Paradise Lost for a Medal

Don’t get me wrong. I am extremely proud about Sushil Kumar getting a Bronze Medal in the Beijing Olympics, but couldn’t he hail from some other place in Delhi than Baparola village!

For the last five months, we (me and my fiancée) considered the link loads from Najafgarh to Rohtak Road, crossing villages like Neel Bal, Dichau, Hiran Kudna and Baparola to be our exclusive property. I have been driving in and around Delhi for the last 23 years, but hardly have seen such scenic roads before. The flat, black, bitumen roads stretch miles in front of your eyes, beyond the single layer of bordering trees lie acres of green, cultivated land, small lakes pass by, and you see another car crossing yours may be after 10 minutes. Paroquets and pigeons form dense shapes against the dark, cumulus cloud; sky meets the green in the horizon without any dot of the concrete.

Often did we see the thundering rains sprinting towards us over the fields, the maize and wheat plants bending on the ground as storm raged by…we stopped the car on the roadside and looked out in awe as the white blanket of rains enveloped us, almost caressed us.

On the sunny days, we spilled out from our car, scooped out fresh radishes from the field, spoke to the Haryanvi belles carrying baleful of maize plants on their heads, their whole body swaying on an even rhythm. We had tea with the Jat families in their sparse, grim outer rooms, while their children played with huge cows and buffaloes near the door.

Only we knew that such exotic places existed in Delhi, just 6-7 kilometres from Metro-marred Nagloi, four kilometres from the dirty congestion of Najafgarh and the planned monstrosity called Dwarka.

Over the last two days, at least 30 friends and colleagues have asked me where is Baparola. And I can imagine the future…Sardars and Sardarnis in their Hyundai Santro, Rajasthani upstarts in their Honda Civic and middle-class Bengalis in their vintage Premier Padminis (maximum speed 20 kmph, horns welcome) making a beeline on the Hiran Kudna Road, having loud picnics on the small oases in the wayside, re-discovering the sprawling, modern temple complex near Neel Bal.

And me and my fiancee searching for another place to get farther from the madding crowd.

All because of a piece of bronze.

Last Tango in Life

Last weekend I watched an excellent movie: Carlos Saura’s Tango. Mario Suarez is a forty-something tango artist, whose wife Laura has left him. He leaves his apartment and starts preparing a film about tango. Things become complicated when Mario falls in love with Elena, a beautiful and talented young dancer who is the girlfriend of the powerful and dangerous Angelo Larroca, an investor in the picture. I’ll write a detailed review of the film later. Meanwhile, let me share a portion of the movie, where Mario (Miguel Ángel Solá) goes out in a date with Elena (Mía Maestro) for the first time. He talks about his feelings, his frustrations, and it seems as if I am hearing to my own heart.

Here is the script:

Elena Flores: We’re splitting up

Mario Suarez: Why, may I ask?

We don’t get along. I’m hard to live with. Living with someone is awful. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve ended up in a mess.

I’m a special case. I’m a solitary animal… one of those old lions who roam in the African Savannah aimlessly. Lionesses are different. They gather, unite, hunt, whelp, nurse, protect their defenceless cubs. They have a concrete mission in life.

Nurse, protect, mate…that’s a woman’s mission in life?

I didn’t mean that. I respect women too much. Maybe that was a bad analogy. Men have been raised to hunt and fight for thousands of years. Now he hunts in his own way. Say he goes haywire for a little power…or a medal or money… a form of power. It would be shame for a woman to follow man in his folly. That’s what I mean.

All I ask of men is to respect me, listen to me, and not treat me like a nut, sprouting nonsense. Why is it so hard for man to admit that a beautiful woman can also be intelligent?

That’s not what I think. How can I put this? You wake up one day, look at a mirror, and say, “I’ve aged.” You go outside and the young call you Mister. To them, you’ve gone over the hill, you’re an old fart. Time goes by...your hairs start to fall out, and then the rest falls apart. You like good food, you get fat…you get lazy, stop going out. Still, despite the physical decay, you feel as energetic as a boy. So what do you do? Why is it so unseemly for a man to act like a boy? I can’t enjoy a girl of 18, because I’m an older man. How old are you anyway?

Twenty-three.

You seem younger. Let’s see if I can complete this. On that day you wonder, “What life have I had? What’s happened to me? Where are my youthful illusions, my dreams?”

You can’t say that. It’s unfair. You’ve done wonderful things.

Thank you. May be. But I feel I’ve wasted my time…that I only touched the surface of things. All I did was swimming frantically to avoid sinking into the muck. How does that sound to you? Pretentious, eh? But vivid, right? Anyway all that to say, I am a good boy, modest, simple, sensitive, hardworking, honest, unable to organize my life and deeply frustrated in love.

(Gives a gift to Elena)

It’s very nice. I have to leave, Mario.

Stay with me tonight.

I can’t.

Someone’s waiting. Sorry.