I am

A lazy morning after busy days that started early in the morning and finished late at night. Sitting in the hotel room in Goiania. I need to take shower and start getting ready for lunch at my friend Deo's home. Lucas, her grandson will come to pick me up in about an hour.

I am thinking of the small girl in Vila Esperança yesterday, who had asked Renata, "If he was born in India, why does he live in Italy?", clearly puzzled by the idea of leaving the place she has grown up in and loved so much, to go and live some where else.

Yesterday I also had a long talk with Pio, who had left his Armani suits and well paid job in Milan to come and live in Goias Velho, to start Vila Esperança, together with Max. That was 22 years ago. I am sure that lot of persons ask him, why did you leave Italy to come and live in Brazil? I didn't ask him that, but the idea that he could understand my feelings of mixed identities, made it easier to talk to him.

French-Libanese writer Amin Maalouf had written in "On Identity":

..someone comes and pats me on the shoulder and says "Of course, of course - but what do you really feel, deep down inside?"

For a long time I found this oft-repeated question amusing, but it no longer makes me smile. It seems to reflect a view of humanity which, though it is widespread, is also in my opinion dangerous. It presupposes that "deep down inside" everyone there is just one affiliation that really matters, a kind of "fundamental truth" about each individual, an "essence" determined once and for all at birth, never to change thereafter. As if the rest, all the rest - a person's whole journey through time as a free agent; the beliefs he acquires in the course of that journey; his own individual tastes, sensibilities and affinities; in short his life itself - counted for nothing. And when, as happens so often nowadays, our contemporaries are exhorted to "assert their identity", they are meant to seek within themselves that same alleged fundamental allegiance, which is often religious, national, racial or ethnic, and having located it they are supposed to flaunt it proudly in the face of others.

Anyone who claims a more complex identity is marginalised. But a young man born in France of Algerian parents clearly carries within him two different allegiances or "belongings", and he ought to be allowed to use both. For the sake of argument I refer to two "belongings", but in fact such a youth's personality is made up of many more ingredients. Within him, French, European and other western influences mingle with Arab, Berber, African, Muslim and other sources, whether with regard to language, beliefs, family relationships or to tastes in cooking and the arts. This represents an enriching and fertile experience if the young man in question feels free to live it fully - if he is encouraged to accept it in all its diversity. But it can be traumatic if whenever he claims to be French other people look on him as a traitor or renegade, and if every time he emphasises his ties with Algeria and its history, culture and religion he meets with incomprehension, mistrust or even outright hostility.

Amin Maalouf's words resonate with me. I was born in India and Hindi is my mother tongue. It is the language of all those books in papa's book shelf, that I had started reading as a kid. Nanak Singh, Kishen Chander, Rangey Raghav, Mohan Rakesh, Nirmal Varma .. It is the only language in which I can really appreciate poetry. It is the language of my childhood friends.

English is the language of my logic and reasoning. It is the language of discovering writers from different parts of the world. It is the language of my work. It is also the language that I am most comfortable in writing.

And I dream in Italian, the language in which I talk to my wife and son. Italian is the language I read most now. It is the language that I like using for talking to small babies and dogs and birds and trees.

But Brazilian Portuguese is also my language, as are bits and pieces of French and Chinese. They are all parts of me. Languages, people, friends, journeys, memories, experiences, all are part of me. That is what "I am", if I can borrow the title from Onir's film. My complex identity, that is not always so easy to explain.

Sonali and Roberto story - more details

More than two years ago, in May 2008, I had written an article about the love story of Sonali and Roberto Rossellini. Following the first article, I received many emails from different parts of the world, some of which were from persons who knew other details about the story and shared those details with me. Thus, an updated version of the article was prepared in July 2008.

Over the past two years, my interest in the events linked to Sonali and Roberto story in India during 1956-57 has remained constant and I wish I could write a book on this story from Sonali's point of view. Some months ago, I did write to her daughter to ask if Sonali would agree to meet me, but I have not received any answer.

However, recently I did receive some more information about the days when Sonali and Roberto had come back from India and this post is about that new information.

***

A few months ago, a person shared some letters and other documents of Roberto Rossellini with me and gave me the permission to write about these.

The letters were written in November 1957, around the time when Roberto and Sonali had left India and were living in Paris. It was the time when their daughter Raffaella was born. The handwritten letters written in Italian are addressed to "Aldo and Giuliana", persons probably living in India at that time, who seem to be confidantes and friends with Roberto.

In one letter dated 17 November, Roberto excuses himself for not having written earlier "because he was being followed by journalists and photographers". He also says that he is preparing a return to India in the beginning of December. He mentions some financial problems. At the same time, he is "excited about restarting my life at 51 years".

He awaits anxiously for the arrival of documentary films from India for completing the work. He asks, "what does Jennifer say? .. What does Blitz say? He asks his friends to telephone (Rambir) Haksar to present his (Roberto's) apologies.

In another letter dated 7 December, it seems that Roberto's financial problems are continuing and he writes of selling his car. He seems to worry about gossip, "the truth is that people love to gossip and make things seem more drammatic, even when there is nothing to drammatize..". He mentions lack of news from "our lawyer in Bomaby" and he continues to wait for those "damned documentaries".

He also seems upset about reactions of certain persons "because I have separated from my wife? How does that concern him? ... I believe that people become easily hysterical, without understanding ... I don't think he understood what I had to go through to resolve the questions here."

He mentions a visit to Rome "for the separation from my wife".

Among the other documents that I have received, there are some telegrams from Roberto (in Rome) to hotel Suisse in Delhi. The telegrams mention Rambir Haksar and arrival of Mrs. Selznick (Hollywood actress Jennifer Jones who was married to director David Selznick at that time), who is arriving in India. Roberto asks  in the telegram to make arrangements for her stay in Maidens (hotel in Delhi), avoid publicity and inform Menon so that Jones gets all assitance on her arrival in Bombay airport.

Among the papers, there is also a list of expenses for reimbursement for a total of 910 Indian Rupees, that includes the following items:
7 Rs for taxi on 29th October to film division
6 Rs for taxi for Indira Gandhi on 26 October
20 Rs for taxi to Palam for taking the monkey on 4 November (probably the monkey used in one of the documentaries)

Comments: I think that the expenses for reimbursement covering the period from 22 October to 22 January, relate to the period after Roberto's arrival in India in October 1956, when his love story with Sonali had not yet started or was just starting.

I am not sure about the telegrams concerning Jennifer Jones. Did she play a role in the documentaries made by Roberto in India? Was he planning to make a film with her in India, after completing the documentaries? If so, probably he was underestimating the strength of public scandal in India and didn't imagine that he would have to run away to Euorpe with Sonali? From the letter dated 17 November 1957, it seems that he was still hoping to go back to India in December.

Rambir Haksar, who was assisting Rossellini in India, mentioned in these messages, could be related (?) to P. N. Haksar, who was in foreign service in that period, and later became personal assistant to Ms. Indira Gandhi (?).

Pandit Nehru's daughter Indira, who had married Firoz Gandhi in 1942, had separated from her husband and was living with her father in Teen Murthy during 1956-57. That Prime Minister's daughter travelled in a taxi, is a reflection of those times, when security was not an issue and leaders were closer to the people. Her personal involvement in the supporting Roberto's visit, also reflects on the importance given by the Nehru family to Rossellini visit in India.

The letters do not mention Sonali nor the birth of his daughter in Paris in November 1957. This could be an indication of his relationship with Aldo and Giuliana, who were probably more informed about his business issues than personal issues. His mention of gossip in Blitz, shows that he was concerned about the Indian press. Blitz was among the most active Bombay newspapers of that time, protesting loudly about Roberto and Sonali love story, describing it as an attack on India's morality and asking for Roberto's expulsion from India.

***

When I had found that the famous Bengali actor and director Aparna Sen was coming to River to River film festival in Florence, I had immediately thought that she would know details about the Sonali and Roberto story. She is daughter of Chidanand Dasgupta, who was close friend of Satyajit Ray, and since Sonali's ex-husband, Harisadhan Dasgupta was also colleague and friend of Satyajit Ray, my conclusion was they all must have known each other. In 1956-57 when it had all happened, Aparna must have been 11-12 years old, so I had thought she will remember things from that period.

Aparna did confirm that her father and Harisadhan knew each other. She said that as a child, Raja, Sonali and Harisadhan's elder son, used to come to their house. But she didn't know much else. There hadn't been much discussion about this subject in her family in that period, and Harisadhan's family had been very discreet about the whole issue, so she couldn't say much about it.

You can imagine my disappointment!

***

Together in the beehive

The train journeys would take for ever and the preparations started days in advance. Letters were written for the friends on the way, who were going to host us in their homes for a night or two. Holdalls were prepared with blankets and gaddas, thin mattresses filled with cotton, and we pulled on the straps till they all rounded up like footballs. Biji, my grandmother, prepared a big basket of puris and fried potatoes along with mango and water chestnuts pickles for the journey.

Going to Hyderabad needed two nights and we stopped on the way in Bhopal. Going to Alipur Dwar took three nights and we stopped on the way in Lucknow and Siliguri.

In the second class compartment of the train with three tyres, train seats were wooden planks and best was to have the top berth, because then you could go up and forget about the others. The bottom berth was where everyone sat while the middle berth was kept closed till it was time to go to sleep.

As you entered the compartment you immediately measured the others sharing the space with you. Were their faces smiling or were they sour faced? How did they react to, "Uncle, can I put this here?" And then soon everyone beamed with relief since the companions of our journey were as anxious as we were to find friendly faces.

Before you knew everyone was talking to everyone. Children sharing comics or playing ludo or exchanging stories. Women together chatting as long lost sisters from a Manmohan Desai film. Men looking with understanding nods at their wives, and talking about their own things. Didi, bhabhi, bhai saheb, dada ji, aunty ji, soon everyone had found the right words to address the others. From the open window of the train, on a curve you could see the steam rising up from the engine and specks of charcoal came inside the compartment and coated all the faces, got stuck in the hair and went down the neck into the shirts. Chuk chuk chuk, the train went, the compartments swaying as everyone spoke to everyone else.

And by the time the shared journey came to an end, we knew lot of things about each other, and saying goodbyes was like we were leaving friends. "Write to me", "If you come to Delhi, come to see us", were exchanged with addresses. Of course, we never saw each other again, those other lives were soon forgotten, the memories of faces and names fading quickly with time.

Every time I stopped to think about it, I could see the round ball of earth buzzing like a beehive, hundreds of thousands of small cells next to each other, each with its own family and relatives and lives, each family facing ups and downs, each with children growing up, persons dying, persons getting married. Even if I didn't know about them all, I could imagine them, each family like our own, a little different in somethings, but underneath every thing else, quite similar.

Now even in India there are no steam engines, those long journeys have become shorter. Here, even when I do travel on train, mostly I avoid eye contact with others, I almost never offer others the food I am eating, I hardly ever (actually never) take puris and fried potatoes with me and anyway, most persons have a sandwich and a paper glass with some drink. On the planes, people sitting next some times smile but it stops there. Talking to others that you don't know means disturbing them and so everyone looks out of the window or reads or closes eyes and feigns sleep, all lost in their own worlds.

Instead, when the urge to "meet" others comes, I do blog hopping. Like, going to a site like Desipundit and clicking on a blog.

That boy with the red scarf around his neck and his graduation at some IIT, his face full of hope for the future. That lady next to him must be his mother, she looks so proud of him. The girl he is looking at with so much adoration on his face, is she is wife or his girlfriend? There is no picture of his father in that album, why, what happened? After the pictures, I want to read about the things that boy has written in his blog. And then I click on a link on that blog, then on another link. That girl, she went to India for the first time. Her name is south Indian, perhaps she was born in USA? How does it feel to be surrounded by all Indian faces for the first time in your life, when you realise that you are like everyone else? Jumping cities and continents. Looking at photo albums and reading about the persons is so much fun. In half an hour, I have gone through three blogs, looked at their pictures, read about their profiles.

Tomorrow, I won't remember them. If not tomorrow, perhaps next week I will forget them. I never remember their names any way. And I never tag them. I like them as they are, random, unexpected, like ships crossing and the passing glimpses into other parallel universes. Sometimes interesting, sometimes ordinary. Sometimes, I don't like them so much.

They are like the companions on a long train journey from my childhood. And I think of the giant beehive, all round the world, every where people with hopes, joys, illnesses, memories, sadness, visting beautiful places, missing places and people. It is good to be part of that beehive.

Strange obsession

I can't resist taking pictures of people in uniforms - especially policemen and police-women. It is a kind of obsession. If I am visiting a place and I see police personnel, I always try to take their pictures. Some times, I am a little afraid that they will get annoyed but that hasn't happened so far.

It is a kind of love-hate relationship or rather fear-fascination relationship. Instinctively, I am afraid of people in police dress, if I can avoid, I never speak to them. In my mind they are representing cruel and brute force. It is for this reason perhaps, that I like taking pictures of them with small children, so that the antagonism between this mental image and their actual gentleness creates a contrast in the picture.

In 1960 my father was jailed because of some anti-government protest. From his notes, I know that I and my younger sister, together with mummy, we had gone to see him. I was six years old at that time, yet I can't remember any thing about that visit, nothing absolutely. Not only, I don't have any childhood memory of such a visit while I think normally, a visit to a jail would be a very strong memory for a child. Perhaps, that visit is behind my fear-fascination of uniforms?

I don't know, but here is a selection of some pictures of uniforms from my travels. The first one is from Quito, in Ecuador. A tourist-information-centre run by a police woman in the central square of old Quito.

The one below is not a very good picture. It is from Pelorinho, the old part of Salvador in Bahia (Brazil) with the military men taking part in the annual city parade.


These are military men on a free afternoon at the lake in Geneva.


Finally, one of my personal favourites - London bobbies at Trafalgar square.

Dil Vale Dulhaniya

In another 10 days, our son Marco will get married. It will be in India.

I remember the marriages of cousins, for which preparations started months earlier. Preparing saris and gota on the chunnis. Mataji and Bua making gujhiyas. Relatives coming from Agra, Kanpur, Jaunpur, Allahabad, Lucknow, Faizabad, and all kinds of places. Some of them, we only saw on marriages. Singing, gossiping and eating, whole day long.

For us, everything seems far away, as if we are just planning to go to the marriage of someone else. Till now, the only work related to marriage has been putting together all the addresses and sending them to my sister, so that she can send the wedding invitations.

Yesterday, the supermarkets and shopping malls were open for the Christmas shopping, even if it was a Sunday. We went there to look for things to buy to take to India. But in the end, we came back without buying any thing. We are going to have a week in Delhi, that should be enough for the shopping, we said. For a marriage in India, how can buy things in Italy ?

Today, Nadia has started to prepare the suitcase for Marco. "What dress will he wear for the marriage in Gurudwara in the morning? What will he wear for the Hindu marriage in the evening? And for the reception ? And for the civil marriage? And for the sangeet evening? Which shoes should he take with him?" And suddenly the marriage is no longer a dream, it is something concrete that needs planning and preparation. Since there are going to be three marriage ceremonies, so everything has to be planned and done thrice. Actually, there will be a fourth ceremony as well, in a church in Italy, but for that there is time and we need not worry about it now.

We had never dreamt that Marco born and grown up in Italy would decide to get married like this. When he was young he would ask, "Why is my name Marco Tushar? I don't want this strange name. I want only Marco, like all the Italian children."

Yes, he did enjoy a stray Mr. India or Ajooba, and he had learnt to say Dadi, namastey, Pani de do, khana kha lo etc. when we had guests from India, but that was it. He didn't even want to go to India for holidays. When we went to the functions of the Indian association in Bologna, he hardly ever came with us. His Indian genes were all dormant.

Ah, love! and its strange ways! You can never plan, from where it can come and strike you.

And here he is suddenly wanting to learn Hindi, he wants to dress for the marriage in kurta pajama, he is experimenting with masala chicken. Has been to India three times in last two years.

In our generation, we were all "progressives", we didn't want a traditional shaadi, no band baaja, no ghodi for the baarat. We all chose our spouses. Now for his marriage, suddenly we have all discovered our Indian roots and our traditions.

"Of course, there should be a band! We need to dance", I said.

"We need the sangeet evening for the mehndi", mausi said.

"I want the dress like that of Shahrukh Khan in Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham", Marco said.

Perhaps, it is not really serious. Rites and traditions are not something rigid, to be done because we belive in them for religious or other reasons, but only because they will be fun.

Perhaps it is because of all the Suraj Barjataya, Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Karan Johar films, that make the technicolour NRI dreams for the masses. No illusions thus, we have been massified.

So keep a watch for the next installment of the Dil Wale Dulhanya Le Jayenge soap opera.

*****
While we are on marriages, for nostalgia sake, here are some pictures from our marriage.