The Three Colours - Riya's Post

I had decided not to read up much on the trilogy, but I ended up going through Wikipedia, and found this:

As Kieślowski noted in an interview with an Oxford University student newspaper, “The words [liberté, egalité, fraternité] are French because the money [to fund the films] is French. If the money had been of a different nationality we would have titled the films differently, or they might have had a different cultural connotation. But the films would probably have been the same.”

Kieślowski’s comment interested me immensely, and I decided to try and validate it, instead of writing something about the themes and motifs, or trying to critically analyze the films. For your information, the Indian tricolour consists of saffron (courage and sacrifice), white (truth and purity), and green (peace and prosperity).
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Saffron

Neela shut her eyes as she put away his manuscript. It was supposed to be his fourth novel. It will never be anything anymore. She had ignored all calls from Penguin—she did not want any part in this strange grief that had overwhelmed the Indian literary world ever since the accident. She still felt the existence of two solid voids in her heart, ever since the car had rammed into the tree. She could not forget the large trunk that loomed right ahead, and then the darkness, and then a few broken bones, and the bad news. Ashim’s shirts had been neatly arranged on the bed, Tutun’s toys too. She was giving it all away. Summoning all the courage needed to pursue liberty, she was moving to Shantiniketan—a quiet getaway, for the rest of her life.

“Amitava Chatterjee has agreed to finish Ashim Choudhury’s unfinished novel.  We have tried contacting Neelima Choudhury ever since the tragic loss…”, her television spoilt Neela’s quiet existence. She clutched the rich saffron curtains and buried her head into them. The last month flashed before her eyes. She had found out about Subhomita—smart, tall, pretty, and pregnant with Ashim’s child. She had paid to send her out of town and have the baby. She had promised the child a good future—Ashim’s money would go to it, once it was born. “There is no greatness in this”, she thought, “I am just letting go. I have not sacrificed earlier. I am not doing it now.”

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“I am going to kill Nolini off. Then her half-brother will inherit her property”, barked Amitava on the phone.

“I wouldn’t do that. Let her live. That way you could work on her relationships, instead of making it all about property”, Neela breathed into the phone.

“Neela, either I will write it in my own way, or you can finish writing Ashim’s novel. You can tell them that you can write as well, or that you have been writing all this time, with Ashim…”

“I am sorry, you write as you please!”

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The novel would be released in another five minutes. Neela was in the front seat in her bright orange Baluchari. Amitava was walking up the dais. She heard some faint mumbling, an announcement, some more mumbling, applause…and her world gradually blurred before her eyes.

White

Saiful had no means to return to Bangladesh. He roamed Howrah trying to formulate a plan. He had lost his passport; he had lost everything he had gained from this country. Sumita wanted to have nothing to do with him. They had spent the last two months roaming the lovely streets of Kolkata. His meager savings had begun to run out by the time they took their vacation to Mondarmoni. And then he had proposed marriage. They would run her small beauty-parlour together, he had said. She could not take care of a penniless man, she had announced the next morning, and she had thrown him out, quite unceremoniously.

He remembered the day he had met her in Cox’s Bazar. She was in a white salwar-kameez. He recollected her words—“Saiful, come visit me in Kolkata, please”. It was hard to fall out of love with her. It was harder to forget their days in Mondarmoni. In his heart, their love was still pure, and still as true as it had seemed earlier.

And then he met Asif. Asif had a quick eye for people in trouble. He had spotted Saiful, smoking a cheap cigarette at a dingy old corner of the busy railway station, with ease. “Don’t you worry about your passport Saifulbhai”, Asif had said with a twinkle in his eyes, “You are going to help me deliver a few packages, and I’ll help you get home.”

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Saiful sent a copy of his will and a letter to Sumita. She was to inherit 7 lakh Rupees—all his earnings from his new “delivery” business. Saiful watched as she wept over his grave. His plan flashed before his eyes. As she would retire in her room rented by Asif, he would pay her a visit, explain how he is rich now and wants her back, relive their passionate night in Mondarmoni, and put her to a peaceful sleep. The next morning she would wake up to an empty room, and the Bangladeshi police would soon detain her, charging her with his murder. He had a lot of money, so her motive wouldn’t be hard to figure out. Then, in the darkness of the night, he would walk up near the window of her prison cell, and they would look at one another again, like their very first pure glance of true love, and tears would roll down his cheeks...

Green

SCREECH! Luxmi applied the brakes on her cycle, but slightly late. The dog’s leg had started bleeding. There was no time to waste. Ignoring the hastily-scribbled-on tag around the animal’s neck, Luxmi rushed her to the nearest vet she knew. “She is going to have babies”, smiled the vet.

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“Mr. Narayanan, I think this is your dog”…Luxmi had showed herself in because the door was wide open. The dog’s owner seemed uninterested in the dog, or the accident, or the fact that it was to have babies. “You can keep her, and do not close the door when you leave. I want some peace and quiet now.” Luxmi was ready to step out. She had a great liking for dogs, and none for grumpy old men. But, she happened to notice a set of binoculars and some large camera lenses—all arranged neatly by the windowsill. “Are you…spying…on your neighbours?” she heard herself blurt out.

Luxmi was doing something she had never imagined in her wildest dreams—she was listening to an unknown man pouring his heart out, as if in confession. But she could not move. His story was enticing. A judge once, he had sentenced a man to lifetime in prison—incidentally the man had once run away with a girl he loved. Earlier in his career he let a guilty man go scot-free, by mistake. The man went on to have a family, and lived a prosperous life. Judge Narayanan wondered how his verdicts might have positively, or adversely affected the victims. Yes, they were but victims of his judgement. Seeking inner peace, he bid his prosperous career goodbye, and decided to watch those around him, without playing any part in their lives. Luxmi heard him talk about Karthik and Rajni—the young boyfriend and girlfriend who lived in the neighbourhood. Rajni was cheating on him, but Karthik had no idea. Luxmi left the apartment in a daze—her mind full of stories Mr. Narayanan had uncovered with his optical instruments. “I think I feel pity for you, or disgust, or maybe nothing at all…but you should stop peeping into other people’s private lives”, she had said. Reclining slowly on his dull green sofa, the ex-judge had smiled and said “Leave the door open as you go.”

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A month had passed. Mr. Narayanan and Luxmi had formed a strange bond between themselves. The old man had given up his lenses, and found a little peace in life. The dog had had seven puppies. Luxmi visited him one morning to inform the old man that she would be going to Mumbai. She had found work there, and was to stay with a relative. They bade each other goodbye, with promises of phone calls and letters.

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The news of the air crash hit Mr Narayanan like a bolt. There was seven survivors, blared the TV. “The survivors are Neelima and Amitava Chatterjee, who were travelling for a nationwide book-launch for Penguin, Sumita and Saiful Islam, a couple on holiday, Rupert Brown, an employee of Air India travelling on official purposes, and Karthik Dhamodaran and Luxmi George, both youngsters from Bangalore who were travelling to join their new jobs in Mumbai.” Mr. Narayanan dropped on his sofa, as tears of relief escaped his eyes.

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