Almost inaudible jibber-jabber, continuous sound of a conversation going on and on, then someone squeaks, there must be two or more of them, or maybe the person behind the wall is talking to herself.
Sure there are laughs, loud ones, suppressed ones, fake ones, shameless ones. I laugh along but only with one of the ones.
Silence surfaced for seconds, I then pay attention to the pigeon coos’ outside my window and the loud airplane coos’ passing up across my sky.
Oh! The murmur begins. Happy long hours of chit-chatting has ended for the friends. They are now mildly viewing what life has offered them each in the past few months. Yes, few months I say, that is how old the memory stays, unless, of course, it is given the chance to time travel.
I hear a question ‘coffee?’ Evening yawns and gazes passed at the clock welcomes automatically warm beverages.
I yawn and look at the clock and don’t move; I am doodling. O now they are repeating a name, it is Martha, also a Petunia and a Joshua. A triangle I assume, but which one… scalene I think.
After the reverie I become once again aware about my chitchatting neighbours. When and where did the hours go by? There is a lull in the talking. I might doze off.
What is this? I hear rushed movements, I sit up straight, a door bangs open and I jump up and run towards the main door, my focus – the peep-hole. I see two girls, both of same height, one is carrying a bag. What is going on?
One of them says, ‘do you think…?’ The other replies, ‘betcha, she is lying.’ They leave.
I stand against the main door, thinking who were they talking about, Martha or Petunia? Coming back to my room, I lie down and start doodling again.
Ding-dong! I am back on the door, I see a boy standing outside my neighbour’s door. I sense he is Joshua. Eager to know that I am correct, I open the door and tell him that my neighbours aren’t at home; the boy turns to leave when outlandishly I ask, ‘Joshua?’ Right then my neighbour, a girl, looking sleepy, opens the door.
Surprised and embarrassed, maintaining a faint smile, I shut the door. The boy speaks, ‘Ma’am I have a courier for J. Pollack from CITI Bank.’ My ears glued to the main door. ‘Joshua doesn’t live here anymore.’ Slam!
Ideas dance in and out of my mind, there is a story here. I sit down to write. Fresh page, pen in hand, I am thinking…
Embracing, accepting, forgiving the doll walks on. Struggling, fearing, hoping the doll looks around. Learning, recognizing, changing the doll steps out, no longer a doll, but an individual.
It is Christmas Eve and the doll has told maids to hide the Christmas tree from the children until it is decorated and lighted up, and she is going to dress up and perform the Tarantella in the party as it is her master’s wish.
On the day after Christmas she will leave, changed forever, no longer a doll, but as Nora, Henrik Ibsen’s Nora.
At the time when the play A Doll’s House was written, marriages were sacrosanct, women were meant only to look after their husband, children and the house, in return the husband was to provide her with everything that she needed for maintenance; a rich man was a good prospect of making a happy married life.
Nora – managing the Helmer House and all the maids, taking care of her three little children, jumping around like a squirrel for her husband, Torvald Helmer – is struck by a calamity and there is no one on her side to support her, not even her master, Torvald. When the time approaches for the miracle Nora very much hoped and dreaded for to happen, she is left with absolutely nothing in her life.
From the year 1879 when A Doll’s House was performed for the first time on the stage to the modern 21st century, this play has continued to be appreciated both by the academia and the audience.
Free from the in-style verbose poetical soliloquies and with the woman as the central character, it was both a pioneering and a controversial play; pioneering for bringing the element of realistic drama in the theatre world which till then had been occupied with the historical romance and the thesis plays, and controversial for a woman behaving the way Nora did was unheard of, which is why Ibsen, on one occasion, had to present a leading actress with an alternate ending as she refused to act in the play as a woman who abandons her husband and children.
Many playwrights have also criticised the sudden awakening that Nora undergoes, which then gives her the strength to walk out; the Swedish playwright, August Strindberg, questioned Nora’s decision to leave her children with a man whom she doesn’t trust any more.
But, with or without any flaws, Nora’s story has touched many hearts and has made it a timeless piece of work. Its simplicity, conversational tone and ‘the slamming of the door’ climax gives us a truly dramatic, cathartic and a classic three act play. If the change of heart that Nora’s character goes through in the third act is unacceptable and absurd, then it only magnifies the fact that A Doll’s House is an absolutely realistic work because reality is stranger than fiction.
The storyline moves and grows and evolves and complexes with every scene. Nora, shifted from her father’s doll’s house to her husband’s, from past eight years had been working to decorate it. She, Torvald’s little lark, little spendthrift, knows nothing but to be at her husband’s disposal, by thoughtless choice of course. Ivar, Emmy and Bob are Nora’s dolls with whom she happily plays and she is Torvald’s doll, whom she happily obeys.
Nora (goes to the table on the right): I shouldn’t think of doing what yon disapprove of.
Helmer: No, I’m sure of that; and, besides, you’ve given me your word. (Going towards her) Well, keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself, Nora darling. The Christmas-tree will bring them all to light, I dare say.
Uninformed and an act of love becomes unreasonable and an act of forgery for Nora Helmer; she took loan to save her sick husband and forged the documents because that was the only way out. Later when Krogstad present her with the facts, Nora replies,
Do you mean to tell me that a daughter has no right to spare her dying father anxiety? That a wife has no right to save her husband’s life? I don’t know much about the law, but I’m sure that, somewhere or another, you will find that that is allowed.
Krogstad is determined to reveal her secret and Nora is worried only for Torvald as she is sure he will take the blame for her sake and spare her any shaming. This is her fear for she knows Torvald would do anything in the world for her safety. What happens, though, is the stark opposite of this; Trovald is only worried about his own reputation and is even ready to bow and accept Krogstad’s demands. When Krogstad sends the IOU (I Owe You) and apologies for troubling Nora, Trovald changes euphorically and assures Nora that everything is fine.
*
“I must make up my mind which is right – society or I.” [Source – cocosse.com]
*
But nothing is fine for Nora as she finally sees herself; Torvald becomes a mirror for her and the quick personality shifts he presents her with, shatters the mirror altogether and a real view of things comes in forefront. Nora starts to question – question her life, her relationship with Torvald, her role as a mother, her understanding of what society teaches and what she wishes to learn. Torvald’s little lark realises that she can fly and she, thus, chooses to do so.
Helmer: Nora, can I never be more than a stranger to you?
Nora (Taking her travelling bag): Oh, Torvald, then the miracle of miracles would have to happen.
Helmer: What is the miracle of miracles?
Nora: Both of us would have to change so that… Oh, Torvald, I no longer believe in miracles.
Helmer: But I will believe. We must so change that…?
Nora: That communion between us shall be a marriage. Goodbye.
With A Doll’s House Ibsen had no intention to serve the women’s rights movement, rather it was to present the significance of individual responsibility, the importance of understanding oneself, ones’ purpose in life and then striving to achieve it.
By the end Nora is ready to take a stand for herself, without any fear of the society or her master, without her own fears and inhibitions, without any support, but only with a determined and awakened mind, heart to know about herself and her life. And this certainly is why A Doll’s House still charms its readers, after all, the field of studying oneself is not well explored and many discoveries, many inventions are yet to be made.
Originally published at SWA – Blog on January 11, 2017.
Jeremiah wrote in the letter that Ferdinand must continue his journey across the five oceans, dipping when the moon rises and shinning when the tempest calls, stopping to explore the alien lands and fleeing if he sees a woman with snakes for hair or the trolls.
Ferdinand understood not much for he was not travelling to any place and was rather at home, sick and jaded.
Jeremiah further expressed his own adventure of a morning walk through the deep dark forest when he met a king cobra who nattered about this and that, about the tales of the netherworld and of a future when the sky will fall down; who got to the point only at last with a fang-full smile and asked him to bring all the eggs of the cuckoo bird that lived nearby.
Ferdinand, confused, spoke aloud, “But Jeremiah goes to that park near the colony for morning walks…”
Jeremiah then mentioned in capital letters the highlights of THIS WORLD –
1) The raven flew away and the raven came back, we talked, ate and enquired, ‘who can change the track?’
2) Maria knows that Keith knows that Jenny doesn’t know, and now we also know.
3) For a few days we hosted the Police at the colony, ha ha!
Ferdinand sat straight, scratched his head, and tried calling Jeremiah – “the call cannot be completed.”
Jeremiah signed off his letter with the words – flying to Alpha Centauri, good you left your swimming goggles, peace-out mate.
Ferdinand got up, worried, stood numb holding that letter in his hand for a few seconds, then haphazardly packed his bag and left the house. Bang!
He closed the door behind him, not replying to his mother’s alarmed shout, he dashed out.
Ferdinand forgot that Jeremiah is a writer, a writer by choice, profession, and living standards.
He also forgot his keys to the flat.
Now no one would be there to welcome him back in the city as Jeremiah was flying to Alpha Centauri.
Perhaps it is me who is circling the glowing warm glorious light.
Music is flowing, revolving, working as Time it has harmonized every moment.
Truly, that is why my whirling floating steps don’t stop.
Bright suns, moons, planets dance round and round, in absolute bliss.
I quietly follow the bliss as I listen. It is the Sama.
Long, long time back ago, Rumi, the Sufi saint, was passing a market place when he heard the gold beaters at work, their hammering noise was melody to him as he could hear ‘la ilaha ilallah’ (no god but Allah) in that beating of the gold. Rumi, exhilarated, started dancing and whirling there and then.
Sama means listening, listening to the One, meditating and accepting the One wholly.
Sufis have the tradition to celebrate the Sama, a spiritual concert; with praying, singing, dancing and reciting poems begins this mystical journey to surpass visual reality and enter the divine world – no self, but the Self.
The whirling dance, the soulful music slowly takes you away to be in the light of the Ultimate, a close encounter so as you listen and listen truly what is beyond the five senses, and then you return amongst many imperfections, but this time with a compassionate heart and a free soul.
Rhythmic patterns of the bright light haven’t disappeared.
My spinning steps haven’t stopped either. Feather hands guide me.
The macrocosm meets the microcosm, politely becoming a wave.
At some time I settle down, quietly look up and stay there.
Fading away, parting as tears fall with a fear that there is no return, it starts to brighten up and slowly gets closer to a pure hope that the present will always be magical.
Only when she rises and turns, she feels the fresh rhythms, standing firmly, breathing deeply, she walks ahead, a half smile looking good on her face.
Softness of the wet dirt spoke and told Shelley how it passed its secrets to the flowers and the wind and the sky and the sun.
Stones, cold and musical, held epics to share, so Shelley took a few in his pocket.
A lonely tree filled Shelley’s ears with endless tales about messiahs that walked and disappeared, blessing every of its kind on the way with blissful shade to ever stay by them. It assured Shelley that this was the tale that the leaves were always singing about. When Shelley stopped to ask a leaf, the leaf swayed by and danced away.
Then the wind slowed down and everywhere stillness started to settle, Shelley looked at the pink polished cloudy sky. In this stillness the ecstatic was happening and Shelley could see it for the first time.
Elated, Shelley got up and looked all around. Taking the softness of the wet dirt along, Shelley continued the journey.
“Excuse-me, waiter! Please take our order. Hello?” [Source – Pixabay]
*
So Carl saw a crow feasting on a Lays packet thrown on the roadside by an insensitive/ a silly/ confused/ messy person. That crow croaked and called his friend to join. Carl stood there for a long while, thinking and thinking.
*
When did this switch happen that the crows are opting for Lays, that also spicy flavour, rather than their normal diet? Is it by choice or the circumstances are no more junk-food-free for the crows?
The crows fly away and take the Lays for their young ones, who slowly adept to the tangy taste. All the crows sitting on the wire talk about it and the one flying far outside the city takes the news along. As time rises and sets every day, the crows become accustomed to the plastic packed diet plan.
And the story is rewritten… the thirsty crow finds a pot of water and a half-eaten doughnut, he chooses to binge on the doughnut, because he isn’t really thirsty, it is just the spicy lunch that burned the crow’s tongue… and the crow knew that water cannot solve his problem, so, children, the moral of the story is, directly go for something sweet and easier when your mouth is burning and you’re struggling…
*
Carl was staring at the crows and the passers-by were staring at him. Suddenly, Carl rushed towards the crows and shooed them away. He then picked up the Lays packet and threw it in a dirty dustbin nearby.
A sigh of relief! Carl started to walk away, where ever he was going to when he first heard the crows. He turned, the crows sitting on the lamp post where looking at him, they croaked. Carl smiled and said, “Thirsty Crow is my grandma’s favourite tale.”
Carl knew the crows have understood his words, beaming, he walked ahead.
Aaahhh! A crow flew and pecked him on his left ear. So, Carl stood there rubbing his left ear and the crows took a flight to Hawaii.
Stories are happening, stories are being written, stories are being ended, stories that are new meets stories that are old, everywhere, in every life a story is taking place.
Now imagine a place, long back in time, a grand place, the centre of a huge empire that today rests quietly, patiently the ruins hold itself against time, vanishing slowly but never getting defeated.
Persepolis, the city of the Persians, awaits quietly and patiently a time, it stands composedly and accepts what it witnessed, giving one a good hint of its past who then leaves taking along an unfinished story that also awaits a time, a time of completion.
Marjane Satrapi has a story, it’s titled Persepolis. A beautiful way to begin a story, to merge the storyteller with her past, present and future, to the place she belongs.
Marji’s story is a story of constant reminder – a reminder about the holy myth, burden passed on by the lineage, large scale bloodshed done by mistake, wars of the sexes; it is also a reminder of true love, beautiful dreams, hope and faith, strength to stand up, courage to bow down, belief in freedom and humanity.
Marji’s story is a fusion of all of this and more that makes life, life. Marji shares it wonderfully from her perspective and whether you know her or not, you will connect to it, for your life too is a story.
So much to be explored, many such Persepolis to be seen, a Marji waiting to tell her story everywhere, a life to be lived today, in the present, a story to be written, today in this very second.
Embark on a similar journey and you will reach a Persepolis and be enthralled by its mere presence. You will become Marji and look back with a smile.
Today is boring, today is dull. How can I float up high without looking at the sky? Keener eyes not grounded, but in the middle of this and that, hers and mine, cries and sighs, laughs and jitters, cuckoo and balderdash, all this and a pinch more with a tinge of lustrous gold, confronts me every lethargic moment asking me to be agile and give an answer not a reply, one that is worthwhile.
Sham, it is a sham, I shout. The next moment I am out in the middle of that riddle, attacked badly by the crowd. Glares wicked or kind, I tell you are invincible.
Hush! Hush! Staying quiet is the key.
A fresh beginning, in between, for me as I get up to admire the quagmire that glows and shows me nothing. And what do I do? I hum a rhythm, I jig a little. Smoothly I begin dancing, hand movements and the twist and then the circle. Round and round and round.
I see an image in and around me crystallising, a translucent image, spreading like a wave, filling the ceiling, passing through the windows, leaving behind glorious dirt particles and a thin film of light.
I am joy running free/
freely flying, fluttering, soaring in a valley/
Of joy am running free.
Greetings!
A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.
Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!
Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!
Ya-hoy!
Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)
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Gabbeh, the 1996 film, is a simple tale of a gipsy girl, her clan and the way their life goes on. Unfolding beautifully just like an artist painting a canvas, Gabbeh quietly touches the grand questions.
Ranked as one of the greatest British films of all time, The Lavender Hill Mob confides in the audience, letting them see, feel, laugh and think without tickling persuasively with a joke here and a punch-line there.
Godard… Breathless and Alive
A Tribute to Jean-Luc Godard, the Film Philologist who Reinvented Cinema.
Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.
Silver cascade shimmering the night sky, music to the waves and surreal beauty to the eyes, the Moon loves the art of discipline.
It may be difficult to believe for the Moon’s splendour defies time, it stupefies the clock, it follows the path of a dreamer, but how could this be possible if the Moon knew not discipline?
In this moment, I am a little bit of this and a little bit of that, I am complete and incomplete, I am pleased and uncertain, I wish for nothing and I know I have to wait.
Because the distance covered reminds me of the hurdles I have crossed and the ones I could not, it reminds me of a throbbing past and a dreamy future and it reminds me of how much time is left.
Meredith and the Green Lake
Illimitable Splendour
A joy so complete without any rise or fall, so free without any time corners, so real without true being false, false being true.
