Shweta, an eighth-class student, is chit-chatting with her friend in the school bus; they choose to stand by an empty seat.
The bus’s engine crackles and starts running as the driver takes his seat. The boys standing near the back door are talking loudly. With more and more students boarding the bus, it becomes a happy noisy site.
CUT TO:
CLOSE UP
Shweta is searchingly looking at the back door while pretending to be fully engrossed in the conversation.
CUT TO:
INT. SCHOOL BUS – DAY
A boy enters the school bus from the back door; his friends address him as ‘Raghu’; they immediately start discussing something.
CUT TO:
Shweta’s eyes are now fixed at Raghu; she even stops pretending to listen to what her friend is saying. Funnily, her friend doesn’t notice.
CUT TO:
Raghu, while listening to his chirpy friends, turns to look at Shweta just for a second and then turns back again.
CUT TO:
CLOSE UP
Shweta, with a tinge of anger in her eyes, glares at Raghu. This time her friend also notices it. The bus grunts and sluggishly starts moving.
ZOOM OUT
Raghu turns to see her again and when he does, right at that moment, Shweta quickly switches her place with her confused friend.
Taking Shweta’s side, the bus swayed to take a turn on the road, giving this switch a rhythmic touch.
Shweta, with her back towards Raghu, now can’t see him but is smiling as if she has somehow defeated Raghu in a game.
Raghu, somewhat baffled, stares at Shweta in the background and we hear a voice –
Note that the show is a satire – satire is the humorous ridiculing of the social evils, the vices that we tend to hide and hide behind waiting for a solution; satires are crucial for they are reminders reminding us not to repeat, replicate, reiterate, duplicate the mistakes, blunders, rebukes, devils we commit, cause, utter and create foolishly, out-of-weakness and when terribly burdened; satires don’t pass judgements rather they accept the folly, the situation at hand, they acknowledge the ruin, the disgrace, always aiming for a better, united, cooperative, humble, sensible world.
Note that the show is a comedy as well – naturally, because comedy is satire’s aura.
Note that the show is a Pakistani show – pro-this or anti-that, the show stays true to its genre, its keen sword like wit cuts through the superficial, holding its ground against the dogmatic prevalence of all types, of this and that society; slowly, very gently, very patiently it knocks down every King’s crown, so that the oligarchy bends.
Note that the show is not against anyone – it hails the present time, present lives, societies as we are all trying to play well. Yet, it promotes old values like brotherhood, kindness, truthfulness and love for one’s land. It also acknowledges its limitedness, slantly, but mostly straightforwardly.
Last, please note that the show is created and written by Anwar Maqsood, starring late Moin Akhtar (as the guest) and himself (as the host) – together they leave the viewer in a dilemma whether to bow before the absolutely astounding acting, the phenomenal script or their jugalbandi (the duo’s entwined performance).
For now, watch Loose Talk’s nine engaging episodes out of the total three hundred –
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Interviewing a Pakistani senior citizen on 14th August, Independence Day special –
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होस्ट: जब आपने पाकिस्तान के सर ज़मीन पे कदम रखा तो आपको कैसा लगा?
गेस्ट: कदम नहीं रखा, नहीं नहीं ना , हमने माथा रखा था ।
होस्ट: सुबान अल्लाह ! आपने एक नयी सर ज़मीन को सजदा किया।
गेस्ट: कह चुके।
होस्ट: जी।
गेस्ट: बीच में से बात मत उचक लिया करो, सजदा नहीं किया, वागाह बॉर्डर पर किसी ने हमे धक्का दिया था, यह कह कर के ‘जल्दी चल बे’, बस उसमे जो गिरे निचे, तो सर जा कर धाड़ से पाकिस्तान की सर ज़मीन पर लगा और हमारा सर फट गया और पहली दफा जब हम दाखिल हुए पाकिस्तान तो फटे हुए सर के साथ दाखिल हुए।
होस्ट: इस मुल्क के लिए हज़ारों लोगों ने कुर्बानियां दी है, आपने अपना सर फोड़ा।
गेस्ट: हैं?
होस्ट: आपने अपना माथा फोड़ा।
गेस्ट: जी।
होस्ट: तो कैसा लगा दाखिल हो कर, कदम रख के?
गेस्ट: दाखिल हो के हमे पता चला की ओह हो हो हो हो, बटुआ तो हम अपना दिल्ली भूल आए हैं।
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Translation–
Host: How did you feel when you first stepped foot on this land, when you entered Pakistan?
Guest: I didn’t step my foot on this land, no no no, my head touched it first.
Host: How beautiful! You bowed before this new land – Pakistan.
Guest: Are you done?
Host: Yes.
Guest: Let me finish the sentence first, I didn’t bow, at Wagah Border someone pushed and said, “oye move quickly”, and so I fell on the floor and my head hit this land. So, I entered Pakistan with an injured forehead.
Host: Thousands of people sacrificed their lives for this nation, you too got injured.
Guest: Yes!
Host: How did it feel then, when you first entered the promised land?
Guest: As soon as I entered I realised that oh-ho-ho-ho-ho, I forgot my wallet in Delhi.
Interviewing a teacher –
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होस्ट: पौने 9 बजे आपके यहाँ डाकू आए और गए कितने बजे ?
गेस्ट: सुबह 4 बजे।
होस्ट: इतनी देर क्या करते रहे?
गेस्ट: असल में एक डाकू जो था उसने मेज़ पर से दीवान-ए-ग़ालिब उठा ली और उसे देख के मुझे कहने लगे – तुमने दूसरों पर अपनी काबिलियत का रॉब झाड़ने के लिए इतने मुश्किल शायर की किताब राखी हुई है घर पे ? या ग़ालिब की शायरी तुम्हारी समझ में आ गयी है? हमारी बेग़म ने फॉरेन कहा, नहीं ऐसी बात नहीं है इन्होने ग़ालिब को बहुत पढ़ा है और ग़ालिब पे किताब भी लिखी है। फिर उस डाकू ने किताब खोली और पढ़ने लगा –
“कुछ खरीदा नहीं है अब की साल, कुछ बनाया नहीं है अब की बार, रात को आग और दिन को धूप, भाड़ में जाए ऐसे लेल-ओ-नहार, आपका बाँदा और फिरूं नंगा, आपका नौकर और खाऊं उधार…”
यह कह कर उसने किताब वहां रखी वापस और कहने लगे – जब ग़ालिब इतनी मुश्किल में थे , तो वह हमारी तरह क्यों नहीं हो गए, हमारे भी हालात यही हैं।
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Translation –
Host: The dacoits came around 8:45 pm and when did they leave?
Guest: At 4 in the morning.
Host: What did they do for so long?
Guest: So, one dacoit picked Diwan-e-Ghalib from the table and said to me, “You own such a great poet’s book just to show off? Or are you trying to tell me you understand Ghalib’s poetry?” Quickly my wife said, “He has indeed studied Ghalib very deeply and have even written a book on Ghalib.” Then the dacoit opened the book and read –
“Bought nothing this year, built nothing this time, fire at night and the sun in the day time, to hell with such nights and days, your creature still I roam naked, your servant yet I beg for food…”
He kept the book back on the table and said, “if Ghalib was facing such difficulties, why didn’t he become like us, our condition is the same…”
Interviewing a would-be politician –
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होस्ट: अगर आपकी पार्टी ने इलेक्शन में हिस्सा लिया तो मोहतरम, आपका इंतक़ाबि निशान क्या होगा?
गेस्ट: हमारा इंतक़ाबि निशान वही होगा जो मैंने आपको वक्फे में दिया था – ठुड्डा। कमीशन इलेक्शन से हमने रिक्वेस्ट की है, अगर उन्होंने दे दिया तो ठीक, नहीं दिया तो कोई गल नहीं।
होस्ट: सर कमीशन इलेक्शन नहीं, इलेक्शन कमीशन।
गेस्ट: ओये एक ही गल है। कमीशन इलेक्शन से पहले लगाओ या बादमे, कोई फरक नहीं पेंदा।
होस्ट: सर इसकी… ठुड्डे की तस्वीर कैसे दिखाएंगे आप?
गेस्ट: ओये ये जाहिलो वाली गल किती तूने, ठुड्डे की तस्वीर नहीं होती है, ठुड्डा लिखा जाता है, “अवाम का वोट, हमारा ठुड्डा”, एह लिखा जाएगा।
होस्ट: सर इस स्लोगन से तो अवाम डर जायेंगे सर।
गेस्ट: ओ, पिछले साठ सालों से अवाम डर के ही तो वोट देते हैं।
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Translation–
Host: If your party stands in the election, sir, what will be your party’s symbol?
Guest: Our party’s symbol will be the same, that I gave you during the break – a kick. We have requested commission election for the same, if they agree with us, good, if they don’t, well, it doesn’t matter.
Host: Sir it is not commission election, it is election commission.
Guest: O, it is one and the same thing. Commission if added before election or after, doesn’t make much difference.
Host: Sir, how will you show this symbol – the image?
Guest: Oye, you’re talking like an illiterate, it won’t be shown, we will simply write it down, “Public’s vote, our kick”, this is what will be written.
Host: Sir, using this slogan may scare the public sir.
Guest: O, for the past sixty years, that is what they have done, the public vote out of fear.
Interviewing a harmonium player, the only English-subtitled epsiode.
What good is an incomplete tale? As said earlier, an incomplete tale sooner or later completes a circle, like this one did.
And then? Well, it liberates and lightens the metaphorical albatross around one’s neck… and who knows, a day may shine here when the albatross quietly flies away.
“Is it ready yet, is it ready now?” [Source – Pixabay]
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Like a quick meal that you make yourself, yes, yourself, standing in the kitchen, looking for items, finding none, finding some, maybe it is not something you regularly do or maybe you do it regularly but always in a rush, you add a pinch of salt after applying butter or vice-versa, the heat is too much or too low, you fix it, but after slightly burning your fingertips, and when this meal makes you wait, oh, for howsoever quick it is, it still needs time, you think of brewing a hot cup of tea or coffee, hustle and bustle, tin-tin-tinaa-tuk-tun-tunaa, and the quick meal along with a hot beverage when tasted and sipped, you feel full and good, it is a buttery sweet moment.
You suddenly also start to feel confident about life in general.
Oh, but when you return to the kitchen after finishing the meal, the anxious shelf, the sticky stubborn utensils and crumbles all over the place stare at you in cold anticipation – now or later, late evening or tomorrow morning, my turn or roommate’s turn, or, or, or the maid’s?
You suddenly feel late, like it is only the washing dishes and cleaning shelf bit that stands between you and the attainment of your dream.
I guess, the dish is ready, dear Rabbit.Bon appétit! No, I won’t join, I am fasting today. Goodbye! [Source – Pixabay]
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If you very often do the cleaning part too, not just as a chore, your cooking abilities will bloom, like a wild vine that climbs and trails wondrously without worry, much more than it does when you stick to a rough routine like a straight, pruned plant in a plastic pot.
While a plant even in a plastic pot is rich, full of warmth and it rules, we tend to limit ourselves to a routine too easily, especially if it is comfortably dull.
Kitchen work is all about exuberance, love, patience and meditation that serves best when mixed with prudence.
Cooking and cleaning is a complex task; your kitchen is no less than a PhD student’s lab, yet truly welcoming, forgiving and accepting.
Anyone’s progress happens only gradually and is incomplete without the cleaning part.
Steadily, if you keep going, you’ll learn when to add a pinch of salt, before or after applying the butter, without burning your fingertips.
And you’ll get used to the tricky teasing waiting part, you’ll know it adds great value, and you’ll see, when it’s time, how grandly patience prepares a rich dish.
A phase is defined as any stage in a series of events or a process of development; while we all go through different phases in life, at times we either forget to notice or simply become fearful of transitions, inadvertently being ignorant about the fact that this phenomenon is universal. In this short poetry collection, the blogger has attempted to capture this subtle yet powerful phenomenon – phases that are observable in every journey undertaken.
Here are the last two poems from this collection –
A phase is defined as any stage in a series of events or a process of development; while we all go through different phases in life, at times we either forget to notice or simply become fearful of transitions, inadvertently being ignorant about the fact that this phenomenon is universal. In this short poetry collection, the blogger has attempted to capture this subtle yet powerful phenomenon – phases that are observable in every journey undertaken.
A phase is defined as any stage in a series of events or a process of development; while we all go through different phases in life, at times we either forget to notice or simply become fearful of transitions, inadvertently being ignorant about the fact that this phenomenon is universal. In this short poetry collection, the blogger has attempted to capture this subtle yet powerful phenomenon – phases that are observable in every journey undertaken.
Here are the next three poems –
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All hail the majestic fiery sun! Hail, hail! [Source – Pixabay]
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The Sun
Glorious in this self-sacrificial act,
The sun spins silently on its spot
With an eye open and an eye closed,
Partly seeing the planetary drama and
Partly observing its blind burning core,
Loving-living the old eclipsing folklore.
Never out of tune or shying away
From that routine rotating pathway
As if in meditation and at peace,
Granting us our lives at lease.
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We assume Time is standing still
Because of our sun’s steady will.
It is but a phase like the earlier ones
Where life played a different game and had won.
Moon-lover one, waiting for moon lover two. [Source – Pixabay]
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The Moon
Like a wave gushing its way through
The barriers and entering our hearts,
The Moon loves playing the darts,
Winking, listening and inspiring like a true
Poet in practice, moonlight as ink
Together the moon-lovers drink.
Such is the friendship between the seekers
And the moon; safekeeping promises and secrets,
Along with a lonely soul’s rising hope
Of fulfilling a decorated dream and Co.
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And this personification of moon into a friend
And a secret keeper, holding hands till the end
Is another phase, another image of the moon;
Quiet, calm, disciplined, it’s coming out soon.
The awesome dancers, all hail the trio! Hail, hail! [Source – Pixabay]
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The Earth
On a great grand gargantuan pilgrimage,
Orbiting its way, the same old and unique,
Transforming, adjusting with every coming phase,
Our Earth, our only home, this blue-green maze,
Gravitationally inclined, time-space bound,
Nurtures with freedom the beings found
Inhabiting its being, its vision, its dream;
Rhythmically revolving, rising, but never asleep,
Timed its timing with Time, the Earth
Listens earnestly, abiding by the unknown.
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How forgetful are we, who are just a phase,
A passing reality on the way to its pilgrimage…
We appear to be short sighted and too eager
To conquer the unconquerable, our planet, our nurturer.
A phase is defined as any stage in a series of events or a process of development; while we all go through different phases in life, at times we either forget to notice or simply become fearful of transitions, inadvertently being ignorant about the fact that this phenomenon is universal. In this short poetry collection, the blogger has attempted to capture this subtle yet powerful phenomenon – phases that are observable in every journey undertaken.
A Lady Playing the Tanpura, ca. 1735 Rajasthan, India. [Source – Wikipedia]
A raag in Indian classical music becomes Time when orchestrated. Glorious instruments, colourful songs and performances, although, when glimpsed at, mute, await patiently for the right Time, right raag.
For a different season, a different raag – Malkauns, Puriya Dhaneshree for autumn and fall, Megh and Miyan ki Malhar for the monsoons, Brindavani Sarang for summer – that captures the weather in wavelengths, letting it communicate ever so freely.
Raag as Time presents itself in a harmonious clock, naturally. Dawn breaks with raag Ahir Bhairav, Lalit, Bilaval… afternoon visits with raag Bhimpalasi, evening with raag Yaman Kalyan and night with raag Chandrakauns, Darbari, Hameer…
Moulding live Time into a majestic melody, into resplendent raags – they sit still. Who all, exactly? Both raag and Time – raag as Time, Time as raag. They sit still, now bursting into true joy, now as fragrant as love, they await, never losing the discipline of being one.
Yes, here comes the structured, palpable, countable, direct, strict form of the raags – notations. Tied to notations, raags sincerely obey the rules set by the masters, always free to improvise and ameliorate the notations. Raags aim for clarity of ever vibrant awareness, presence that transcends.
And who do the masters, gurus, legends and myths obey? Well, life is cyclical – they obey, observe, listen to, be mindful of the raags.
Saraswati with an Alapini Vina, 12th century [Source – Wikimedia Commons]
Goddess Saraswathi – painting by Raja Ravi Varma
Kinnari Veena, by William Gibb, from the book Music and Musical Instruments of India and the Deccan by C R Day
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So, the strictness, the structure of notations attempts to keep the raags’ soul alive, while firmly certain that raags’ soul is eternal. And carrying this paradox rhapsodically, the artists move rather uniquely, theirs is a different gait, rich in colours, in fast-forward or rewind mode.
Ti-ha-yi i.e. tihayi, a technique used in Indian classical music mostly to complete a piece.
“Tihais are sometimes used to distort the listeners’ perception of time, only to reveal the consistent underlying cycle at the sam.”
–Music Contexts: A Concise Dictionary of Hindustani Music by Ashok Damodar Ranade
Sam is the ending point/ beat.
Listeners’ perception of time… very true, after all it is done for the listeners, the stage is set for the viewers, the raags become Time for the audience.
Why? So that the sublime connection between the world around and the world within doesn’t break, so that the cyclical journey goes on and on… for no mortal being knows the final destination.
Raag comes from a Sanskrit word that means ‘dyeing’ or ‘a colour, tint, hue’, and so when the right note – beautifully beaded, richly fresh – is played, it touches the heart and soul of the listener, affecting and colouring the thoughts, urging one to act well, arresting one’s hurtful quietness, liberating one from the heavy shackles, boosting one’s spirited self.
An ecstasy when experienced so, in general the raags take a traditional ritual’s shape that often gets dull under the burden of untouchable rules… untouchable for they are pious.
And oh, be careful of rupturing the impeccable quaint charming world.
But they forget the raag becomes Time here, when orchestrated well and as Time it evolves, evolving others along.
Who has captured Time in this ephemeral space? And that too in a sweet honeyed way that in captivity it turns melodious – Time becomes raag…?
An eternal tug of war between the thoughtful and careful, a wave rising and falling, union and separation, spoken and unspoken – there is a raag for every shade, every mood, every subtle change, every sky and every earth.
Together why not we take a dive into this ocean of raag… why not we learn to be as patient as a still raag as if we have been sculpted out of stones, while the atoms within hum steadily the right tune… why not we become in action that ecstatic joy like the raag Malhar, causing the clouds of bleakness to rain, in-turn nurturing our roots… why not each one of us create a unique tihayi that uncovers the similarities at the sam…
Endless footprints following footprints/
When suddenly a few of them rise/
To bloom like a flower.
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)
P.S – Supporting a storyteller is good for the world’s health (and undoubtedly, for the storyteller’s health as well). Shower some love by sharing, commenting and subscribing to the Weekly Newsletter.
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.
