City of God

Fernando Merielles directed this stunning look at three decades of violence and unrest in the slums of Rio de Janiero. A fast-paced, visual wonder, City of God flies around in time as it follows a group of youths into adulthood amidst Rio’s street gangs. It is unflinching in its depiction of the bitter rivalry between teenage drug barons and gangs of gun-toting children, who see intimidation and murder as the only means to settle scores.

The irony of calling this movie City of God will not be lost on the viewer, since the location in question – the slums (or favelas) of Rio de Janeiro – is, at the best of times, purgatory, and, at the worst of times, hell. God is nowhere to be found. Poverty is the way of life. Greed, drugs, and violence rule these streets. The latter is so pervasive that, when a gang war erupts, prepubescent children arm themselves with guns and join in the fray.

31 May 2007 / 17 Jestha 2064
Time: 3 pm
Venue: Martin Chautari premises, Babermahal (Show and Discussion)
City of God (2002, Brazil, 130 min), a film directed by Fernando Meirelles

Why did she throw me to ground ?

It was clear that my mother was no more. Some of village-women and my contemporaries would call me mother-killer, ill-fated, ill-omenous etc. I would not even understand why they called me like this and that. Did they mean I had killed my mother ? Of course, yes. They meant I was ill-fated that’s why my mother had been dead. (How could I kill my mother whereas she loved me so much and so did I ?)

After her death, whenever I saw a beautiful young girl, I thought she was my mother. All of a sudden, I call her ‘mother’ (though they may be married or unmarried). If she reponded, I would say, ‘I go to mother.’ It was clear that my mother was no more. What had happened to me ? What made me do that ?

As I would call them mother, some of them would caress and kiss me. Some would pinch my cheek. A gorgeous agile girl had kissed and jokingly said, ‘If only I would give birth to a son as lovely as this one !’ Two young men were laughing at her. When she noticed, she was blushed as red as a rose.

‘Mother, my dear mother’, once I called a young teenage girl who was a relative of one of our villagers. She was totally blushed. When I kept on haranguing, ‘ I go to mother”, she took me on her waist. I think she had done this only to stop me from calling her mother. Do you know what I then said to her ? I said, ‘ Feed me your breast.’ What would be a virgin girl’s remarks as such is proposed ? Of course, she did the same as you think she would. She took me by both armpits and threw to the ground as forcibly as she could, and disappeared at once. For some moments, I couldn’t even cry due to severe pain and the hate of the girl. A violent hiccup caught my throat when I noticed someone was consoling me.

Then after, never did I call mother to the ladies. No one might replace a mother even if she had been dead.

Mother, O my dear mother !

As well as a loving mother, she was so lovely and beautiful. In my dim memory, she looked like Baijayantimala, the superb heroine of old Hindi cinema. Though of wheat-white complexion, her face was bright and evergreen-smiling.

Since long, she had been in bed almost panting and not feeding me her breast. What had hapened to her ? I’d not understand. Breast-feed is best pleasure for every child and I was not different. Though I knew she was in trouble, I would ask for breast-feed again and again. In return, Didi (sister, the elder one) used to say, ‘Ama (mother) is suffering from severe pain, that’s why you should not suck her breast my dear brother.”

Didi would give me some milk in glass that I would not drink. I would cry and she would take me on her back to playground to make me play.

Mother’s face was very pale and she was getting skinny day by day. I saw father would standby her every moment and console that she would get well soon.

Once, as I asked for breast-feed, she burst into a violent cry. What made her cry ? Father asked Didi to take me outside and kept on consoling mother. Didi said to me, ‘ Ama is very serious and you made her cry. Please don’t make her cry by asking breast-feed, my dear Kanchha.’

I was really shocked by her cry and couldn’t play at all. A feeling of crime made me very sad. How could I make my lovely mother cry ?
‘Didi, what has happened to Ama ?’
‘She is in a great trouble.’
‘Who gave her such a trouble ?’
‘Demon.’
‘Can’t we kill the demon ?’
‘Pray to God Rama, then he will kill the demon and Ama will get well.’

Then I really began praying God Rama. Every morning I prayed, it seemed as if I was in a meditation. Yes, then after, never did I ask for breast-feed. Father was amazed how obidient I had been ! But mother would cry again and again as she would see me.

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Our courtyard had a big Kangiyo flower tree. Under that, the floor was smeared with green cow-dung, that evening. Father and some other people brought mother there and made her sleep. She was lying flat on her back and facing sky. Someone took me off from there and said, ‘Let’s be off. They are taking her to a good hospital and she will recover very soon.’

The next day, our courtyard was very solemn. The vermilion powder was here and there. Father had shaved his head and had a white cap. West-ward courtyard had a bakaino tree which was cut down. There was only a root-side stump.

‘Where is mother ? Why is this bakaino tree cut down ? Why are you wearing the white cap ?’ I said to father in a single breath.
Father looked very sad but said calmly, ‘We have taken her to a good hospital and she is getting well.’
‘And the tree ?’
‘We made a motor of the tree and took her on the same. Well, you will ask about my bald head and white cap. As you know the summer is too hot and I felt I had better shave my head and wear a filmsy cap.’

Didi also had the same readymade answer about mother.
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‘You the bastard mother-killer,’ a slot boy said to me as I failed rule while playing hide and seek game.
‘What did you say ? Say once again that.’
‘Mother-killer…..mother-killer…..mother-killer….I will say 1000th time that you are a mother-killer.’
‘Why do you say this ?’
‘Your mother caught TB when you were borne. And she died because of you.’
‘No, she is in a good hospital and getting well.’
‘No, you killed her and your father burnt.’
‘Bind your language !’ I picked him by the scruff of his neck and shook him violently.
‘How dare you the mother-killer pull my collar ?’ He also pulled my collar and gave some hard punches on my nose. My nose broke and bled incessantly. The cloths were smeared with blood. For some moment, I could not even cry due to severe pain. I had fallen to the ground.

When my conciousness was returned Didi was slapping the boy for breaking my nose. He gave her an obscene threat and ran away.

My nose was still bleeding and pained very hard. Didi made my face turn towards sky so that the bleeding stop.

‘Didi, is our mother really dead ? And was it because of me ?’ stopping hiccup, I said after a some moments.

Didi embraced me tightly and suddenly, burst into a violent cry.
Now we had made a great show for the villagers.

I hardly stopped my eyes Mangal Bakhunchhe !

Dear reader, I am not that sentimental. But sometimes it is hard to stop my eyes especially when I read or face something that is full of human sentiments. When I was heading for Chabahil for a poetry symposium at Kathmandu International School on the day of Loktantra, I saw a young junkey crossing road with a handicapped old woman on his lap, suddenly tears wailed out of my eyes. Was not this a rare human scene ?

Likewise, a news published in Kantipur today made me the same. According to the news, Sanumaya Bakhunchhe was dead as she couldnot bear her husband Mangal Bakhunchhe, a peon at Controller’s Office who was charged to out SLC question paper, behind the bar.

Mangal’s family has accused the big officials for the crime though Mangal himself had accepted that he had taken Rs. 8 thousand for the same. Is this a crime which is covered with the compulsion of the peon Mangal Bakhunchhe ? I hardly stopped my eyes when I read the news of your wife’s death Mangal Bakhunchhe. You have to speak truth now as you are only the person who can uncover this crime.

THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

By Langston Hughes

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with permission.