Never the twain shall meet

This review by me, had appeared in the latest edition of our in-house magazine, "Kshitij"

Night has descended on Chandrapur. The moon bathes the old mosque with its silvery light. The twinkling stars are mute witnesses as Dr. Aziz washes his limbs in the marble pond. The river glistens in the moonlight. Dr. Aziz gazes across at the town, as the faint notes of a Nadhaswaram float through the night. Clad in white silk, the ghostly figure of Mrs. Moore walks in. Aziz’s opposition to a woman’s entry into the mosque, is driven away by her kindness. “God is here!” she remarks. Thus begins Aziz’s friendship with Mrs. Moore and her companions – a relationship that would lead then through the doldrums of political and social upheaval.

Based on E.M. Forster’s epic, master storyteller David Lean’s “A Passage to India” tells the story of young Adela Quested (Judy Davis) who embarks on a journey to India to meet her fiancé, Ronny Heaslop (Nigel Havers), the city magistrate of Chandrapur. Accompanying her is Ronny’s mother, Mrs. Moore (Peggy Ashcroft). They want to “see the real India” and get to know the locals, much to the chagrin of Ronny. Through the kind school superintendent Mr. Fielding (James Fox), they strike up a friendship with Dr. Aziz Ahmed(Victor Banerjee) and Professor Narayan Godbole (Sir Alec Guiness). Ever keen to impress the rulers and get into their good books, Dr. Aziz hosts an excursion to the nearby Marabar Caves. Things go wrong during the trip and Aziz finds himself arrested on the charge of attempted rape, leveled by Miss Quested. The trial results in an outrage among the colonials as well as the locals, and finally turns into a clash of cultures between the “oppressor” and the “oppressed”.

“A Passage to India” features an ensemble of some of the finest actors of the time. Both, Judy Davis and Peggy Ashcroft give excellent performances as the British ladies, coming into their own in the latter half of the film. However Ashcroft scores over her younger compatriot, as she transforms into a person who trusts her beliefs but is unsure to stand by them. James Fox just walks along easily through his part. Dr. Aziz’s irritating zeal to ape and impress the white masters is excellently brought out by Banerjee, though he fails to effectively portray Aziz’s transformation into a self-respecting person in the latter half. Among the other Indian actors, Art Malik as Aziz’s friend is irritating with his boisterous dialogs, and Roshan Seth, in the little screen time given to him, never fails to hold fort against the others. The surprising choice of Sir Guiness as the enigmatic and eccentric Godbole strikes a discordant note. Though he looks the part, lethargy or a lack of interest highlights his portrayal of Godbole, and a character so pivotal to the turning point of the story disappears from the minds of the viewer.

What makes the movie truly a masterpiece is the vividly colorful canvas that David Lean paints India as. From the moment when King George V steps through the arch of The Gateway of India, to Aziz staring at Fielding’s car disappearing down the chinar-laden avenue of Srinagar, the film is a treat to the eye. Through Lean’s eyes, we see an India that’s far from the maddening crowds of our cities. The visuals are impressively used to convey the underlying theme of conflict of cultures. The British quarter is plush with immaculately laid roads, rows of beautiful bungalows and splendid gardens whereas the Indians swarm around crowded bazaars full of colorful flower garlands, peacock feathers and even dead bodies draped in white. They live in dilapidated houses amidst the dirt roads filled with puddles. Where the colonials dress in immaculate but drab white coats, the Indians drape themselves in vibrant colorful costumes. A tad too far it might seem but it works in bringing out into the open, the east-west divide. The scene at the temple might not be in the book, but it effectively brings out the emotions of repressed sexuality in Adela Quested. The pleasant sunny days give away to a torrential downpour, as the case against Dr. Aziz is dismissed and Adela emerges out of the courthouse to witness the boisterous crowds. With the newly discovered spirit of independence the mood of the town has changed like the weather.

“A Passage to India” was David Lean’s comeback vehicle after a 14-year hiatus since the critical failure of “Ryan’s Daughter”. It was the swansong of the great director who gave us epics like “Lawrence of Arabia”, “The Bridge on the River Kwai” and “Dr. Zhivago”. For all its critical success, the filming was not without controversy. David Lean’s already strained relationship with Sir Alec Guiness deteriorated further when Lean cut off most of Guiness’s screen time. Guiness never spoke to him for the rest of his life. Not many people are aware that the setting of the Marabar Cave was in the villages of Savandurga and Ramanagaram near Bengaluru. Environmentalists had a field day accusing Lean of blasting the natural rock formations to create the caves.

It is ever difficult to do justice to an epic novel on screen, but Lean’s attempt at filming EM Foster’s landmark is laudable to a large extent. “A Passage to India” is however, not a movie for those who would just like to spend a lazy evening watching a nice movie. The film is remarkably long, and might tax the patience of the average film buff. The ardent book lover in me also found it difficult to accept that Lean adopted the “All’s Well That Ends Well” finale for the movie. Perhaps this is where Lean fails. The book ends with the tone of the awakening of the Indian within Aziz, when he explains to Mr. Fielding that they cannot be friends until India is free of the British Raj. Though he is truthful to the underlying theme of the book throughout the movie, he fails to hold out the uniqueness of the cultures to the end - to quote Kipling, “Oh! East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet!”

The Pony Express - Return ticket - II

Crooked and convoluted streets, cable car rides and the fog-shrouded bridge – things I’ve seen in many a Hollywood movie…Finally I’ve seen them all myself.

Ten O’clock seemed to be early morning in San Francisco on Friday. The kids from the University were zipping through the streets on skates. There was hardly anyone to obstruct them on the sidewalk. I stepped into “Borders”. The assistant was amused that I was looking for the DVD of “Once Upon A Time in America”. He’d never heard of it. After searching for it, his eyes lit up. “Wow! This seems to be good! How do you keep track of these old movies?” he beamed. I was out of luck. The DVD was out of sale. “Twilight” was all over the store. Of course, it was Halloween weekend and what better way to market it than by using a teenage vampire love story that had just taken the world by storm? “Are you gonna watch the second movie?” asked the assistant, referring to ‘New Moon’, the second installment in the series that would hit theatres in November. “Maybe…” I confessed.

The noisy and conspicuous ramp to the Bay Bridge, that had caught my attention on Sunday, had fallen silent since the past two days. The Bay Bridge was now closed, after a cable had snapped two days back. High speed winds had slowed down the repair work, so the reports said. All over San Francisco, I could spot signs proclaiming the Bay Bridge closure that day. I walked along 3rd street, headed for Union Square. A large group of art students dressed as witches walked out of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It made me realize that this was perhaps the first trip in a long time during which I hadn’t visited a museum. My colleagues might be pleased.

Market Street was buzzing with activity. Automobiles zipped past, the historic streetcars clanged along, and people were running helter-skelter. In the far distance, the clock tower of the Ferry Building rose up. I debated whether to head for Pier 39 and try my chance at a trip to Alcatraz. After about 10 minutes of thought, I headed straight ahead to Union Square.

A 100-odd feet column with the goddess of victory on top, rises up from the middle of the square. Under Union Square sits a huge parking garage. It was the world’s first underground parking lot. The huge buildings of Neiman Marcus and Macy’s tower over the square; their interiors lit by a bright array of dazzling lights. The huge Westin St Francis and the Sir Francis Drake Hotels flank her on two sides. And on the steps leading up to the victory monument, sat a smiling young lady with a life-size doll of Chucky. The spirit of Halloween was everywhere.

Crossing to the opposite side of the square, I saw Powell Street rising up steeply into the distance. Descending it was the famous San Francisco Cable Car. A cursory glance behind told me that another car was approaching from the opposite end. Without much thought, I jumped in. The interior was crowded. “Would you like to go and stand there?” The conductor asked me, pointing to the footboard on the side. “Yes”, I replied. He stopped the car so that I could get down and walk over. We went up the hill and down it, with me and a few others, hanging from the railings. It was like foot-boarding a bus back in India, but a hundred times less dangerous. The only danger perhpas was bmping into someone who was leaning out of the car coming from the opposite side. These things were made to be foot-boarded, and it was exhilarating, to watch us going down the hill – road just going on and on, finally onto the San Francisco bay on the horizon.

The ride ended at Fisherman’s Wharf. A few feet away from the Wharf is Lombard Street with the stretch between Hyde and Leavenworth Street vying for the honour of being the most crooked street in the world, with eight turns. Tourists were busy driving through (thankfully they don’t allow tour buses onto the street). I caught a cable car back to Union Square and headed North-East along Market Street. The beautiful Golden Gate Theatre adorned the right sidewalk of the block. The walls of golden gate avenue were adorned with beautiful murals. I turned on to McAllister and Fulton, behind the massive dome of the enormous City Hall. In spite of its beauty, the structure somehow failed to impress me. It looked like a cheap copy of many a European building. As I started climbing up, the neighborhood changed. Beautiful two-storied Victorian houses with large windows dotted the street sides. This place was perhaps more richer. At the end of the street stood Alamo Square, and facing it with the whole city visible behind them, were the Victorian sisters. I sat there on the grass, looking down at them and the city down below. I was exhausted.

I caught the wrong train from San Francisco – I got into an express train, which meant that I had to get down at Sunnyvale. Pranav had promised to pick me up. “You roam around a bit in Sunnyvale downtown. I’ll pick you up in half an hour”, he informed. But I, started walking…back towards the hotel. And for an hour, I just kept on, probably as an endurance exercise. It was a bad idea. For, by the time he picked me up, I was badly tired.

A 12-hour walk on the day before you undertake a 24-hour flight is perhaps not a good idea. I was sick through the night and on the morrow at the airport. My legs were heavy, and the body ached badly. No sooner had I sat down at my window seat, than I fell asleep. I had many a short nap, before I realized that the aircraft had started taxiing. I sat up, looking out. South San Francisco sped by below us, the box-like structures laid out as it they were children’s building block. The signature skyline of San Francisco was visible to the right. The fog had come in from the ocean and had now engulfed the spans of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was my last glimpse of the American mainland.