Le Quattro Volte

I believe the title means Four Stories.

The scene opens with a ground full of smoking holes, reminiscent of lava or geyser vents.  The camera pans onto the small Italian village countryside and into a small spartan room where  an old man, ready to retire for the night, is mixing something in a glass of water. He is coughing  away while stirring the mixture. He drinks it and retires for the night.

He is the hero of the first of four stories; a goat herder making living delivering goat milk to locals. A sweeper of the church pays for the milk with the dirt collected from the floor which she herself has blessed. The old man drinks this dirt as a remedy to his hacking cough every night. The nightly routine is severely disrupted when he one day loses the package in the mountains while still herding. When he realizes it he runs to the church but it is too late. Nine p.m. The sleepy village is already abed. The man dies next morning.  

Next story, one of old man's goats delivers a kid. The kid is separated from the mother and the herd and freezes to death in mountains.

Third story is about how the people of this sleepy town, even during the day time,  entertain themselves by logging an extremely tall tree. They erect this tree straight up again in the middle of town square. A man scales the tree and shows off his valor when people topple it with him in it.

After the town square show, the tree is sawed off and trucked away by the people who convert the wood into the charcoal for the locals. The process of converting the wood into charcoal was quite interesting. The wood pieces are arranged in a circular shape, thatched with hay, wood sticks and old charcoal bits. Now it looks almost like an igloo, except not of snow. It is ignited from within and the center. Eventually, smoke comes through the vents. That is how the movie had started.

The stories are simple and human. There are absolutely no dialogues. Music is barely audible but very pleasant to ears. When there is no conversation to distract, one notices more details in the film. I could see a red ant crawling on herder's face and he was too old to shake it off his face. The Italian Town is a lazy sleepy town. The countryside is very mountainous full of mists. It is extremely beautiful and picturesque.

I remember David Lean, one of my favorite directors, once telling an interviewer that a good director pans the camera long enough for audience to keep wanting it more but not that long that they lose interest.

The photographer panned the camera long and wide. He seemed to have followed that tenet of movie making to a tee.

I adored this movie. I love the total silence. Because, to me............ silence speaks volumes.

Tantacles

I visited Photoshop after a very long time. I am very happy with the results.

Tantacles



Calcutta, now Kolkata

After a delicious Top Shelf Margarita at a dinner out last night our conversation turned to reminiscence. I talked a lot about my CAG school days. Mostly,  teachers and school friends. While they call the city Kolkata, it will always remain Calcutta to me. 

According to my niece who spent about six months with us, she has never heard anybody in our family talk about Calcutta as much as she has from me.

She is right.

Calcutta is almost never out of my mind.

I am going down the memory lane now. Somethings I remember very well, others not. I have always envied people with photographic memories.

I often visualize  the spacious road we lived on; the neighbors we had; the games we played. I map out the everyday walking route I took to my  school. I remember the way but not the shop keepers except a fabric merchant, Primus repairer and a snack shop owner.  I believe there was a pottery store at the corner of main road and the side street. During Monsoons, I remember treading the road in knee deep water mixed with sludge. Rains were so heavy that drainage system could not cope with water. Many times we would step on some crawly creatures we did not know what they were. An eeck would  go through my body. Most of the times we would be soaked through to the bones for the lack of umbrellas. Umbrellas were , often, ineffectual in torrential rains.

I remember some of my teachers; Sumita Sen,  Monjula Choudhry, Panna Bhatt, Padma Vaswani, Pankaj Mehta(?) , Devendra Dave. I do not remember who taught what in which standard. Class mates I remember are, Kalavati Coonverji Shah, Jaswanti Manek, Damayanti (?), Madhumati Shah. Other school friends were, Manorama Shah, Dipika Kadakia, Ranjan Surati(?), Rashmi Joshi, Manna Sheth(?). 

One of my fondest memories is, during  recesses one of the school guards, whom we used to call Darwanjees, would call me out of the line of hundreds of girls first and pour water on my hands to drink. We did not have water fountains we have here. There is an Indian method to drinking water; one pours and the other drinks. He always favored me over other girls. After many years, when I went back to visit my school once, he was there and still remebered me. I wonder if he is still alive!

I remember the street vendor, Mamoo, who sold Moshla Mudi, a local snack favorite. I often retrace the way to weekend outing destination; Victoria Memorial . But I do not remember how we went to Eden Garden. How on many Sunday mornings I, with my younger brother and sister, walked to Esplanade.

During couple of my college years I  took number six bus to my college, Shikshayatan. My favorite professor at the college was named Mrs. Pant. She taught Commercial Geography. There was another Professor I liked, Miss Mitra. She taught Philosophies of Francis Bacon, Renee Descarte, Emanul Kant and I forget who else. 

Then, I left Calcutta for good. But......... Calcutta never left me.