over its students, and any misconduct was not punishable by the state but led to confinement in this prison for up to 4 weeks. This became, in the 19th century, a matter of pride with most students vying for at least one stint in the prison. According to the info cards provided there, 

"The most common offences included disturbing the peace at night by loud singing in the city lanes, inappropriate behaviour in public as a result of inebriation, and participation in illegal fencing duels. Budding academics seemingly had a particular foible for nocturnal raids aimed at releasing the pigs and piglets penned up in the Old City and then driving the squealing animals through the streets". 

Other misdeeds included insulting the local constable or knocking his cap off with a stick. Its premises were shifted here in 1712 owing to unhealthy conditions at the previous location. After 2 days of bread and water, students could get food and beer from outside; they were free to mingle with each other and attend classes by way of a passage connecting the prison to the university.

Rules: 1. Disciplinary officials will not be admitted. 2. Dogs and women must be kept on a leash.

"The students' names for the various rooms included Solitude, Palais Royale and Sanssouci; The King's Throne was the fanciful name of the smallest and most private room in the prison" (from the info card at Karzer Heidelberg).

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Getting to Schloss Heidelberg involves climbing 315 steps and an entry fee of €3. The castle was partly destroyed in the war in a gunpowder explosion, which is recreated in a firework show each year. 

 The fun of going there with N was that she could tell me all the legends/folk tales about the place.

 This door knocker is supposedly made of solid iron, and the king bade anyone that could bite it free to enter the castle. No one succeeded, but a witch did manage to make a dent (and break her teeth).

The castle is home to a huge wine flask - so huge that you could walk into it...

 ...and an apothecary museum

This footprint was left on the terrace by a knight who either jumped to save himself from a fire, or to save himself from the husband of his clandestine lover (he didn't die). 

The view

View of the Neckar river and Altenbruecke

This gate was supposedly a surprise gift for Elizabeth (Stuart), made overnight. The side facing the outward entrance is beautiful, but the side that would have faced her quarters is raw and roughly hewn:

We also found Goethe in the garden:

Next: Berlin.

Finding Gallieni (Paris 3/3)

(The fifth instalment of the Backpacking with a Suitcase series, in which I document my travels across Europe in July 2012.)

14 July 2012
Paris

The 14th of July is a special day in France. It's their national holiday, often referred to as "Bastille Day" in the English-speaking world because this was the day of the storming of the fortress Bastille during the French Revolution (1789), and a symbolic awakening of the modern nation.

Today, no trace of this fortress/prison remains, and the square is called simply Place de la Bastille. The July Column, commemorative of the July Revolution of 1830, stands in the centre. The area is quite lively, with shops, restaurants, the Bastille Opera, a little tourist information kiosk, and our hostel was a couple of streets down from here.

The 14th of July is witness to a huge celebration, with fireworks at the Eiffel Tower, a huge parade at Champs-Élysées, free entry to the Louvre, picnics at Versailles, and so on. Due to an awful error of planning, however, we failed to exploit any of this: my friend left for Amsterdam the previous night, and I was to leave for Germany that afternoon. I thought a quick trip to Versailles might be just the thing. But first, I needed to figure out where my bus to Germany left from. My e-ticket said "Gallieni", with no further clues whatsoever, and since two days are not really enough to figure out the entirety of Paris, I had no idea where Gallieni might be. Or what it was, for that matter.

It was finally a glorious sunny day, with a glorious blue sky, no trace of clouds, and the scent of festivity in the air.

I checked out of my hostel, left my suitcase in their luggage cave (it really was a cave)(like, with rough stone walls and everything) and made a beeline for the tourist info kiosk at Place de la Bastille. The people here were a friendly bunch, and we asked them stuff every day. They explained how I could get to Versailles (metro to Gare d'Austerlitz, train RERC towards Versailles, EUR 6.50 return). Then I asked them where Gallieni was, and, in what was to become the trend of the day, they were completely stumped.

They frowned, turned to each other, conferred, discussed stuff, made mysterious strokes in the air, pored over maps... After 15 minutes, I was told (while poring over a map) that it could be "either here, or here" - pointing to two spots very far apart from each other - but that I'd better ask someone else to be sure.

I arrived at Gare d'Austerlitz, bought a ticket to Versailles, asked the woman selling me the ticket where Gallieni was, and was told she'd never heard of it. I headed over to yet another info desk, the occupant of which was busy swapping life tales with a customer. A group of men and women in uniform stood nearby. Two of them, a woman followed closely by a man, came up to me and asked if they could help. No one in Paris ever hesitated to switch to English, unlike all the stereotypes I've always heard. They'd never heard of Gallieni either, though the man was persistant. He walked off saying "I will find it for you, madame", headed over to the chatting-info-desk lady, ignored her, pulled out a very fat book from above her head, and pored over it (unsuccessfully, again) for a few minutes. It was all really quite amusing. This is how life must have been before the internet. Hee.

On the train to Versailles, I called my friend in London and asked her to look up Gallieni since I wouldn't have time to hit a cyber cafe. The train was peaceful, though I was slightly restless, with a nagging feeling that I hadn't planned time too well. Then out of nowhere came the sound of an accordion. The most beautiful sound in the world. Always reminds me of Amelie. After he'd finished, the player came around grinning, smelling of alcohol, and I dropped a handful of change into his hat. He'd made my day. And the sky was still a shiny blue.

Versailles was golden. I didn't have a lot of time, and I hardly ever pay to enter places, so I took my fill of the gleaming architecture, walked in the sunshine, glimpsed the beautiful gardens. Here are some pretty photos. My friend called me with news: Gallieni was...a metro station. I couldn't believe it! A metro station that no one had heard of? Only in Paris.

I knew now where I had to go, it was the going that was a bit of a problem. Gallieni was at least 20 stops from Bastille, where I had left my luggage, and I had less than two hours till my bus left for Germany - the only one for the next two days. I ran to the train station, waited ten minutes for the train, was supremely hassled during the 30 minute journey (a nice dude asked me for my map, and had to say "merci" and "thank you" before I reacted with only a watery smile), reached Austerlitz, ran for the metro, reached Bastille station, ran to my hostel, dragged my suitcase up from the cave, ran to Ledru Rollin metro station (they could really do with escalators, hmph), had to change lines once, but made it to Gallieni with about 20 minutes to spare.

Got my ticket, checked-in, found my bus, and caught my breath.


*Please do not use photos without my permission. Sheesh.

Writing Update

Some other places where you can find my work:

Last November, I reported for the South Asian Literature Festival in London. They seem to have lost steam after publishing a few pieces though. Here's my profile, with links to articles on the events Brown Kids Can't Jump and Still Lives and Literature. Since the other two events I covered were actually more interesting, I'll share the pieces on this blog soon.

I also did a short travel-tips piece for Little Black Book, Delhi. Here's an excerpt:

"Instead of GPS, get a paper map | It’s more personal, and each city has a unique style of maps they hand out to tourists. In Bruges and Vienna, for example, I was given maps made by locals, with fun illustrations and lots of tips, favourite hangouts and pet peeves. Moreover, a paper map is not infallible: it will sometimes baffle you, and you will then talk to locals or fellow travellers."

You can read the complete piece here.

A week ago, I launched Bricolage, an online arts and culture magazine I've been working on for the last month or so, and plotting for considerably longer. I did an interview with Athens-based soprano Sophie Tsiknia for it. Here's an excerpt:

"Apart from technique, what else do you focus on when performing – or critiquing a performance?

Singing and interpretation is built step by step. You fix some technical things and then you have to focus on interpretation. Sometimes when you focus on interpretation, some technical things are neglected, and this is when you have to go back to technique, fix the problem that has emerged and focus on interpretation again. I guess you understand now why a performance is never perfect. One performance is never the same as the previous one, and it shouldn’t be. The artist must grow performance after performance. Becoming better should be the goal, and this is also your duty as an artist; perfection should never be a goal in art. This is what I learnt from my first performances."

Read the entire interview here.

(Bricolage is open for submissions.)

White Lies

No one really liked Frank. Not even his wife. Would you like someone who toasted thus: “Happy 25th anniversary, to two people who can barely stand each other”?

To be fair, it was true enough of Raj and Julie, and everyone in the room knew it. But how dare he bring it up at this moment? A pregnant pause. Glares and mutters. Alison stared at her plate rather than look at her husband. They had been married nearly as long as the couple they were all here to celebrate.

“Uhm, excuse me. I seem to be quite drunk!” Frank still couldn’t stop grinning. “To Raj and Julie!”

Everyone raised their glasses of champagne. Raj thumped Frank on the back as people turned their attention back to appraising the cost of the flowers and Julie’s dress.

Alison attacked the salad. They had watched Silver Linings Playbook last week, and Frank had, it would seem, taken Jennifer Lawrence quite seriously. “We’re not liars like they are”, she had said, her eyes sparkling out of the silver screen. And all week long, Frank had sat around telling the truth.

How typical, thought Alison. How typical of Frank to only hear what he wanted to hear. Jennifer Lawrence – or should she say Tiffany – had lied plenty when it suited her. “It’s a white lie,” she had said, shrugging. At least she had looked mighty uncomfortable.

Frank and Alison didn’t say a word to each other while walking home. Each knew what the other was thinking – or thought they did. They walked silently up their drive. Frank unlocked the door and went upstairs. Alison picked up her magazine, and followed.

She waited till his snores were loud enough, put on her coat and slipped out. He would never know.

Later that night, with Raj’s arms around her, she asked, “Where’s Julie?”

“At home, asleep,” he replied, kissing her. She always was.

“It’s a white lie,” thought Alison, as she drifted off.