It's a traffic jam when you're already late…

Things do go wrong …and boy does that bug you…just when u hope everything will work out …things go woefully wrong…like timing your journey to the last second so that u don’t have to face the dreadful perpetually belching, bowel- movement -discussing Calcutta suburban railway crowd…and the train u take happens to be the most crowded one coz the previous two have been cancelled…

It’s a good advice that u just didn’t take…

U scamper in unsure, scared and extremely vulnerable…but u decide to put up a brave front…u wont be a sitting duck, u tell urself…u will give it back to them, these hardened local train veterans, so as they go about their card playing huddles and vendor harassing sessions, u tentatively try to get a toehold…and then u look around…only to catch a burly man staring at u and then u look away and then again u look up and *gasp* he beckons to u …SEXUAL HARASSMENT u want to scream …but keeping in mind the homophobic nature of the suburbs u try and restrain urself and look away muttering abuses under ur breath…the train comes to a halt and the burly man brushes past u telling u “arre bhai bhalai ka toh zamaana hi nahi raha , seat de rahe they aapko” ( seeing my discomfiture he was offering me his seat as he was anyway disembarking in the next stop) …sigh…

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on youLife has a funny, funny way of helping you outHelping you out…

U reconcile to the idea of being hustled and bustled all through the 2 hour long journey and begin to take some kinda perverse pleasure from bodily contact (who am I kiddin u hate it )…u begin to take notice of the delightful samples of humanity and gleefully mindmark them …a vendor offering a “world famous in India” deal catches ur attention …he is offerin a comb, a set of 10 ballpoint pens and an issue of cosmopolitan for all of 10 bucks …a steal by any standards… as u try and connect his wares and draw up an endearing mental picture of a suburban long tressed Bengali housewife combing her hair while jottin down recipes with a pen from the issue of cosmopolitan …and u wake up from ur reverie to find an almost empty compartment, u blink ur eyes in disbelief and then seat urself in a comfortable corner saying to urself-

It is ironic …
I really do think…

Threptin Dadu…

Sometimes people tend to be associated with things…this holds specially true for people whose idiosyncrasies overtake their persona…
My grandfather meant a lot of things to me …but even today when I close my eyes and think about him I can smell the wonderful scent of cigarettes mixed with brylcreem and Johnson baby lotion…
Of his weird habits which were supplemented with weird things…the capstan cigarette papers that he always used…the blue packet of tobacco that he made me rush to the neighbourhood pan shops for…his aversion to certain spices (garam masala and coconut) which he insisted he was allergic to but my grandma persistently put them in her delightful curries (for she could never compromise on taste) without his knowledge…and surprise of surprises, he never was affected…his packet of threptin biscuits which he believed were the only safe biscuits to eat in this spurious goods infested market (we wud never touch that saw -dust tasting things despite of his repeated cajoling) and of course that grotesque tasting toothpaste called emoform which so much looked like a tube of shaving cream that even today I have my doubts whether my grandpa has been using shaving cream as a tooth paste all his life (that wud explain his yellowing teeth )…his firm belief that all these electronic water purifying gadgets were hogwash and the only way to get pure water was to use the contraption called zero b…

Nirmalendu Bhattacharya, my grandfather was 74 yrs old when he breathed his last breath…I didn’t get to see him alive after I bid him goodbye two years ago…
Come back Dadu, this time I will have the threptin biscuits… I promise…

The Seventh Seal

The other Bergman film which has really moved me is, of course his eternal classic “The Seventh Seal”…I talk about it in one of my assignments …here is an excerpt…

When I sit down to write this assignment after having sampled the work of both Bergman and Tarkovsky, I can’t help but put my feelings in words… While Tarkovsky’s films are characterized by what I call “meditative plodding”, Bergman's films are tighter - he is able to more effectively advance his own doubts and speculations to a dramatic end - and also, his body of work more diverse. Bergman's films are disturbing, funny, eerie, tragic, and always well-paced, no matter how introspective the subject matter.
The Seventh Seal is the first film that comes to ones mind (at least mine) when one talks about his effective way of giving a resolution to dramatic tension.
Towards the end of the film, after the storm has blown over and Joff and his family are shown to have survived it, Joff is witness to the eerie dance of death-one of the best…no probably the best silhouette shot I have ever seen- and he doesn’t seem to be horrified or shocked by it, on the contrary, he obviously is mesmerized by it.
And that is the true resolution of the film for me, the same visionary Joff who was so intimidated by Deaths presenc’e, that he had to escape the group (one could also attribute this decision to his good sense), seems to be the ideal audience of this dance…for he has learnt the most valuable lesson of his life, that death is a perpetually around but the gift given to mankind is his ability to live as though he is immortal.
Joff and Mia (one can’t help but draw parallels with Joseph and Mary) are the quintessential survivors; because they are blessed with the innocence of a well rounded domestic life…they will form communities. But the Squire and the Knight are the peripheral figures: they can never be a part of communities, because they have been tainted by knowledge…which is why the scene where Mia offers him strawberry and milk, is so poignant, the Knight who is initially reluctant to accept, eventually gives in to the warmth of the domestic scene, only to realize that Death and a game of chess is waiting for him.
The Knight, in The Seventh Seal, seems to me more of a Tarkovskian character, because he seems to be philosophizing as much as the director…many a times in the movie one feels that , the Knight has reached his philosophical limit and can now only gaze into the unknown…
The Squire, who is as much of a thinker as the Knight, seems to be less challenged (probably because he does not have death hovering over his shoulder), he is someone who seems to think without philosophizing…
Bergman like Tarkovsky, produces brilliant visual metaphors, but unlike Tarkovsky they are not self generating, they are conscious and cryptically are so…the dance of death metaphor in The Seventh Seal is a recurrent one, through frescos and other little pointers, Bergman leads us to the climactic spectacle.
His other, more obvious visual metaphors, like death playing chess, are more subjective…to me it means that life is like a game of chess where everything is leading to one inevitable resolution, death…
One might wonder why am I copy pasting my assignments in my blog …well firstly because I want to talk about these things(don’t roll ur eyes I really do) and secondly and more importantly coz I have been giving my blog link to my interviewers…impression ka sawaal hai…

After a particularly bitter argument with my mother today, I sought solace in a Bergman movie (not a very good idea as anyone who has seen anything by Bergman will tell you)…the film I chose to watch was, not very surprisingly, Autumn Sonata…now before I go on to discuss the movie I need to give a background, in other words a detailed account of my love affair with European Cinema ( regulars will remember the almost rejected Tarkovsky assignment…sigh , who am I kidding there are no regulars)…In my last semester as a MA student I had taken a course on European cinema in which in between dozing off in a comfortable air conditioned room and being told off for bunking classes I had managed to catch a few life changing films (ok am not very comfortable with this sentence, but u get the point right?)…a diary of Bergman films was to be maintained as an assignment , but I did not include Autumn Sonata in it , mainly because of two reasons, firstly I wanted to discuss other movies more urgently and secondly(is there any such word as secondly??? Ummm …whateva) secondly…I cant for the life of me remember the second reason…ok lets not digress here…the point being, I didn’t get to discuss Autumn Sonata in my assignment so I have tried to discuss it here , in my blog…Jesus!!! I used to take pride in being comprehensive and concise…higher education na….
Autumn Sonata, happened to be my first Bergman film in colour, and what struck me was his generous use of it.
For a director who had used Black & White with such resolute understatement, he sure did go overboard with colour, or so I felt.
Autumn, is, I presume, a season of violent colours in Europe…the over ripened atmosphere which is waiting to be muted by the dullness of winter, dazzles before it flickers out…
And so is the story of Eva and Charlotte, their relationship is at the last leg of alienation, but yet there are so many things which have been left unsaid…
Bergman is relentlessly despairing in this chamber drama about a daughter and her love story with her mother. Hs worlds were characterized by a sense of hope in his earlier film; in Autumn Sonata he creates a world of unspoken guilt and incredible tension.
And the colours seem to add to the tension…when Charlotte walks in a resplendent red dress, and is automatically contrasted with the drab Eva, one feels the confrontation coming…
The piano scene, where ingrid and Liv ullman react to each others interludes, is a very important one, because Bergman is one of the few directors who can make his actors live their roles, the gamut of emotions that their faces register says volumes about their troubled relationship…
Though Bergman does not give his characters the place or the liberty of “inner breathing” that Tarkovsky does, he ironically manages to flesh out more poignant characters.
Music in Autumn Sonata is an inseparable element of the story…Chopins interludes are used to the best possible effect, rightly encompassing in its folds the pain and the violence of the relationships that we see crumble in the screen.
Strangely even the most uplifting interludes which are in a warped way, in harmony with the visuals, fail to rescue us from the feeling of gloom that envelopes us along with the characters.
Helenas character is introduced as a trigger by Bergman but she ends up being more, for she in her heart has nurtured a love which will make her a survivor. Charlotte who refuses to see things as they are has to gaze at her own reflection in the train to finally surrender to her fate.
Eva will continue to live a life of denial, for she has been denied what she has wanted most in life, love.
Autumn Sonata left me wondering, why should we be subjected to such despair in the grabs of such deceptive beauty…

Have been home exactly for 96 hours now…and haven’t unpacked yet…not only because I was busy doing things I had to do, but probably because home is no longer home now…stifling kolkata heat remains the same and so does my mothers need to control each and every aspect of my life and yet I am not home…
Does that mean I was more at home in Hyderabad, amongst likeminded ppl??? Not necessarily…for there was an intense need to escape that set up too…
(yaa I know this is dangerously turning out to be one of those angst ridden self introspective pieces so lets shift gear)…
what am I sayin …am home and am happy…yay…I guess…: (
umm…here is the lyrics of the song I have been listnin to in loop for the last 4 days…its dido and am sure half of the world knows all about her…but then the other half is just getting to discover her…indulge us…

Sand in my shoes

Two weeks away feels like the whole world should have changed
but I'm home now and things still look the sameI think I'll leave it till tomorrow to unpack, try to forget for one more night that I'm back in my flat
on the road where the cars never stop going through the night
to a life where I can't watch the sunset, I don't have time, I don't have time
I've still got sand in my shoes and I can't shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you but why would I want to
I know we said goodbye, anything else would've been confused
but I want to see you againtomorrow's back to work and down to sanity
should run a bath and then clear up the mess I made before I left here
try to remind myself that I was happy here before I knew that I could get on a plane and fly away
from the road where the cars never stop going through the night
to a life where I can watch the sunset and take my time, take all our time
I've still got sand in my shoes and I can't shake the thought of you
I should get on forget you but why would I want to
I know we said goodbye, anything else would've been confused
but I want to see you again
two weeks away, all it takes, to change and turn me around I've fallen
I walked away, and never said, that I wanted to see you again...

Remains of a life…
As I scrape down the last shirt off my wardrobe(for that’s how I pack), It dawns upon me that this probably the last time I will see the insides of this room…smell myself in it…
And as I look out of the window to wipe away a tear (yes I indulge in a lot of drama…) I see the clothesline where I used to hang my frantically washed clothes twice a day ( for am an obsessive washer)…
We tend to sentimentalise everything don’t we...sigh…
The comp which connected me to u all now has to be safely cushioned in its cardboard box so that it can withstand (along with me) a 27 hour long journey across the Andhra Coast, Orissa and then rain swept, lush Bengal…
And then of course there are the remains…little things that I can’t bring myself to discard…a bunch of 10 downing street coasters (which a giggling Ug and I flicked from the hallowed pub, what I, a teetotaler was doin in a pub is a different question altogether)…
Catalogues of various art exhibitions we visited for our incredibly lame Modern Indian Art course…stupid withdrawn magazines from the British council library that I never read but took just coz they were for free (I mean why would I ever read Science today…)
Brochures of plays that I went to…gift wrappers which I always neatly fold and keep under my mattress…Film Club posters which I so passionately made (what a fool I was to think that they will ever be appreciated)…
things that I will not need…
For they are the remains of a life I am leaving behind…
p.s.the pic is that of a sunset as viewed from our terrace...it was captured by the myriad minded "myriadmind"...

Solan said...hummm Shyamalee said... hi.. so nice reflection. I too feel Happiness is something to be found... not to be searched myriadmind said... hey ...that rhymed so nicelyAjay said... Pehla Nasha is d best . Immortal :) Anonymous said... earlier it looked like you could only bullshit…you have variety too reality check said..hey anonymous! don't you dare trouble serend.. beas hyphasis said... beautiful! Comment Deleted uglygirl said...hullo!!! miss you!!come back quickL>T said... That's all well & good, but what is the name of the movie? arunima said... Accha, is this a sketch of a court room proceedings during the days of the Raj? the white man and the moslem , gave me this impression. and ur description was wonderfuly graphic. the fool on the hill said...
look in the sky..its a bird, its a plane, a ballistic missile....aiiiiieeeeeee...no, no, its Loverboy to the rescue!he's here to save serendipiduous. weep not, child. weep not. muaaaaaaah

i love comments

juhi is lookin cute no...

Happiness is a grossly overrated and, a mythical state of being…
All my life like any other normal human being I have aspired for that elusive state of being…
But to no avail…
In retrospect I think in between moments of peace and contentment, with family and friends, happiness began and ended…
Ironically , I couldn’t recognize it…

We rarely feel it.I would buy it, beg it, steal it,Pay in coins of dripping bloodFor this one transcendent good…

Would u believe me
If I told you
In my fifth birthday
Life gifted love to me
Wrapped in pain
Tied with humiliation
Love has come to mean
Much more than a rosy vision…

Anyone who has anything to do with me, knows by now how this incredibly popular search engine wronged me by not offering me a job…
But what they don’t know (and I didn’t either, till I replayed the whole interview over and over again in my mind) is how I managed to muck up everything…
All I remember are the good bits- this incredible and finely balanced combination of apprehension (overconfidence will put them off, a lil bit of nervousness and apprehension is good, it shows earnestness) and confidence that I apparently exude, the doctored honesty ( “I was disillusioned with my graduation results, I can probably blame it on lack of hard work, but I personally feel I was punished for being overtly creative”…read- I sleepwalked my way through my graduation years and thank god I can blame my poor show on Calcutta University’s notorious rigidity…) and of course the ever disarming smile…
But the not so good patches will and has answered all my questions and doubts…
Sample this-
Interviewer: why this incredibly popular search engine???
Me: I knew this was coming…well …maybe coz of the freebies that you offer…*nervous laugh*…no just kidding *damage control*…

Interviewer: how will all your cultural studies courses (feminism today, modern western thinkers etc) help you in your job?

Me: ummm this is where I say something wonderfully impressive and bowl you over don’t I… but I am really drawing blanks…*trying to melt the interviewer with my 100 watt smile, who seems suitably amused* am sorry but am still drawing blanks…

I managed a semblance of an answer only after a minute or so (but boy did it seem like eternity)

So the next time i come to any of u for any kind of sympathy regarding this particular failure, u know what to say…

I was born in Kohima and have spent the first 8 years of my life there; therefore I would like to believe that, my understanding of the Naga identity will be better rounded than the popular stereotypical one. For I, at least will refrain from attributing the most ridiculous stereotypes to the Naga Identity…or will I???
“Oh, they eat dogs there don’t they”…”are there still head hunters there???”…”where is Nagaland???” …these are the frequent questions I have to encounter when I reveal my Nagaland connection…
My answers to them are obviously not important, but what is important is the fact that these questions are asked, not out of curiosity, but with a touch of disdain and mockery…

My stay in Nagaland was very fruitful one and was during the most impressionable years of my life…for even at that young age, through my interaction with my Naga neighbours and friends I realized that we might share a common space but we live in different worlds… For me they will always be these wonderfully colourful race which I admire and in a way exoticise ,but never can be a part of, and for them I will always be the plain manu (people from the plains) who can be befriended but never be trusted…
Never have I mad a conscious effort to see the world through their “chinky” eyes. Never have I questioned my understanding of their difference…
The Naga Identity has been always been a topical one , mainly because of the ethnic clashes which has brought almost 50 years of unrest in this incredibly picturesque state…
In fact it would appear that any determined young man of any of the region’s numerous ethnic groups can proclaim the birth of a new national liberation organisation, raise funds to buy weapons or procure them by aligning with other militant groups and quickly become an important political player.
The sheer number of militant organisations in the region is extraordinary. But what interests me as a fence sitter, (for I like to believe that my unique history gives me a more or less unbiased viewpoint) is the implication of this cultural militancy, that has coloured the pan India perception of the Naga Identity…
An ethnic groups which cannot be pinned down to a conventional structure ,is always problematic…For historians always need to label ethnicity… and unfortunately Indian policy discourse on the region has gone little beyond the colonial cliches of tribals and non-tribals…
Ever since independence Nagas have been asking for something which I think is incredibly unfeasible…to be seen as not a part of India…for they never see themselves as Indians, (nor do we)…but I consider it unfeasible because of the fact that their ethnicity should not be a reason for their alienation…the topography of their state can be a reason …but will it not be a shame on me if I fail to see my Naga friend as a fellow Indian…
But then you may ask why should that stop them from seeing themselves as different and wanting to be granted that difference …maybe because perceptions shapes identity and vice versa…
I don’t know if I make any sense at all , but my understanding of the Naga identity is that its Naga, nothing more nothing less (or so I wud like to believe)…

1992
A year full of painful realizations and pleasurable discoveries (if you know what I mean)…the 10th year of my life was eventful in many ways, but a single event (or should I call it a phenomenon) coloured my view of life that year. A movie which affected me like no other, not because it was a brilliant piece of movie making, but because it was... the enunciation of my preadolescent emotions…
Some things in life take on a entirely new meaning without meaning to, they begin to stand for your personal stories, crushes, tragedies…
Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikander was one such thing...
And yet now some 13 years after I sneaked out for a first day first show of it in Hind theatre (Kolkata), I relate to it, but very differently…an incredible feeling of loss that most people call nostalgia overwhelms me and I am left pining for those horrible painful yet beautiful years…
This post, like most of my other posts, is not so much about Jo jeeta Wohi Sikander as it is about me…I amaze myself with my insularity…
But for the uninitiated Jo Jeeta wohi Sikander is a cult Bollywood classic,which the incredibly promising Mansoor Khan (why,why,why did he make Josh???) made right after his incredibly successful (and another personal favourite) Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak (1988)…
Since I love this movie so much and I am in an incredibly JJWS mood I will provide you stupid unJJWSed guys with a synopsis too…
Sporting rivalry has always existed between the three main schools, namely the one for the rich and wealthy, Rajput; St. Xavier's (boys); St. Anne's (girls); and for the not-so-wealthy, Model School. Ratanlal Verma (Mamik), from Model School, is the prime candidate for the cycling championship, with his main rival being Shekhar Malhotra (Deepak Tijori) from Rajput. As the day for the competition draws to a close, the rivalry gets intense and personal. With Ratanlal's easy-going brother, Sanjaylal (Aamir Khan), getting involved with one of rich girls, Devika (Pooja Bedi), he lies to her that he is a student at St. Xavier's, much to the chargin of Shekhar. Sanjaylal gets exposed and dumped by Devika and is thrown out of the house by his father, Ramlal Verma (Kulbhushan Kharbanda), for stealing money. Then Ratanlal is in an accident that may leave him incapable of participating in the competition. It looks like Shekhar is all set to win the race without much competition from anyone from St. Xavier's College and Model School…
Sigh…pehla nasha pehla khumaar…

The ordeal of the undecidable

Decision is the ability to form firm opinions and stick by them.
Decision in the world of justice is something that “cuts”, “divides”, it is supposed have in its fold the “initiative” to read understand and interpret the rule .
But what do I mean when I say “it cuts it divides”? It cuts because it’s supposed to be equitable and proportional.
This decision which cuts and divides also gives birth to the concept of the undecidable which is not merely an “oscillation” between two contradictory and valid rules it is also an experience which forces us to take account of the various dynamics involved in the process (e.g. in a particularly difficult trial one takes into consideration various dynamics of a situation and then comes to, if not a correct, the most valid decision).
A decision which doesn’t suffer the ordeal of undecision is not an autonomous decision at all its just a natural unfolding of an ongoing process, it s not just and fair, because if you don’t think and debate over any decision then you are only going with the flow (e.g. if I want to buy a pair Nike shoes I need to debate with myself about the viability of the purchase, if I don’t I am just falling for the Capitalist dream).
Even if we do arrive to a seemingly correct and just decision, the decision doesn’t remain the same it is engaged in a dynamic process and is reinventing itself and is therefore no longer just according to the context, decision in fact was never at all completely just, either it was never according to any rule and even if it was the rule could have been colored by other factors and was therefore not “guaranteed”. Coming back to my Nike example, even if I do argue myself into buying the Nike shoes (bringing in the durability, comfort factors) it will be because of a predecision , i.e. I will argue with myself only to convince myself and not otherwise.
Therefore the unbearable agony of undecision is not just a process to come to a conclusive decision it’s the only way to engage in a discussion involving the pros and cons of a given situation, so what if its end product (the decision) is still tainted by discrepancies it would at least be less tainted and coloured than an undebated one.

Sometimes I flatter myself by saying that I will capture those incredible things that eyes almost sees and the soul feels…the relief of summer evenings, the nip of the first winter draught, the flaming flowers that burn against the green of the grass, the feeling of incredible helplessness that overwhelms me when the first tear is dispelled from my obstinate eyes…
But then I am no Vincent and I cant paint eloquent…

"Until one morning in mid-November of 1959, few Americans - in fact, few Kansans - had ever heard of Holcomb. Like the waters of river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama, in the shape of exceptional happenings, had never stopped there."

Bennet Miller’s Capote is a story about two men who could have been each other but weren’t…its also about love found in most incredibly dismal surroundings …but more than anything else,its about the pain of not being understood, of alienation…
Truman Capote found immortal fame with his “non-fictional novel” In Cold blood…Capote tries to trace the story behind ‘genre creating novel’, but in the process also manages to bring forward the angst of not being seen for what one is, or maybe not knowing what one is…the existential crisis that is a recurrent theme in so many of effective biopics seems to be its theme too, but the sub conscious of the movie has different tales to tell…it leads the audience to the problematic position of judging ones own sense of right and wrong ...
Truman Capote tries to justify his fondness for Perry Smith (one of the killers of the infamous Kansas murder case) by saying “its like we were brought up in the same house…I took the front door out and he took the back door…”
I wonder what if I had taken the back door out??? Or horror of horrors, what if I HAVE taken the back door out…

I hate the uncertainty that is life now…
But I love the feeling of not knowing what tomorrow holds too, for every decision I make now will shape something as concrete as a career …and a job will not be some intangible myth that everyone talks about but never experiences…and phrases like “settling down”, “future prospects”, “bank balance” and “provident fund” will colour my hitherto bohemian vocabulary…
And these overwhelming realities do unsettle me for I have chosen to ignore the adult responsible being in me for much too long …am 24 and haven’t ever held a position of responsibility (professional or not so professional) in my life, which makes me, in polite terms a “carefree guy”, and in not so polite terms a “loser”…
And now that I have something/someone wonderful in my life, I would like to live life as it should be, with responsibility and independence…
Tomorrow, after all is all about what you couldn’t do today…

All through my growing up years, there would be nights when I would wake up with my heart beating violently, and I would lie in terror, unable to fathom the cause of my dark despicable fear…
Little did I know that they were the ghosts of my unresolved present haunting me…
Now that I have exorcised those ghosts, I dream of a bittersweet life without unfathomable fears…
Am happy and am in love…

My labour of love was flung on my face (well almost)...

Five hours of pure meditation produced something which , am if not proud of , quite happy with...i rush to my course instructor only to be told that he doesnt want me in his course (well cant blame him, i slept through his course, bunked classes and did not submit assignments)...but that doesnt take anything away from those five hours of "intense academic concentration"....

Tarkovsky's Sacrifice...

Anyone could characterize Tarkovsky's work as meditative plodding, which is both right and wrong: the meditation is often rewarding and always more intellectually appealing than the work of most other filmmakers, but it can also venture into the realm of the ponderously ponderous. Who is doing more philosophizing, Tarkovsky or his characters? Sometimes I cannot tell, and those instances lack the immediacy of an artist (in the guise of the character) poignantly reaching his philosophical limit and an emotional climax at which he can only gaze helplessly into the unknown. At such times, Tarkovsky momentarily loses control of his themes, and that some of his films more or less lack clear resolutions (and I don't mean simple or reassuring in the Spielbergian sense, but simply that we are able to discern without mistake what remains) seems to emphasize this. But that doesn’t take away anything from the spiritual world he creates through the journey of his characters…
In Tarkovsky's last film, The Sacrifice, we see the hero, in a black-and-white sequence, running from a house in which we have just seen a nude young woman in a bedroom. We then see him wandering in a large garden, where he picks up some small coins from the mud and rotting leaves, before freezing into immobility amidst the falling snow and the old trees, which thanks to his brilliant camera work seems to be a part of his being. The eerie calmness of this sequence is akin to the feeling of waking up after a horrible nightmare, but it is neither one nor the other, its something in between nightmare and reality. It seems to be a feeling captured in celluloid. Something which is as personal as inner breathing. The tangibility of which, seeps in only after you meditate on it.
This particular scene is quintessential Tarkovsky, not because it is characterized by his trademark craftsmanship, but because it carries within its fold, Tarkovsky’s understanding of the human nature.
The Sacrifice is a story of lack of spirituality in mankind; it’s about Alexander, a journalist and former actor and philosopher, who tells his little son how worried he is about the lack of spirituality of modern mankind. In the night of his birthday, the third world war breaks out. In his despair Alexander turns himself in a prayer to God, offering him everything to have the war not happened at all.In his attempt to charter the spiritual journey of his protagonist, Tarkovsky, meticulously depicts, through visual metaphors, the spiritual journey of the mankind.
In the opening scene of The Sacrifice the hero's son and a postman appear on the shore of a bay, where the hero - before a motionless camera, no a very slowly moving camera - is transplanting a withered sapling. They approach as if they were dragging along the vastness of the whole world outside from over the horizon. Their garrulousness (the postman) and their silence (the mute son) seem to form a complete, "synthesized" chord with the hero's soliloquy, in which they gradually join. The use of sound in Tarkovsky's films is legendary, however. His unique "music" which almost always manages to unsettle me, is intrusive, discreet by turns, at odds with, and in harmony with the images, is an inseparable element of the director's vision. Even if we take only The Sacrifice, we find images on the screen accompanied by the sound of an unseen coin tapping (as the tired hero falls asleep on the couch), a loose sheet of corrugated iron clattering in the breeze (as the introduction to a scene showing the Alexander's son asleep), and distant music and ancient chants in Swedish or Japanese (hence remote in space and time). The sounds themselves transport the visual to a distant setting, to other lands and other times, which provide the indispensable counterpoint to its present reality.
The spiritualization is not limited to human beings; his brilliant use of light manages to breath life to the most inanimate objects, giving them spirituality, and through them an understanding of his spiritual world begins to develop. A gleaming porcelain jug, which carries within its fullness the satisfaction of human thirst, is given its due screen time…
The cupboard, whose door twice opens beside one of the characters without anyone touching it, has a life of its own…
It is not that everything in it is inseparably tangible, sensual, and "spiritual", that the outward form of things cannot be divorced from their emotive significance, from the investigation of their inner meaning - his films are unmistakable evidence of the functioning of one person's subjective vision. Tarkovsky’s vision is self generating , it constantly needs to be subjectified, in fact at times one feels that these are images that the director did not invent but allowed to happen…
In brief, this film seems to have been created almost in the biblical sense, as something with an independent existence. And through the movie one experiences the world with redoubled intensity.Tarkovsky's images are not merely the product of his inner vision; they also have the ability independently to increase and multiply infinitely… during the fire scene in a nearby meadow we find a replica of the hero's house reduced to the size of a child's toy. As it was evidently placed here by the hero's son, as a birthday present for his father, it suggests an image of the future taking shape in the present, the reduplication of the present in the future...
In Tarkovsky's work, childhood is a treasure lost before it has begun. The creak of the sheet-iron, which, with the flickering light, accompanies the hero's son as he falls asleep in The Sacrifice, announces the destruction of the house in which he is growing up, and lays the foundations for his future on this loss.
The idea of fertility and regeneration seems to be a recurrent albeit disillusioned one in The Sacrifice (even though the mute child through his act of nurturing, seems to give us some respite from the feeling of desperation that overwhelms by the end of this film).
All Tarkovsky's female characters, incidentally, appear at once calm and troubled, aristocratic and primitive. They give the impression of being like "God's creatures", dedicated to higher things, but also possessed by the devil. They seem to hold the key to good and evil, love and hate. When the hero's wife is seized by convulsions on hearing of the approach of war, she writhes on the floor, with her skirt riding up her thighs, as if shaken at once by insatiability and an organic need to destroy.
The heroine of The Sacrifice is symmetrically complemented by the countrywoman Maria, who evokes at once Christian sainthood (by her name) and a pagan priestess, b the act of love with the hero she enables him to save the world from destruction.

"Once upon a time, long ago an old monk lived in an orthodox monastery. …." Alexander narrates a story to the "little man". "Once he planted a withered tree on a mountain side. Then he told his pupil, a monk named Kolov, to water the tree each day until it came to life. Every morning he filled a water carrier and went out. He climbed the mountain and watered the withered tree and at night fall he returned to the monastery. He did this for three years and one fine day, when he climbed the mountain, he saw the tree covered in blossom".
The story that a father narrates to his son seems to be the essence of Andrei Tarkovsky’s
The Sacrifice….


Premankur Biswas.

All my life I have tried to be different from her. There have been so many decisions in my life which I have consciously taken, not to end up like her.
I hate it when she looks at me expecting to see a bit of her in me…I hate it when I look at my reflection and see her…

Because deep down, I know I will never be like her… I will never be able take the cruel blows of life so determinedly as she has… I will never be able to love life as passionately as she has… I will never be able to make the mistakes that she has made… I will never be able to learn from those mistakes as she has…

Because she has given me so much that I grudge her her generosity…

Today in reterospect I can safely say that I want to be my mother…my identity lies firmly and happily on the fact that I am my mothers son…

This is for u mom, the grande dame of my life….

She turns 52 today…