Have been thinking a lot
The patterns of thought have different textures and feel
As much I am getting illusive about human beings,my headspace is getting crammed by them. I dont want to talk or even listen to blabbers.
It sickens me,makes me feel stagnated to the extent I only crib and cry.
Even then it does not feel great,its like waiting for a getaway.
And then it happened.
Finding the dark side of the moon, nooo,not Floyd,jus like that
And then the inability to hide my disjointedness
And then the inability to disassociate
I wonder where will it all take me.....
Maybe to a deserted hill top, find a quaint cottage,and smoke up and read n write
and think not to come up with something,but generally think like that.
This colleague of mine said the other day - our economy is emotional.
Wish he writes on that, there was spark in the phrase!
Till then lemme mull over all the funny things I do for a living.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
Romancing on the Silver Screen
I was intending to write on this, and trust myself this is not the Oscars.
The Indian film industry brings back all possible enthusiasm of creating ripples on the silver screen.
Life looks astounding and promises of Ghatak, Adoor, Raj Kapoor, Ray, Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Mrinal Sen is not dead. The sheer joy of cinema in the seventies is coming back for good.
Managed to see Slumdog long before the release and fell in love instantly.
The first love was definitely for Bombay but what I loved most was Dharavi, the thousand stories that bred in the lanes, in the lives of people, the ghettoisation that’s stark yet subtle. But yet there were perspectives that were missed considering at the end of the day it was a white skin with the help of talented bunch of Indian crew was making the film. Therefore the zoomed out frame of Dharavi was captured in the right essence. There were moments of reality which a few of us know considering the work space we have been into. Definitely it gets worse….. and of course one was creating a film and hence there was a need to filmicize it. The music mostly was typical AR Rehman, and honestly not the best of his scores. But it grows on one, it grows with the film. The sound design was honestly great and now it feels wonderful to have it recognized in the International forum.
The entire debate about Oscars and its authenticity! But at the end of the day what then decides your calibre as a film maker or a creator? Commercial success would not mean anything to those one of us who thinks film as a medium plays too many roles. So how else tangibly does one decipher success of a film? Ghatak by our sensibilities today was a director of a cadre that not people have reached. But what did he get when he was alive? In that reference the film Ek Doctor Ki Maut by Tapan Sinha rightly depicts a man hard work ostracized by the society because of convenience. Any day Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay is a better film maybe if we take this league into consideration. It got a nomination but did not make it. Like if one Dan Boyle wants to win a Filmfare, he will be nominated for a foreign film. That’s something we cannot choose. Why is it so unsettling to accept it? Why does it hurt to accept that somebody from a different region captured some nuances of our walks of life? Things we have turned away from, things we walk pass every other day? If reality is what cinema is, why does it hurt to come in terms of acute poverty that came into the international platform?
Technically the feel of the film thrilled me, right from cinematography to the sheer joy of story telling in its editing. Rest as they say is history!
Gone are the days when Subarnarekha or Ajantrik would remain unnoticed till ages later one discovers the romance of cinema in it. It’s the new age, maybe its yet another neo-liberal trap of the west to capture Indian talent and let it flourish because its cheap labour.
I am happy with the Slumdog Millionaire, its never too late to dream and watch them come true in one lifetime.
Delhi,9th March 2009
The Indian film industry brings back all possible enthusiasm of creating ripples on the silver screen.
Life looks astounding and promises of Ghatak, Adoor, Raj Kapoor, Ray, Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Mrinal Sen is not dead. The sheer joy of cinema in the seventies is coming back for good.
Managed to see Slumdog long before the release and fell in love instantly.
The first love was definitely for Bombay but what I loved most was Dharavi, the thousand stories that bred in the lanes, in the lives of people, the ghettoisation that’s stark yet subtle. But yet there were perspectives that were missed considering at the end of the day it was a white skin with the help of talented bunch of Indian crew was making the film. Therefore the zoomed out frame of Dharavi was captured in the right essence. There were moments of reality which a few of us know considering the work space we have been into. Definitely it gets worse….. and of course one was creating a film and hence there was a need to filmicize it. The music mostly was typical AR Rehman, and honestly not the best of his scores. But it grows on one, it grows with the film. The sound design was honestly great and now it feels wonderful to have it recognized in the International forum.
The entire debate about Oscars and its authenticity! But at the end of the day what then decides your calibre as a film maker or a creator? Commercial success would not mean anything to those one of us who thinks film as a medium plays too many roles. So how else tangibly does one decipher success of a film? Ghatak by our sensibilities today was a director of a cadre that not people have reached. But what did he get when he was alive? In that reference the film Ek Doctor Ki Maut by Tapan Sinha rightly depicts a man hard work ostracized by the society because of convenience. Any day Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay is a better film maybe if we take this league into consideration. It got a nomination but did not make it. Like if one Dan Boyle wants to win a Filmfare, he will be nominated for a foreign film. That’s something we cannot choose. Why is it so unsettling to accept it? Why does it hurt to accept that somebody from a different region captured some nuances of our walks of life? Things we have turned away from, things we walk pass every other day? If reality is what cinema is, why does it hurt to come in terms of acute poverty that came into the international platform?
Technically the feel of the film thrilled me, right from cinematography to the sheer joy of story telling in its editing. Rest as they say is history!
Gone are the days when Subarnarekha or Ajantrik would remain unnoticed till ages later one discovers the romance of cinema in it. It’s the new age, maybe its yet another neo-liberal trap of the west to capture Indian talent and let it flourish because its cheap labour.
I am happy with the Slumdog Millionaire, its never too late to dream and watch them come true in one lifetime.
Delhi,9th March 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Disconnected Journey with Kari
I do not know where you came from
You seemed to be my dying angel
Unreal reality you appear to be
You brought out my fears alive
Kari, do you live in me?
I know you did once upon a time
And then I lost you in the crowd of life
But somewhere deep inside you create the ripples of lonesome delight
My memory of the absentee other is deep embedded
But the images of the same are getting blurred
Tell me Kari, is it really a race towards death where you fight to be the first?
My cityscape had tall buildings, and bunch of bright lights when I lived there last
Since then every time I crawled to go back, I realized I have not reached far.
Home that is, was or will be the place that I will never look for solace,
I love my free fall,
The maximum city has also altered since I left
But its still has my secrets safe inside
Unseen faces, a sip of the poisonous kiss
Unseen eyes, a peek into the barren hearth
Most often there are logical beginnings, ends and consolidations
To my relationships, be with people, spaces, moments or words
But often I wonder what if somebody gave me the constitution without the preamble?
These are not my words, if they discover they will say its yours
But Kari they were hidden in my heart
Till you graphized them on several other minds
In between the smoky, stingy lanes
I played with pretty boys till the other side said, space is not alive
The rains make me happy and sad
They set me free and chain me down
Coherent words loses itself midst the gusty wind
Never knew if there were laws in love
Was it ever love if it was not free? Time and incidents as you say, just comes by…
I am half baked in the half cooked truth
That nobody would ever own me
Since the time I have wrenched my umbilical cord
I loved silence but sometimes homosapiens analyze it
And my over analytical self gets moving into the trespasser forbidden zone
Of Foucault’s psychoanalysis and interpretation of dreams
Where often known souls become strangers, which tells me every morning of the time for which I think I need to prepare.
At twenty one I knew my teen celeb dream was dead
Five years later I see I do not have awards or creations invaluable to my name
I walk up stairs, see glitzy dreams, and churn severe ambitions but nowhere it leads
Me to the a destination where I can smile and fall from a cliff
I want to have an epitaph reading Been There, Done that
But I also want to be the boatman to ferry across those few rats!
Sometimes I feel, other times I know that when people want to kick the bucket
Come and get stuck to me and I forget whose the leach
They think of me like a morbid shit
But Kari you know the death of an urge
To jump into the sea
Can never be as vast as floating in the dark blue sky
Where clouds cover the sun
And life takes yet another turn.
Before I continue walking on the unseen path
Jus wanted to thank you Kari, thank you for our lives crossed.
You seemed to be my dying angel
Unreal reality you appear to be
You brought out my fears alive
Kari, do you live in me?
I know you did once upon a time
And then I lost you in the crowd of life
But somewhere deep inside you create the ripples of lonesome delight
My memory of the absentee other is deep embedded
But the images of the same are getting blurred
Tell me Kari, is it really a race towards death where you fight to be the first?
My cityscape had tall buildings, and bunch of bright lights when I lived there last
Since then every time I crawled to go back, I realized I have not reached far.
Home that is, was or will be the place that I will never look for solace,
I love my free fall,
The maximum city has also altered since I left
But its still has my secrets safe inside
Unseen faces, a sip of the poisonous kiss
Unseen eyes, a peek into the barren hearth
Most often there are logical beginnings, ends and consolidations
To my relationships, be with people, spaces, moments or words
But often I wonder what if somebody gave me the constitution without the preamble?
These are not my words, if they discover they will say its yours
But Kari they were hidden in my heart
Till you graphized them on several other minds
In between the smoky, stingy lanes
I played with pretty boys till the other side said, space is not alive
The rains make me happy and sad
They set me free and chain me down
Coherent words loses itself midst the gusty wind
Never knew if there were laws in love
Was it ever love if it was not free? Time and incidents as you say, just comes by…
I am half baked in the half cooked truth
That nobody would ever own me
Since the time I have wrenched my umbilical cord
I loved silence but sometimes homosapiens analyze it
And my over analytical self gets moving into the trespasser forbidden zone
Of Foucault’s psychoanalysis and interpretation of dreams
Where often known souls become strangers, which tells me every morning of the time for which I think I need to prepare.
At twenty one I knew my teen celeb dream was dead
Five years later I see I do not have awards or creations invaluable to my name
I walk up stairs, see glitzy dreams, and churn severe ambitions but nowhere it leads
Me to the a destination where I can smile and fall from a cliff
I want to have an epitaph reading Been There, Done that
But I also want to be the boatman to ferry across those few rats!
Sometimes I feel, other times I know that when people want to kick the bucket
Come and get stuck to me and I forget whose the leach
They think of me like a morbid shit
But Kari you know the death of an urge
To jump into the sea
Can never be as vast as floating in the dark blue sky
Where clouds cover the sun
And life takes yet another turn.
Before I continue walking on the unseen path
Jus wanted to thank you Kari, thank you for our lives crossed.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
For Basic love of Things
The year is drawing to an end and I am on a high, about the basic love of things. Originated amongst a few Delhi youngsters, this artform appeals to all four senses, they keep the taste buds out, unless one decides to give into some good addiction for the complete feel. For the experience one must go for a gig before turning to the next signal.
Calling themselves BLOT, honestly the music and the visual medium makes an impact that made me travel through time and the roller coaster ride did not need alcohol or stuff to accompany.
But Basic love of things does not begin or end there. It was all over in December. The winter shivers, the craving for a drink of warmth, the excavation of minds, the fact that letting go becomes easier each day, yet leaves a tinkle of sigh. Life cannot seem to encompass itself in a few words, the textures were varied and dear to heart. Going back to Bombay made me grow up in folds. But the raving battle with the old estranged lover seems to be never ending. So much so that everything else seems to be illusionary. Maybe they still are, maybe they will be but it’s the grey I love. It’s the forever changing colour palette that feels the orchids fresh and right on the skin, tickling old emotions, only making one realize it’s not all dead, it’s still simmering somewhere and that is hope for tomorrow.
Amongst people, its amazing to see different worlds collide and still come together over music and life. Aren’t we all trying to create masterpieces all the time? Aren’t we all striving for excellence that will make us immortal? I therefore like the madness of Henry the viii th . Sometimes respecting nothing and loving everything does hold good. It gives you a feeling a completion thats very personal, very signature.
I maybe invisible as me by the end of the year but I will be someone else. The role reversals with people you meet and get intimate with in most inane ways, over shots, over smoke, over chokerblock traffic or tears and most importantly over the promise that we will walk alone with each other . The quirky sunshine is not hiding behind the clouds. Its somewhere in the sky, as I count days for the days to end, I pin my hope to see and hide in the sunshine forever.
I maybe invisible as me by the end of the year but I will be someone else. The role reversals with people you meet and get intimate with in most inane ways, over shots, over smoke, over chokerblock traffic or tears and most importantly over the promise that we will walk alone with each other . The quirky sunshine is not hiding behind the clouds. Its somewhere in the sky, as I count days for the days to end, I pin my hope to see and hide in the sunshine forever.
Lofty ambitions, hope of an impossible?
What if it crashes? Speculation has never led us anywhere. So let the Obama effect take shape, let my country wake up to reasons and determine its future and let my imagination run wilder.
What if it crashes? Speculation has never led us anywhere. So let the Obama effect take shape, let my country wake up to reasons and determine its future and let my imagination run wilder.
Lets live for basic love of things.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Figments of a Sleeping Imagination
The body lay on the bed.
From the window the moonbeam filtered in like the silver stream. It was peaceful for 15 secs and then one something that looked like the body wanted to get out of the body that laid still.
The transparent look alike moved out from the room and reached another one. There was a wheel that moved in rhythm, and had figments of marijuana in it. The more the object wanted to get hold of the green,the faster the wheel swirled.
And then something happened.
The wheel chased the object, and the object tried saving itself from the defeat,there was no way to stop either one of them. At one point it felt losing track of who was trying to over power whom and in the mayhem, the object reached a brightly lit room, it was so bright that it could blind but the swarms of people inside seemed to have some superpower symbolized by that one roll between their fingers, it was smoky and the smell could kill.
And an overdose of something you love never saves the soul. The object was stupefied, not knowing it was love or something that's a fall out of bitter love.
The object did not move and then it suddenly gasped for breathe and called out for the body that was still peacefully sleeping in reality. The body refused to wake up, unperturbed by the room where the object had reached and was dying under the inability to see or hear. All the object knew was that of a feeling that gnawed something that resembles the heart, the object though was not sure if there was something like that. It closed its eyes and wanted to transcend to a world where it could breathe for death of claustrophobia was not something that it ever imagined.
How true it is when they say whatever we want does not happen all the time. As the object desired a life afterlife, all that it could fathom was the light in the room went dim, soothing and the psychedelic phenomenon clouded the vision. It was nearing impossible to get the feet to move into a direction that could let some fresh air in. But the window in the vision had the light of the day that tantalized like a lover does after a series of passionate love making moments that drives the partner for more, even if the epitome of pleasure has defied all definitions. And probably that is why the lovers reunite for the rest of the night even if the pleasure have been sucked beyond obvious.
The black human like objects transformed themselves into choker blocks and would not let the object move beyond two inches in one direction. The phobia was spreading itself and a tarantula crossed through it everytime the object refused to submit to the smoke that led one into the bottomless desire to crawl and lick decayed blood in search of ecstasy.
There was no path to escape, and it was at that moment the body that slept opened it eyes, dashed out of the room in order to find the object, it was an insane search for now there was a body that rummaged through graphic spaces searching for its soul and the objectified soul knew it was not there anymore. It had travelled to a world where breathing spaces where locked in rooms that did not contain holes that would not let air either in or out.
The body refused to give up, it ran with the determination that it had to save the virgin in the whore house but little did it know the man the soul slept beside when in transcended into the airless realism that it was over,the virginity was lost. But the body remembered waking upto screams of despair and helplessness, but it was late. The soul was lost and like millions microcosms do in search of themselves.
And the moment came and went by, little to the body's knowledge but the soul lay there in with eyes wide shut.
The quest to nail the soul down, probably turned it into ashes which does not rise from the phoenix; like everything else trust,truth,love,friendship,absolutes are all illusions of the body.
The soul lives many lives,in many spaces, and mourns over all thats lost and rejoices much more to all that's waiting to be created. Its stoned, its drunk and passes out but its not for the body to understand.
Words do not serve any sentence
Imagination does, Ideas does and sometimes not being there does.
Hail!!!
From the window the moonbeam filtered in like the silver stream. It was peaceful for 15 secs and then one something that looked like the body wanted to get out of the body that laid still.
The transparent look alike moved out from the room and reached another one. There was a wheel that moved in rhythm, and had figments of marijuana in it. The more the object wanted to get hold of the green,the faster the wheel swirled.
And then something happened.
The wheel chased the object, and the object tried saving itself from the defeat,there was no way to stop either one of them. At one point it felt losing track of who was trying to over power whom and in the mayhem, the object reached a brightly lit room, it was so bright that it could blind but the swarms of people inside seemed to have some superpower symbolized by that one roll between their fingers, it was smoky and the smell could kill.
And an overdose of something you love never saves the soul. The object was stupefied, not knowing it was love or something that's a fall out of bitter love.
The object did not move and then it suddenly gasped for breathe and called out for the body that was still peacefully sleeping in reality. The body refused to wake up, unperturbed by the room where the object had reached and was dying under the inability to see or hear. All the object knew was that of a feeling that gnawed something that resembles the heart, the object though was not sure if there was something like that. It closed its eyes and wanted to transcend to a world where it could breathe for death of claustrophobia was not something that it ever imagined.
How true it is when they say whatever we want does not happen all the time. As the object desired a life afterlife, all that it could fathom was the light in the room went dim, soothing and the psychedelic phenomenon clouded the vision. It was nearing impossible to get the feet to move into a direction that could let some fresh air in. But the window in the vision had the light of the day that tantalized like a lover does after a series of passionate love making moments that drives the partner for more, even if the epitome of pleasure has defied all definitions. And probably that is why the lovers reunite for the rest of the night even if the pleasure have been sucked beyond obvious.
The black human like objects transformed themselves into choker blocks and would not let the object move beyond two inches in one direction. The phobia was spreading itself and a tarantula crossed through it everytime the object refused to submit to the smoke that led one into the bottomless desire to crawl and lick decayed blood in search of ecstasy.
There was no path to escape, and it was at that moment the body that slept opened it eyes, dashed out of the room in order to find the object, it was an insane search for now there was a body that rummaged through graphic spaces searching for its soul and the objectified soul knew it was not there anymore. It had travelled to a world where breathing spaces where locked in rooms that did not contain holes that would not let air either in or out.
The body refused to give up, it ran with the determination that it had to save the virgin in the whore house but little did it know the man the soul slept beside when in transcended into the airless realism that it was over,the virginity was lost. But the body remembered waking upto screams of despair and helplessness, but it was late. The soul was lost and like millions microcosms do in search of themselves.
And the moment came and went by, little to the body's knowledge but the soul lay there in with eyes wide shut.
The quest to nail the soul down, probably turned it into ashes which does not rise from the phoenix; like everything else trust,truth,love,friendship,absolutes are all illusions of the body.
The soul lives many lives,in many spaces, and mourns over all thats lost and rejoices much more to all that's waiting to be created. Its stoned, its drunk and passes out but its not for the body to understand.
Words do not serve any sentence
Imagination does, Ideas does and sometimes not being there does.
Hail!!!
Monday, December 01, 2008
I live here for Love
The worst time for my lifeline.
The black end of Global terror has finally unleashed itself full blown that lasted over 48+ hours.
It seemed that it was a film running. I had heard it,seen it but the distant experience in real life had emotions that I cannot come to describe in words.
I am amazed, speechless and cannot get to believe it still.
Imagine the depth of hatred,imagine the strenght of nerves, imagine the mental space beyond which life ceases to matter.
This time it was the masses inclusive of the classes and how bare naked and shallow stood the intellegence and basic security of the country, of the financial capital of the country, of the biggest and oldest corporate empire of India.
There was anger,grievances,disgust,outrage but it was pushed and everybody somewhere basked in the glory that Bombay will bounce back.
When the news channels showed the spaces, I felt like own skin was being scathed. It hurts but its hurts so much that its numb.
I am tired of blame games, tired of political gang wars, gimmicks,bytes,reality TV and using Pakistan always for a purpose thats convinient.
I cant even drag myself to sign petitions,send emails,join groups,write protest mails.
Thats not how much I can do for love.
The maximum city has given me maximum experiences in the last almost five years. I am supposed to do much more,more than what meets the eye.
In return I dont want to depend on systems that are dying of incurable diseases - corruption, inefficiency,non-chalance and blah blah blah.
One might think everyone doing little is a lot. But a lot is already lost.
What do I do? I wanted to change the world when I graduated in 2006. And now I want to change my eyes. I dont want to live under the shadow of An Andalusian Dog.
Its difficult to live out of ones set of beliefs.
I screamed out loud when Combating Terror was thought of as strategic programming. Sam says my space has changed and my voice has to be silent. Professional (mis)fortune. Like you cant have a mind that has thoughts beyond the normal stream. I debate over niche and crass, and I decide for those million sensibilties.
So why cant my sensibility make the choice to protest in what is apparently my space?
Anyways, thats not really the point.
The point is mis-interpretation of a community, a faith and a book which is probably much ahead of its times. Its misrepresentation of concepts that were meant to empower and engage and not dissect people furthur into deeper depression from where there seems to be no return.
The vision as of now seems unexplicable and clouded with emotions of betrayal and loss of faith and lives and humanity.
There will be light at the end of tunnel.
Its my belief and its here to stay.
I Live wherever I live, but there I lived and live for Love.
The black end of Global terror has finally unleashed itself full blown that lasted over 48+ hours.
It seemed that it was a film running. I had heard it,seen it but the distant experience in real life had emotions that I cannot come to describe in words.
I am amazed, speechless and cannot get to believe it still.
Imagine the depth of hatred,imagine the strenght of nerves, imagine the mental space beyond which life ceases to matter.
This time it was the masses inclusive of the classes and how bare naked and shallow stood the intellegence and basic security of the country, of the financial capital of the country, of the biggest and oldest corporate empire of India.
There was anger,grievances,disgust,outrage but it was pushed and everybody somewhere basked in the glory that Bombay will bounce back.
When the news channels showed the spaces, I felt like own skin was being scathed. It hurts but its hurts so much that its numb.
I am tired of blame games, tired of political gang wars, gimmicks,bytes,reality TV and using Pakistan always for a purpose thats convinient.
I cant even drag myself to sign petitions,send emails,join groups,write protest mails.
Thats not how much I can do for love.
The maximum city has given me maximum experiences in the last almost five years. I am supposed to do much more,more than what meets the eye.
In return I dont want to depend on systems that are dying of incurable diseases - corruption, inefficiency,non-chalance and blah blah blah.
One might think everyone doing little is a lot. But a lot is already lost.
What do I do? I wanted to change the world when I graduated in 2006. And now I want to change my eyes. I dont want to live under the shadow of An Andalusian Dog.
Its difficult to live out of ones set of beliefs.
I screamed out loud when Combating Terror was thought of as strategic programming. Sam says my space has changed and my voice has to be silent. Professional (mis)fortune. Like you cant have a mind that has thoughts beyond the normal stream. I debate over niche and crass, and I decide for those million sensibilties.
So why cant my sensibility make the choice to protest in what is apparently my space?
Anyways, thats not really the point.
The point is mis-interpretation of a community, a faith and a book which is probably much ahead of its times. Its misrepresentation of concepts that were meant to empower and engage and not dissect people furthur into deeper depression from where there seems to be no return.
The vision as of now seems unexplicable and clouded with emotions of betrayal and loss of faith and lives and humanity.
There will be light at the end of tunnel.
Its my belief and its here to stay.
I Live wherever I live, but there I lived and live for Love.
Matter Mastering!
Ya have been away from this space for a while.
Not a good thing,for my health too as I realize, too many thots spoils the head
How has life changed? Wondering......
Well it definitely does not give me time to brood, but panic attacks occur and I feel desperate, distressed and willing to hit the door and bang till it drops dead.
National Geographic Channel high has settled in, the cool quotient with the launch of Fox History and Entertainment too feels old now.
Boy!!!!! everything in life is coming to be shortlived.
Why am I even beginning to think of it? Didnt I know from 35 mm I was moving to a life that began and end in precisely 30 secs. If you are thinking its too little time,on air it costs huge.
And ya in the first week the biggest lesson learning in progress are -
1. Thinking time = Money, and if I do it right, or I only knew the trick I could be a billionaire :)
2. One has to learn to be nasty, and not regret it. Everybody out there needs a reason to get on to nerves, so stay calm but edgy.....and nobody tells you the irony beneath it.
Got choaked over a period of time, over nuptial conversations. I am getting numb over convinience, if at all that is convinience till I rediscovered myself over Fellini's 8 and a 1/2.
The struggle has not even hit the high. It is still in the womb, beyond these random words and emotions they have not seen the light of the day.
So girlie,get going.....it takes an insane toll to get to the level of being a legend who creates breathtaking 24 frames per second.
Dostana was an exciting venture! Somewhere homosexuality is inside the Indian bedrooms. Yes, the community can complain of stereotypes, and sudden unwelcome gestures but people its out in the open. Lets celebrate the first step....the bollywood way!
Presi bonding happened and it felt weird about changing spaces, but I never wanted roots,or lets say do not know how to live with them. But as ace friend and confidante Divz would put it, dont try to hard on yourself,everything would sink in.
The first fight with R gave me an insight of getting edgy over inability to fill in absence. But in the mind, I knew I was there as a silent spectator.
Lifes good, spaces get smoky,thots wriggle inside my head as if its waiting to scream and few words out I am already feeling better. Like the Zoya Factor, all s fair in Love and Cricket, naah alls fair in a life for love,live for love.
Random never had one shape,one emotion,one color. Thats why it beautiful.
All the best to survival spirits and life in 30 seconds.
Not a good thing,for my health too as I realize, too many thots spoils the head
How has life changed? Wondering......
Well it definitely does not give me time to brood, but panic attacks occur and I feel desperate, distressed and willing to hit the door and bang till it drops dead.
National Geographic Channel high has settled in, the cool quotient with the launch of Fox History and Entertainment too feels old now.
Boy!!!!! everything in life is coming to be shortlived.
Why am I even beginning to think of it? Didnt I know from 35 mm I was moving to a life that began and end in precisely 30 secs. If you are thinking its too little time,on air it costs huge.
And ya in the first week the biggest lesson learning in progress are -
1. Thinking time = Money, and if I do it right, or I only knew the trick I could be a billionaire :)
2. One has to learn to be nasty, and not regret it. Everybody out there needs a reason to get on to nerves, so stay calm but edgy.....and nobody tells you the irony beneath it.
Got choaked over a period of time, over nuptial conversations. I am getting numb over convinience, if at all that is convinience till I rediscovered myself over Fellini's 8 and a 1/2.
The struggle has not even hit the high. It is still in the womb, beyond these random words and emotions they have not seen the light of the day.
So girlie,get going.....it takes an insane toll to get to the level of being a legend who creates breathtaking 24 frames per second.
Dostana was an exciting venture! Somewhere homosexuality is inside the Indian bedrooms. Yes, the community can complain of stereotypes, and sudden unwelcome gestures but people its out in the open. Lets celebrate the first step....the bollywood way!
Presi bonding happened and it felt weird about changing spaces, but I never wanted roots,or lets say do not know how to live with them. But as ace friend and confidante Divz would put it, dont try to hard on yourself,everything would sink in.
The first fight with R gave me an insight of getting edgy over inability to fill in absence. But in the mind, I knew I was there as a silent spectator.
Lifes good, spaces get smoky,thots wriggle inside my head as if its waiting to scream and few words out I am already feeling better. Like the Zoya Factor, all s fair in Love and Cricket, naah alls fair in a life for love,live for love.
Random never had one shape,one emotion,one color. Thats why it beautiful.
All the best to survival spirits and life in 30 seconds.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Dun have an answer :(
Dear Rijz,
Whr do I begin? Not randomly when I met you in the greens of Shantiniketan or when I was trying to unravel the socio economics of Dhokra artisans with you?
But everything went grey @ the JNU bus stop! My jaws dropped.....I didn know how to react, lost my voice and my ability to introspect.....the beer @ the stadium didn do good.
How did I do this? I of all people, to you of all people.
I behaved like a jerk and quoted our experience as mine,your exprience as my verbatim!
What the fuck was I thinking? Was I getting too full of myself? I was losing my mind!
Hope you understand the no answer situation but I am sorry,seriously sorry.
Would try n make sure I get over this aspect in life, of ensuring thots get converted into reality and the thots that belong to whoever gets across rightly.
Thanks darling for bringing it across and being a friend.....beyond boundaries and living in and out of scripts.
Love
A
Whr do I begin? Not randomly when I met you in the greens of Shantiniketan or when I was trying to unravel the socio economics of Dhokra artisans with you?
But everything went grey @ the JNU bus stop! My jaws dropped.....I didn know how to react, lost my voice and my ability to introspect.....the beer @ the stadium didn do good.
How did I do this? I of all people, to you of all people.
I behaved like a jerk and quoted our experience as mine,your exprience as my verbatim!
What the fuck was I thinking? Was I getting too full of myself? I was losing my mind!
Hope you understand the no answer situation but I am sorry,seriously sorry.
Would try n make sure I get over this aspect in life, of ensuring thots get converted into reality and the thots that belong to whoever gets across rightly.
Thanks darling for bringing it across and being a friend.....beyond boundaries and living in and out of scripts.
Love
A
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Whiney Minie Miney Moe
Ya I want to whine a while, I was wondering if I should use this space,but thanks to our lifestyles and slavery to the keyboard and my almost left blank yearly dairies finally made me get myself to whine here. And play the favourite game as a child,of choosing who shall be slaughtered...Ini,mini,minie,moe.
Enuf, I have too much been talking about the world.
Ya fine,its been threatening my basics and made me addictive to have been reeling under the spell of terrorism,communal violence and wall street crisis but I did keep the regular stuff, that I live with, off the radar.
So whats new? Saw Kidnap-long and short of it...lotz but this Khan is promising.
Did not even take a look at the pujas and seems I didn miss much,of course till my celebrity anjoli pal turned me nostalgic. A lovelorn friend was in town with whom I did revisit my state of affairs too much and still have not reached a conclusion. And then I gave into the regular stuff,and picked up this chick-book called You are here. While I was reading it I was looking into those million times gone by. I have lived them but never thought it could go down to become a book because there was nothing extraordinary about it.
But as chickbook also tells you stories that you had almost forgotten.
And on the eve of 2nd October after almost three months I heard myself engaged into genuine exchange, of ideas,experiences and was listening to people without my mind flying into forbidden areas. Am I coming in terms with my breakup finally? Maybe but the question that now is disturbingly nudging me and not anymore working as the possibility of 'things will be fine' is - have I really broken up? And as always,amongst those few good men and women I have in life,one of them told me a way out,and till that happens I will live through the interim like I have always lived life. Probably thats why cartoon films like spirited away makes one feel so special :)
And at this point, well soulmate,missed you like one of those realllly wanna speak to you times
Met these really interesting bunch of people who are in their quest of life. Happily living moments like its one of those precious times for engaging in a dialogue. And ofcourse the warm hearted prejudiced friend who was all out to work out options for freshly out of break ups. It was embarrasing till I realized its all in good faith.
While I write this however I am taken back to all the memories and I still do not know what went wrong.Why are all our lives so perplexing-ly mundanely screwed? Is it realllllyy true that all my aspirations of being able to break free of what is most obvious will really not see the light of the day? Will I get entwined in the regular whatevers.....I mean its a choice that I have to make. And I do not think it would be that difficult to hang onto the fact that I will not follow rules.
Anyways I have gotten addicted to Leonard Cohen. I cant think of a day in the last three months when I havent read or heard him and as I was hearing tonight will be fine on the comp,on television I saw sex and the city-the movie on Oprah. And that was yet another time I realized what a sucker for chick stuff have I become. Hehhehaahee. Boy it felt so good to see these girls again and of course hearing about all that. As dear Charlotte says 'twenties are the most miserable' I nodded vehemently saying...yes I still do not know what is there to me. Gone are those days when people would be all sorted by 25. Boy I am just 25 and there are 25000000000 things I have to do. How can I ever get sorted to save my life? So dear friends and fellow men,thirties are the new twenties. So much for my convenience.
And most importantly I do not see Mr.Big anywhere in the circumference,forget him in the circle. The guy who plays Mr.Big,Chris Noth is a father of a three and a half year old child. And I cannot begin to get smiling as to how adorable he looked. So in real life he did not have a cold feet . And that leads me to question the real avatar of Mr.Big. Is he all only fiction? Hope not,there must be someone as incompletely complete like him. Or maybe in real life an amalgamation of many nice-ness about men around shapes upto Mr.Big. So therefore keep floating. Dunno if that is a good feeling. Maybe not at the moment,but it excited me till this Quirky delightful disaster happened.
I need to go back to Bombay for a while and get over this bit, I dun want to give up on that special warm hearth because of alleys where I lost myself.
Gosh I can almost start a love story memory museum in sometime.
But honestly doesn't all of this almost make me feel miserable that the hopeless romance like Roman Holiday kinds does not exist anymore.
Well honestly it does.
But with a fairly good number of failed relationships I am beginning to question the concept itself. One can always choose to be a hopeless romantic at heart and not compromise. But then it is important to realize that humans are susceptible to change of kinds unheard of.
For some I am surely the crazy romantic kinds and for others I am the brutal honest demon sucking out all romance.
Ya,as I write this I also realize I know what I do not want but at the same time I dont really know the inner calling. What does it take to be the right man or be the right partner? There is no formula and thats nothing new I am telling you but what about those couples you come by and say,they are just so perfect!
I do not know how is life gonna shape up,I mean I never wanted to know,but I think the times are changing and as of today I am feeling better to be able to look up and chase my dreams again,the half written scripts,the dead dear laptop,the disengagement with the world,not paying attention to whats happening inside me, all of that needs to change.
It has to blossom to a fresh autumn morning.
Maybe I will smash myself over alcohol and stuff and have these really irritating conversations over how I found and lost the perfect man but at the same time I am looking forward to the whole exercise again.
So as this interesting explorer I came by talked about Shamanic dreams and Ayuvaska also mentioned, lemme end it on that note, ya so ....if at all there is something called love.
Hoping the weekend trip planned instinctively will get me better. Over horses and ridges, and deserts and trenches, will there be a Mr. Big waiting?
Well well, if they could be there in a class full or people...amongst hundreds in a rock show,or midst a crowded pub,one must not lose hope.
It happens afterall out of nowhere.
Enuf, I have too much been talking about the world.
Ya fine,its been threatening my basics and made me addictive to have been reeling under the spell of terrorism,communal violence and wall street crisis but I did keep the regular stuff, that I live with, off the radar.
So whats new? Saw Kidnap-long and short of it...lotz but this Khan is promising.
Did not even take a look at the pujas and seems I didn miss much,of course till my celebrity anjoli pal turned me nostalgic. A lovelorn friend was in town with whom I did revisit my state of affairs too much and still have not reached a conclusion. And then I gave into the regular stuff,and picked up this chick-book called You are here. While I was reading it I was looking into those million times gone by. I have lived them but never thought it could go down to become a book because there was nothing extraordinary about it.
But as chickbook also tells you stories that you had almost forgotten.
And on the eve of 2nd October after almost three months I heard myself engaged into genuine exchange, of ideas,experiences and was listening to people without my mind flying into forbidden areas. Am I coming in terms with my breakup finally? Maybe but the question that now is disturbingly nudging me and not anymore working as the possibility of 'things will be fine' is - have I really broken up? And as always,amongst those few good men and women I have in life,one of them told me a way out,and till that happens I will live through the interim like I have always lived life. Probably thats why cartoon films like spirited away makes one feel so special :)
And at this point, well soulmate,missed you like one of those realllly wanna speak to you times
Met these really interesting bunch of people who are in their quest of life. Happily living moments like its one of those precious times for engaging in a dialogue. And ofcourse the warm hearted prejudiced friend who was all out to work out options for freshly out of break ups. It was embarrasing till I realized its all in good faith.
While I write this however I am taken back to all the memories and I still do not know what went wrong.Why are all our lives so perplexing-ly mundanely screwed? Is it realllllyy true that all my aspirations of being able to break free of what is most obvious will really not see the light of the day? Will I get entwined in the regular whatevers.....I mean its a choice that I have to make. And I do not think it would be that difficult to hang onto the fact that I will not follow rules.
Anyways I have gotten addicted to Leonard Cohen. I cant think of a day in the last three months when I havent read or heard him and as I was hearing tonight will be fine on the comp,on television I saw sex and the city-the movie on Oprah. And that was yet another time I realized what a sucker for chick stuff have I become. Hehhehaahee. Boy it felt so good to see these girls again and of course hearing about all that. As dear Charlotte says 'twenties are the most miserable' I nodded vehemently saying...yes I still do not know what is there to me. Gone are those days when people would be all sorted by 25. Boy I am just 25 and there are 25000000000 things I have to do. How can I ever get sorted to save my life? So dear friends and fellow men,thirties are the new twenties. So much for my convenience.
And most importantly I do not see Mr.Big anywhere in the circumference,forget him in the circle. The guy who plays Mr.Big,Chris Noth is a father of a three and a half year old child. And I cannot begin to get smiling as to how adorable he looked. So in real life he did not have a cold feet . And that leads me to question the real avatar of Mr.Big. Is he all only fiction? Hope not,there must be someone as incompletely complete like him. Or maybe in real life an amalgamation of many nice-ness about men around shapes upto Mr.Big. So therefore keep floating. Dunno if that is a good feeling. Maybe not at the moment,but it excited me till this Quirky delightful disaster happened.
I need to go back to Bombay for a while and get over this bit, I dun want to give up on that special warm hearth because of alleys where I lost myself.
Gosh I can almost start a love story memory museum in sometime.
But honestly doesn't all of this almost make me feel miserable that the hopeless romance like Roman Holiday kinds does not exist anymore.
Well honestly it does.
But with a fairly good number of failed relationships I am beginning to question the concept itself. One can always choose to be a hopeless romantic at heart and not compromise. But then it is important to realize that humans are susceptible to change of kinds unheard of.
For some I am surely the crazy romantic kinds and for others I am the brutal honest demon sucking out all romance.
Ya,as I write this I also realize I know what I do not want but at the same time I dont really know the inner calling. What does it take to be the right man or be the right partner? There is no formula and thats nothing new I am telling you but what about those couples you come by and say,they are just so perfect!
I do not know how is life gonna shape up,I mean I never wanted to know,but I think the times are changing and as of today I am feeling better to be able to look up and chase my dreams again,the half written scripts,the dead dear laptop,the disengagement with the world,not paying attention to whats happening inside me, all of that needs to change.
It has to blossom to a fresh autumn morning.
Maybe I will smash myself over alcohol and stuff and have these really irritating conversations over how I found and lost the perfect man but at the same time I am looking forward to the whole exercise again.
So as this interesting explorer I came by talked about Shamanic dreams and Ayuvaska also mentioned, lemme end it on that note, ya so ....if at all there is something called love.
Hoping the weekend trip planned instinctively will get me better. Over horses and ridges, and deserts and trenches, will there be a Mr. Big waiting?
Well well, if they could be there in a class full or people...amongst hundreds in a rock show,or midst a crowded pub,one must not lose hope.
It happens afterall out of nowhere.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Browsing Delight
I’m a Modern Man
GEORGE CARLIN
on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno on 15nov2005
I'm a modern man, digital and smoke-free; a man for the millennium.
A diversified, multi-cultural, post-modern deconstructionist; politically, anatomically and ecologically incorrect.
I've been uplinked and downloaded, I've been inputted and outsourced. I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading.
I'm a high-tech low-life. A cutting-edge, state-of-the-art, bi-coastal multi-tasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond.
I'm new-wave, but I'm old-school; and my inner child is outward-bound.
I'm a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer; voice-activated and bio-degradable.
I interface with my database; my database is in cyberspace; so I'm interactive, I'm hyperactive, and from time to time I'm radioactive.
Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin' the wave, dodgin' the bullet, pushin' the envelope.
I'm on point, on task, on message, and off drugs.
I've got no need for coke and speed; I've got no urge to binge and purge.
I'm in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar.
A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary.
A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom-feeder.
I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run victory laps.
I'm a totally ongoing, big-foot, slam-dunk rainmaker with a pro-active outreach.
A raging workaholic, a working rageaholic; out of rehab and in denial.
I've got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal agenda.
You can't shut me up; you can't dumb me down. 'Cause I'm tireless, and I'm wireless. I'm an alpha-male on beta-blockers.
I'm a non-believer, I'm an over-achiever; Laid-back and fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home; low-rent, high-maintenance.
I'm super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built to last.
A hands-on, footloose, knee-jerk head case; prematurely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate-mail.
But I'm feeling, I'm caring, I'm healing, I'm sharing. A supportive, bonding, nurturing primary-care giver.
My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond, and my revenue stream has its own cash flow.
I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports.
I'm gender-specific, capital-intensive, user-friendly and lactose-intolerant.
I like rough sex; I like tough love. I use the F-word in my e-mail. And the software on my hard drive is hard-core—no soft porn.
I bought a microwave at a mini-mall. I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast food in the slow lane. I'm toll-free, bite-size, ready-to-wear, and I come in all sizes.
A fully equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically-formulated medical miracle.
I've been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped and vacuum-packed.
And . . . I have unlimited broadband capacity.
I'm a rude dude, but I'm the real deal. Lean and mean. Cocked, locked and ready to rock; rough, tough and hard to bluff.
I take it slow, I go with the flow; I ride with the tide, I've got glide in my stride.
Drivin' and movin', sailin' and spinnin'; jivin' and groovin', wailin' and winnin'.
I don't snooze, so I don't lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty, and lunchtime is crunch time.
I'm hangin' in, there ain't no doubt; and I'm hangin' tough.
Over and out.
A diversified, multi-cultural, post-modern deconstructionist; politically, anatomically and ecologically incorrect.
I've been uplinked and downloaded, I've been inputted and outsourced. I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading.
I'm a high-tech low-life. A cutting-edge, state-of-the-art, bi-coastal multi-tasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond.
I'm new-wave, but I'm old-school; and my inner child is outward-bound.
I'm a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer; voice-activated and bio-degradable.
I interface with my database; my database is in cyberspace; so I'm interactive, I'm hyperactive, and from time to time I'm radioactive.
Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin' the wave, dodgin' the bullet, pushin' the envelope.
I'm on point, on task, on message, and off drugs.
I've got no need for coke and speed; I've got no urge to binge and purge.
I'm in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar.
A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary.
A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom-feeder.
I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run victory laps.
I'm a totally ongoing, big-foot, slam-dunk rainmaker with a pro-active outreach.
A raging workaholic, a working rageaholic; out of rehab and in denial.
I've got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal agenda.
You can't shut me up; you can't dumb me down. 'Cause I'm tireless, and I'm wireless. I'm an alpha-male on beta-blockers.
I'm a non-believer, I'm an over-achiever; Laid-back and fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home; low-rent, high-maintenance.
I'm super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built to last.
A hands-on, footloose, knee-jerk head case; prematurely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate-mail.
But I'm feeling, I'm caring, I'm healing, I'm sharing. A supportive, bonding, nurturing primary-care giver.
My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond, and my revenue stream has its own cash flow.
I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports.
I'm gender-specific, capital-intensive, user-friendly and lactose-intolerant.
I like rough sex; I like tough love. I use the F-word in my e-mail. And the software on my hard drive is hard-core—no soft porn.
I bought a microwave at a mini-mall. I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast food in the slow lane. I'm toll-free, bite-size, ready-to-wear, and I come in all sizes.
A fully equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically-formulated medical miracle.
I've been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped and vacuum-packed.
And . . . I have unlimited broadband capacity.
I'm a rude dude, but I'm the real deal. Lean and mean. Cocked, locked and ready to rock; rough, tough and hard to bluff.
I take it slow, I go with the flow; I ride with the tide, I've got glide in my stride.
Drivin' and movin', sailin' and spinnin'; jivin' and groovin', wailin' and winnin'.
I don't snooze, so I don't lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty, and lunchtime is crunch time.
I'm hangin' in, there ain't no doubt; and I'm hangin' tough.
Over and out.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
From my neighbourhood to Wall Street
A lazy day when the phone rang and concerned family and friends told me of the series of bomb blasts in But the red alarm reels inside the head some thousand times when even I am flipping through the newspaper or television channels all that is there to the country today is reports of death of innocent human beings, be it as victims of some blasts, pro-freedom movement, police encounters or torching down of minority establishments.
The economic crisis as the base of the Marxian base-superstructure theory, now poses a severe challenge to the already dwindling food and fuel crisis in
Though as I write this I realize the grassroots experiences are complex and there are several layers before we reach the policy level. How much can one embrace and how much can one choose to keep at the threshold? But can it be the dead end? Is there no solution to it? Or atleast the promise of respite somewhere?
Coming back home, the encounter where the police apparently nabbed the masterminds of the
The reports doing rounds of all the convoluted claims of nabbing terrorists comes later to me. What comes out first is the Muslim community is under severe crisis. Though I cannot not accept that communities at their levels have not thrashed one another and that is a blessing in disguise but the Muslim community who were anyways the point of attack by majority extremists is today questioning identities at all levels. With the blasts taking a national character, the global war to curb terrorism going full swing,
The array of natural disasters in the country already is sign of nature backlashing against the human civilization, lets not create spaces for the ugly head of man-made disaster to breathe into us the venom of intolerance and hatred.
24th Sept.New Delhi
Monday, September 08, 2008
Chemical Imagination heard the musical nitrate junk
A series of earthly happenings and a mixed bag of emotions, resurfacing from the hollow cylinders to severing guilt loaded associations,to keeping ego at some far away highland to losing father figures like lightening on a scorching summer day.
I am almost coming to believe the equation of life can never be for a moment be balanced, and I remember in the ninth standard I would take a lot of pride in the balancing the chemical equations and score a 10 on 10. And then life said,no we cannot let this happen. A lunatic was born and have been on the streets since then,looking for the right space where the sets for the dream production could be constructed.
But it was after dribbling with the ball for a while the quest seemed to suddenly have colours of grey and brown.
I am almost coming to believe the equation of life can never be for a moment be balanced, and I remember in the ninth standard I would take a lot of pride in the balancing the chemical equations and score a 10 on 10. And then life said,no we cannot let this happen. A lunatic was born and have been on the streets since then,looking for the right space where the sets for the dream production could be constructed.
But it was after dribbling with the ball for a while the quest seemed to suddenly have colours of grey and brown.
Who said it was easy to find the right creative space in a country were natural disasters are results of faulty constructions,where more then half the population lives under Rs.55 a day. There having the means to construct ideas which are more often than not mainstream is a difficult proposition. It is almost an impossible to compromise on work qualities and methods in terms of form,content,ethics and aesthetics. It is a better idea to keep trying to breathe fresh air than to breathe carbon monoxide to survive. If survival was in question, guess one would not have ventured into the pool of uncertainty. If the conviction is compromised the 25 year old journey would be meaningless.
The fact that the only resource called confidence dies under the utmost pressure of personal ramblings is an alarm that one is giving into the vacuum of self pity. The superpower somewhere has blessed some lunatics with support systems that rarely comes by. A family to be there through times of trouble,A soulmate with open arms through basics of life, and Friends who know you for whatever colour you are washed with. And strangers to fill up gaps of crisis.
It takes a lot to let go but it takes a little more to keep it all together,sometimes time heals it for us and sometimes the hope puts the puzzles together to create a new picture than how it looked like years ago.
Rock on reiterated it for me.
The film was an average film but it seemed to have stories that I was born with,characters I have lived with and would always fondly remember the magic they still create in my life.
But it strengthened my believe in the passion and madness,to go wrong,be abandoned and then come back.I hope my friend on the highway manages to hit the roads soon.
This is what he most recently showed the world-Ya Allah
Dearest You,excuse me but you have to kiss the sky!
I hope dreams also come alive as my dear lil miss muffet paws es for a thought.
I felt speechless to hear about the demise of my best friend's dad,it was too unexpected to withhold any reaction. I do not know what it takes to believe in deaths,maybe it helps to become numb to it. However much we say it was better than suffering,I wonder if it is as easy as that. My losses has been deep,the losses I see around are deeper,but if that vacuum can be lived with as if you have that person in the next room;it is often a source of inspiration and strength. Easier said than done but somewhere it does mean living with the hope that forever is not just a concept. But at the same time forever does pain at times. I do not remember right now how is it said or who said it but if it does not pain enough,there was never enough passion or dedication.And as per Silent emotions bond with me for the last twelve years,Anjan Dutt's priyo bondhu describes it the best......'Bhalo lage sopner mayajaal bunte,bhalo lage oi akasher tara gunte',(Love weaving the magic mesh of dreams, Love counting stars far away in the sky) that's how we started and we are still travelling through our paths,often converging,often getting lost in smoky December nights.Dear Silent Emotion,may you have all the strength to overcome when things are getting tough, I know this too shall pass.
The Dark Knight has left an indelible impression,it is difficult to believe that till date actors like Heath Ledger lives on. For a lot of people his overdose was a sign of weakness. I do not know what it was,I just know he defined dedication for me in a different gamut altogether.
As Joker says 'The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules', I go back to my chemistry test and realize the mystical line between reality and illusion.
To live through this conflict is a way of life.
The fact that the only resource called confidence dies under the utmost pressure of personal ramblings is an alarm that one is giving into the vacuum of self pity. The superpower somewhere has blessed some lunatics with support systems that rarely comes by. A family to be there through times of trouble,A soulmate with open arms through basics of life, and Friends who know you for whatever colour you are washed with. And strangers to fill up gaps of crisis.
It takes a lot to let go but it takes a little more to keep it all together,sometimes time heals it for us and sometimes the hope puts the puzzles together to create a new picture than how it looked like years ago.
Rock on reiterated it for me.
The film was an average film but it seemed to have stories that I was born with,characters I have lived with and would always fondly remember the magic they still create in my life.
But it strengthened my believe in the passion and madness,to go wrong,be abandoned and then come back.I hope my friend on the highway manages to hit the roads soon.
This is what he most recently showed the world-Ya Allah
Dearest You,excuse me but you have to kiss the sky!
I hope dreams also come alive as my dear lil miss muffet paws es for a thought.
I felt speechless to hear about the demise of my best friend's dad,it was too unexpected to withhold any reaction. I do not know what it takes to believe in deaths,maybe it helps to become numb to it. However much we say it was better than suffering,I wonder if it is as easy as that. My losses has been deep,the losses I see around are deeper,but if that vacuum can be lived with as if you have that person in the next room;it is often a source of inspiration and strength. Easier said than done but somewhere it does mean living with the hope that forever is not just a concept. But at the same time forever does pain at times. I do not remember right now how is it said or who said it but if it does not pain enough,there was never enough passion or dedication.And as per Silent emotions bond with me for the last twelve years,Anjan Dutt's priyo bondhu describes it the best......'Bhalo lage sopner mayajaal bunte,bhalo lage oi akasher tara gunte',(Love weaving the magic mesh of dreams, Love counting stars far away in the sky) that's how we started and we are still travelling through our paths,often converging,often getting lost in smoky December nights.Dear Silent Emotion,may you have all the strength to overcome when things are getting tough, I know this too shall pass.
The Dark Knight has left an indelible impression,it is difficult to believe that till date actors like Heath Ledger lives on. For a lot of people his overdose was a sign of weakness. I do not know what it was,I just know he defined dedication for me in a different gamut altogether.
As Joker says 'The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules', I go back to my chemistry test and realize the mystical line between reality and illusion.
To live through this conflict is a way of life.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Untitled as Untilted ---the wasted sequel
Swecha is a youth movement, or lets say it started as one and then they decided to take shape and become this registered organization that primarily works on Environment and building responsible citizen movement around it.
Wasted was the first film the organization produced.
It is more of a personal voice of the organization and the creators of the film who tracked the journey of waste from homes of a neighborhood in Vasant Vihar in New Delhi to the landfill where the waste is segregated,sold and recycled. It is a peek into the existence of hundreds of waste pickers who live a faceless live but contribute almost rupees 20 crore per annum to the Indian economy. But that is also wasted.
What follows is anecdotes of the field visits in the form of a field diary
Field Musings
My shift to Delhi found a space to walk when I decided to work for the next film Swecha was conceptualizing to make.
This is going to trace the lives of the waste-pickers and the life analysis of the waste that fills the Lands in the space called Jahangirpuri,8 kms from Delhi University. The area is a resettlement colony for the waste pickers who migrated to this space since they seem to not remember.
With almost no concept of waste management except for books and articles,and the glimpse of landfills in Mumbai, I had to go to the field if I wanted to feel connected to the film and thus began my journey to Jahangirpuri. A non-Delhiite's first travelogue with all good intentions of not intruding into the community with a camera was dampened by the random rains right in the morning of 8th August.
The rain washed Delhi streets would make one feel like it exchanged roads with Mumbai. It was monotonous and heavy drizzles.
The trip to Central Secretariat was like any other metro traffic laden roads.
From there to Delhi University in the underground train which often seems like a replica of the subway trains of Europe. I was to take a bus to the Azadpur New Subzi Mandi. Unable to create space amongst the hard core aggressive bus commuters and feeling like a wet crow the next option was the auto. The auto drops me there and refuses to move an inch ahead.
Dismissed by the auto, I tried the cycle rickshaws. I explained resettlement colonies of kabariwalas (ragpickers) and the destination was explained to me as Bangali Bastis (settlements of Bengalis,Bengalis synonymous to Bangladeshis) and finally I was there.
Jahangirpuri, about three kilometres from Azadpur in North West Delhi looks at Delhi through different lenses. It seems to be a world by itself. One one side of the road there were apartments and shops like any urban-semi/urban spaces. On the other hand there were stacks of waste in polythene bags organized as if they were the guardians of the space I was about to enter.
The first walk through the alley was uneventful. The concentration was more on the shots that could have been captured, and trying to find the story within it, till I realized the two kids were following me curiously. Befriending Saajan and Deepak I walked back to where I began. Here I met Khalid, a scorpio driver whose live has begun in this space. In almost no time did the conversation had many people joining in and with all kinds of question, who what,where,why,and most importantly what is our benefit from the film. As a development professional it is perhaps easy to answer the question but as a film maker when the medium is being used to explain, to take ahead an issue (here more as an organization mandate than the subject) it is difficult. But the creative journey is probably the responsibility towards the subject, the issue and the film, hopefully, would do justice to the same.
From one Khalid,came one Sheikh Mumtaz, a fifteen year old ragpicker who is a professional. He knows the tricks of the trade and speaks his mind. While I was surrounded by curious onlookers and interviewers I noticed one teenager dressed rather in the Bollywood gear of a well fitted shirt and denim and a bandana which is made of net material in red and has a golden border. From the conversation of what I was there for,it divulged to how it is a bane to live in Jahangirpuri. Irrespective of enough education,just the reference that one comes from this place is a reason for the person to be treated with no respect and almost like a criminal.
My first item number character, the same bandana boy is called Azizul reflects on why the people of the area are criminalized.
He almost replies like a politician whose byte one would not want to miss.
“ Hum kachra utthate hai apne haathon se, aur haath gande hai, aur policewalon ke hissab se har gande kaam ke peeche,gande haathon ka dhanda hai. Woh yeh bhool jate hai ke yehi gande haath estamal hota hai to khana banta hai,aur hum khana khate hai” (We pick waste and get our hands dirty and behind every crime there are dirty hands. Therefore the law keepers say that we are the law breakers. What they forget is these very hands make food,and these dirty hands feed moths).
Shaken by the idea, I got driven into a conversation with the Maulana. According to him,the media has always exploited the community. But he is sure we have noble intentions (and I wondered what made him feel so!). He promised cooperation from all ends.
Hijacked to Sadam ki chai ki dukaan (Sadam's chai shop) we talked about old memories of the place. The neighbourhood is a concern for all the young adults,more so for their offspring. The greed to earn money by waste picking and segregation and selling it cannot be substituted. Secondly the presence of the alcohol den near the school which irrespective of age and students adorning uniform would sell them alcohol is a menace forever. So the students would rather bunk school,pick waste,sell it,earn money,drink and go to nearby video stalls and watch blue films. Education is of least importance and quick money is all that everyone is interested in. The elders are worried and amazed how the several other business run thats detrimental to the society there. The law-keepers turn a deaf ear at this, on the other hand according to their records criminals inhabit the wasted land.
The quest continues in search of the story teller or maybe story tellers, the heroes of real life who are getting wasted amongst the waste.
....to be continued
Wasted was the first film the organization produced.
It is more of a personal voice of the organization and the creators of the film who tracked the journey of waste from homes of a neighborhood in Vasant Vihar in New Delhi to the landfill where the waste is segregated,sold and recycled. It is a peek into the existence of hundreds of waste pickers who live a faceless live but contribute almost rupees 20 crore per annum to the Indian economy. But that is also wasted.
What follows is anecdotes of the field visits in the form of a field diary
Field Musings
My shift to Delhi found a space to walk when I decided to work for the next film Swecha was conceptualizing to make.
This is going to trace the lives of the waste-pickers and the life analysis of the waste that fills the Lands in the space called Jahangirpuri,8 kms from Delhi University. The area is a resettlement colony for the waste pickers who migrated to this space since they seem to not remember.
With almost no concept of waste management except for books and articles,and the glimpse of landfills in Mumbai, I had to go to the field if I wanted to feel connected to the film and thus began my journey to Jahangirpuri. A non-Delhiite's first travelogue with all good intentions of not intruding into the community with a camera was dampened by the random rains right in the morning of 8th August.
The rain washed Delhi streets would make one feel like it exchanged roads with Mumbai. It was monotonous and heavy drizzles.
The trip to Central Secretariat was like any other metro traffic laden roads.
From there to Delhi University in the underground train which often seems like a replica of the subway trains of Europe. I was to take a bus to the Azadpur New Subzi Mandi. Unable to create space amongst the hard core aggressive bus commuters and feeling like a wet crow the next option was the auto. The auto drops me there and refuses to move an inch ahead.
Dismissed by the auto, I tried the cycle rickshaws. I explained resettlement colonies of kabariwalas (ragpickers) and the destination was explained to me as Bangali Bastis (settlements of Bengalis,Bengalis synonymous to Bangladeshis) and finally I was there.
Jahangirpuri, about three kilometres from Azadpur in North West Delhi looks at Delhi through different lenses. It seems to be a world by itself. One one side of the road there were apartments and shops like any urban-semi/urban spaces. On the other hand there were stacks of waste in polythene bags organized as if they were the guardians of the space I was about to enter.
The first walk through the alley was uneventful. The concentration was more on the shots that could have been captured, and trying to find the story within it, till I realized the two kids were following me curiously. Befriending Saajan and Deepak I walked back to where I began. Here I met Khalid, a scorpio driver whose live has begun in this space. In almost no time did the conversation had many people joining in and with all kinds of question, who what,where,why,and most importantly what is our benefit from the film. As a development professional it is perhaps easy to answer the question but as a film maker when the medium is being used to explain, to take ahead an issue (here more as an organization mandate than the subject) it is difficult. But the creative journey is probably the responsibility towards the subject, the issue and the film, hopefully, would do justice to the same.
From one Khalid,came one Sheikh Mumtaz, a fifteen year old ragpicker who is a professional. He knows the tricks of the trade and speaks his mind. While I was surrounded by curious onlookers and interviewers I noticed one teenager dressed rather in the Bollywood gear of a well fitted shirt and denim and a bandana which is made of net material in red and has a golden border. From the conversation of what I was there for,it divulged to how it is a bane to live in Jahangirpuri. Irrespective of enough education,just the reference that one comes from this place is a reason for the person to be treated with no respect and almost like a criminal.
My first item number character, the same bandana boy is called Azizul reflects on why the people of the area are criminalized.
He almost replies like a politician whose byte one would not want to miss.
“ Hum kachra utthate hai apne haathon se, aur haath gande hai, aur policewalon ke hissab se har gande kaam ke peeche,gande haathon ka dhanda hai. Woh yeh bhool jate hai ke yehi gande haath estamal hota hai to khana banta hai,aur hum khana khate hai” (We pick waste and get our hands dirty and behind every crime there are dirty hands. Therefore the law keepers say that we are the law breakers. What they forget is these very hands make food,and these dirty hands feed moths).
Shaken by the idea, I got driven into a conversation with the Maulana. According to him,the media has always exploited the community. But he is sure we have noble intentions (and I wondered what made him feel so!). He promised cooperation from all ends.
Hijacked to Sadam ki chai ki dukaan (Sadam's chai shop) we talked about old memories of the place. The neighbourhood is a concern for all the young adults,more so for their offspring. The greed to earn money by waste picking and segregation and selling it cannot be substituted. Secondly the presence of the alcohol den near the school which irrespective of age and students adorning uniform would sell them alcohol is a menace forever. So the students would rather bunk school,pick waste,sell it,earn money,drink and go to nearby video stalls and watch blue films. Education is of least importance and quick money is all that everyone is interested in. The elders are worried and amazed how the several other business run thats detrimental to the society there. The law-keepers turn a deaf ear at this, on the other hand according to their records criminals inhabit the wasted land.
The quest continues in search of the story teller or maybe story tellers, the heroes of real life who are getting wasted amongst the waste.
....to be continued
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
After Dark
I wondered why I would write about Murakami’s After Dark when I did not write about either Norwegian Wood or Kafka by the shore but the 12th work of fiction of this novelist-Haruki Murakami.
The answer is the real time of the book was living through it over a night, from a little before midnight, this dark novel was spread over eight hours in Tokyo. The intercuts in the novel were sublime yet profound and as some reviewer said it had the Murakami's signature magical-realist absurd coincidences. And most importantly I felt the immediate urge to pen down thoughts.
After Dark concentrates on themes of loneliness and alienation through characters crafted beautifully, the tit bits of moving away from East Asia and having western references (all-night Deny's where Hall & Oates plays in the background kept the worldly appeal at bay.) The Murakami specialty of story telling as if it is a film did reach a level where I felt like a captive audience looking into the rough cut of an institute film. The chapters where Eri was sleeping and an invisible eye was watching, the way it was framed to the reader who felt guilty in the void of claustrophobia was an aspect that made the chill run down the spine. My google secondary research says that the Los Angeles Times felt that Eri's dreamlike scenes were…"For the unfamiliar, it's the perfect appetizer. For the established fan, it's a quick work that is over far too soon" and that is something I agree to completely, it was like a buffet that was over even before it began.
Now for the story - Mari Asai, 19, in an plain attire,hardly noticable was sitting by herself when trombonist and soon-to-be law student Tetsuya Takahashi walks into a late-night Denny's,and proceeds to talk himself back into her acquaintance. Tetsuya was once interested in plain Mari's gorgeous older sister, Eri, whom he courted,once upon a time. Murakami then cuts to Eri in the next chapter, Eri is asleep in what turns out to be some sort of menacing netherworld. Tetsuya leaves for his practice when soon a large, 30ish woman, Kaoru, comes into Denny's asking for Mari; Mari speaks Chinese, and Kaoru needs to speak to the Chinese prostitute who has just been badly beaten up in the nearby "love hotel-Alphaville" Kaoru manages. Then one after the other the author looks at the lives of the sleeping Eri and the prostitute's assailant, a salaryman named Shirakawa, who has a wife waiting back home.Mari is sketched as a vague yet a character with lots of depth and that is reflected in her interaction with has with Tetsuya, Kaoru and a hotel worker named Korogi. Later when she almost assimilates with Eri in the bed the ambiguity takes a new dimension and the book ends.
The immediate feeling when the book ended was that of a hushed ensemble piece built on the notion that very late at night, after the logic lights have been snuffed and rationality has been blinded, life on earth becomes blurred. Individuals who have separate identities during the day lose uniqueness and melt into an uniquely common psychic collective.
The book does live upto Murakami's creation of not just geographical space uniqueness but the wavering space of realism,surrealism and often hyper-realism.
In this context the simplicity with which Mari is introduced implies the deatiled dissection of characterization Murakami believes in.... “On her table is a coffee cup. And an ashtray. Next to the ashtray, a navy blue baseball cap with a Boston Red Sox ‘B.’ It might be a little too large for her head. A brown leather shoulder bag rests on the seat next to her. It bulges as if its contents had been thrown in on the spur of the moment. She reaches out at regular intervals and brings the coffee cup to her mouth, but she doesn’t appear to be enjoying the flavor. She drinks because she has a coffee cup in front of her: that is her role as a customer.” or when it cuts to Eri the smoothness of the transition. The 19-year-old female coffee drinker, Mari, whose attachment to the Red Sox goes unexplained and probably doesn’t bear explaining — no more than do the lyrics of the pop songs that sprinkle down out of the ceiling of the diner — is killing time with an unnamed book. It’s a bit of a mystery why she’s up so late but it may have to do with her lovely sister, Eri, who’s at home in the suburbs, mired in a slumber that has been going on, unbroken, for months. Mari is awake because Eri is asleep — some sort of twinned homeostasis is at work, perhaps.
The book’s short chapters swaps back and forth between Mari’s ramblings with her new acquaintances and a prolonged, poetic yet thrilling setting of a bedroom (and that is caught between frames) her sleeping-beauty sister, who lies in bed in a bare room next to a wormhole of a TV screen on which her image occasionally appears and into which her soul is being absorbed. One wonders what shall be the mood but then the onset of a passive collection of interesting identities after dark sets one at peace. However I am still wondering how did Murakami design the book so novice,seeming almost caught up in the glocal politics,and struggling to find ones identity. Maybe thats why it was safer to title it after dark.
Though I cannot deny that inconspicuous is Murakami's widening perimeters of a nocturnal urban habitat. In the hours when colours vanish,women fall prey for the most part particularly the poor and the unmarried.(even if it is by choice the rights of a human being are violated. Men venture forth more boldly.
The interesting bit that remains irrespective of the sense of un-fulfillment is how Murakami detects the light without the appreciable heat everywhere in the urban space of Tokya and withing the soul of the characters,even if they are asleep. The light,he infers, glow brightest at night,and once light embarks on the face of earth,this phosphoric light fades, when we go our separate way in search of our own niche.
The answer is the real time of the book was living through it over a night, from a little before midnight, this dark novel was spread over eight hours in Tokyo. The intercuts in the novel were sublime yet profound and as some reviewer said it had the Murakami's signature magical-realist absurd coincidences. And most importantly I felt the immediate urge to pen down thoughts.
After Dark concentrates on themes of loneliness and alienation through characters crafted beautifully, the tit bits of moving away from East Asia and having western references (all-night Deny's where Hall & Oates plays in the background kept the worldly appeal at bay.) The Murakami specialty of story telling as if it is a film did reach a level where I felt like a captive audience looking into the rough cut of an institute film. The chapters where Eri was sleeping and an invisible eye was watching, the way it was framed to the reader who felt guilty in the void of claustrophobia was an aspect that made the chill run down the spine. My google secondary research says that the Los Angeles Times felt that Eri's dreamlike scenes were…"For the unfamiliar, it's the perfect appetizer. For the established fan, it's a quick work that is over far too soon" and that is something I agree to completely, it was like a buffet that was over even before it began.
Now for the story - Mari Asai, 19, in an plain attire,hardly noticable was sitting by herself when trombonist and soon-to-be law student Tetsuya Takahashi walks into a late-night Denny's,and proceeds to talk himself back into her acquaintance. Tetsuya was once interested in plain Mari's gorgeous older sister, Eri, whom he courted,once upon a time. Murakami then cuts to Eri in the next chapter, Eri is asleep in what turns out to be some sort of menacing netherworld. Tetsuya leaves for his practice when soon a large, 30ish woman, Kaoru, comes into Denny's asking for Mari; Mari speaks Chinese, and Kaoru needs to speak to the Chinese prostitute who has just been badly beaten up in the nearby "love hotel-Alphaville" Kaoru manages. Then one after the other the author looks at the lives of the sleeping Eri and the prostitute's assailant, a salaryman named Shirakawa, who has a wife waiting back home.Mari is sketched as a vague yet a character with lots of depth and that is reflected in her interaction with has with Tetsuya, Kaoru and a hotel worker named Korogi. Later when she almost assimilates with Eri in the bed the ambiguity takes a new dimension and the book ends.
The immediate feeling when the book ended was that of a hushed ensemble piece built on the notion that very late at night, after the logic lights have been snuffed and rationality has been blinded, life on earth becomes blurred. Individuals who have separate identities during the day lose uniqueness and melt into an uniquely common psychic collective.
The book does live upto Murakami's creation of not just geographical space uniqueness but the wavering space of realism,surrealism and often hyper-realism.
In this context the simplicity with which Mari is introduced implies the deatiled dissection of characterization Murakami believes in.... “On her table is a coffee cup. And an ashtray. Next to the ashtray, a navy blue baseball cap with a Boston Red Sox ‘B.’ It might be a little too large for her head. A brown leather shoulder bag rests on the seat next to her. It bulges as if its contents had been thrown in on the spur of the moment. She reaches out at regular intervals and brings the coffee cup to her mouth, but she doesn’t appear to be enjoying the flavor. She drinks because she has a coffee cup in front of her: that is her role as a customer.” or when it cuts to Eri the smoothness of the transition. The 19-year-old female coffee drinker, Mari, whose attachment to the Red Sox goes unexplained and probably doesn’t bear explaining — no more than do the lyrics of the pop songs that sprinkle down out of the ceiling of the diner — is killing time with an unnamed book. It’s a bit of a mystery why she’s up so late but it may have to do with her lovely sister, Eri, who’s at home in the suburbs, mired in a slumber that has been going on, unbroken, for months. Mari is awake because Eri is asleep — some sort of twinned homeostasis is at work, perhaps.
The book’s short chapters swaps back and forth between Mari’s ramblings with her new acquaintances and a prolonged, poetic yet thrilling setting of a bedroom (and that is caught between frames) her sleeping-beauty sister, who lies in bed in a bare room next to a wormhole of a TV screen on which her image occasionally appears and into which her soul is being absorbed. One wonders what shall be the mood but then the onset of a passive collection of interesting identities after dark sets one at peace. However I am still wondering how did Murakami design the book so novice,seeming almost caught up in the glocal politics,and struggling to find ones identity. Maybe thats why it was safer to title it after dark.
Though I cannot deny that inconspicuous is Murakami's widening perimeters of a nocturnal urban habitat. In the hours when colours vanish,women fall prey for the most part particularly the poor and the unmarried.(even if it is by choice the rights of a human being are violated. Men venture forth more boldly.
The interesting bit that remains irrespective of the sense of un-fulfillment is how Murakami detects the light without the appreciable heat everywhere in the urban space of Tokya and withing the soul of the characters,even if they are asleep. The light,he infers, glow brightest at night,and once light embarks on the face of earth,this phosphoric light fades, when we go our separate way in search of our own niche.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Awaiting
I landed in the land of seven cities....
I walk by architectures....
I walk in and out of History.....
And I miss somethings,that is not my history but somethings...
There is no end to memories,but it is not memories
I walk with you all the time
I sit beside you in Breathe
I shiver at the sheer touch of ur hand
I talk with you in my mind
I hear your voice in my head
I see you with eyes wide shut
I sleep with you in my soul.
I walk by architectures....
I walk in and out of History.....
And I miss somethings,that is not my history but somethings...
There is no end to memories,but it is not memories
I walk with you all the time
I sit beside you in Breathe
I shiver at the sheer touch of ur hand
I talk with you in my mind
I hear your voice in my head
I see you with eyes wide shut
I sleep with you in my soul.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
The raindrops did not talk to me
The raindrops did not talk to me.....
The rain drenched shimmering road did not look at me
The asymmetrical array of the yellow cabs did not wait for me
They all stood together and I stood in my frame.....alone
From the seventh floor the cityscape was different today,
very different than what it used to be in the last twenty five years
From the seventh floor the sky was different
very different than what it was a few minutes back
As I pan the vision is blurred
But still the vision does not talk to me
I have lost love midst a soul
I have gained love midst nothingness souls
I have been choked but I refuse to breathe,I refuse to set my liberation free
I have been hanged down the reverence shelf,I am shamelessly waiting for none at all
The puzzle is not a puzzle anymore
Its an ocean of confusion
Where my emotions do not converse
My feelings have lost articulation
I am longing for a past I do not remember
The expansion of grief is gnawing the heart
There is a tightness in the throat
I am wondering if I am lost in the loneliness of memories
I am living in a paradise whose owner is dead
I am not sure if this is the right address
Every night is a lonely musing
I do not know from where the mild tears come and where do they go....
And then suddenly I lose all my thought and....
start thinking again....what if?
But my leprechaun is sleeping
I can't wake him up
I will fight with them tomorrow
The raindrops did not talk to me.....
The rain drenched shimmering road did not look at me
The asymmetrical array of the yellow cabs did not wait for me
They all stood together and I stood in my frame.....alone
From the seventh floor the cityscape was different today,
very different than what it used to be in the last twenty five years
From the seventh floor the sky was different
very different than what it was a few minutes back
As I pan the vision is blurred
But still the vision does not talk to me
I have lost love midst a soul
I have gained love midst nothingness souls
I have been choked but I refuse to breathe,I refuse to set my liberation free
I have been hanged down the reverence shelf,I am shamelessly waiting for none at all
The puzzle is not a puzzle anymore
Its an ocean of confusion
Where my emotions do not converse
My feelings have lost articulation
I am longing for a past I do not remember
The expansion of grief is gnawing the heart
There is a tightness in the throat
I am wondering if I am lost in the loneliness of memories
I am living in a paradise whose owner is dead
I am not sure if this is the right address
Every night is a lonely musing
I do not know from where the mild tears come and where do they go....
And then suddenly I lose all my thought and....
start thinking again....what if?
But my leprechaun is sleeping
I can't wake him up
I will fight with them tomorrow
The raindrops did not talk to me.....
Sunday, June 29, 2008
If I....
Would you still love me if insanity takes over me?
Would you still believe in me if I walked thru my convictions like I was a beggar?
Would you want to look into my eyes if I defied vision?
Would you recognize me if I disappeared in the mist of nothing?
If I walked through reality as if I was invisible…
If I turned neon into grey
Would you still love me if the naïve was dead and I was naked?
Would you still want to catch hold of me if I would float, and leave no trace behind?
Would you still recognize me if I am not black, white or grey?
Would you remember me if I was would never ever say
If I lost my voice, or my mind and my soul was only alive
Would you ever embrace me if my wings want to take a lusty flight?
If I spiraled through my hole into a fools paradise
If I crumbled under the red light on the high-rise
Would you still want to walk with me in the rains if the sky does not promise moonlight?
Would you still believe I can create if my negatives are bleached by the shimmer of the sky?
I am getting ready for the big funeral,
If I drill a tunnel in my heart, would you collect pieces of my mind?
Would you love me for all the incoherence and infinite pain I have caused
Would you take me to my grave if the blood freezes before time?
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Hmmm
Bc to Dementia....cud barely sleep till the clock struck six and then the Mayhem over man's fatal attraction to woman and repercussions of the law guardians.
The excitement seems to be very bleak
Not hearing from someone even more bleak
Something that I fear is desertion....not to be has ceased to be a choice.
Wonder how life is gonna change,if at all
Mumbai,cant wait to meet you,my solace of the soul,my irrelevant logic,my cuppa beside
salt water reservoir,and the aimless walk perspectiva.
To say it all together,kinda anxious,dunno if that is called the fear,the fear of denying fear but isnt denial reality?
The excitement seems to be very bleak
Not hearing from someone even more bleak
Something that I fear is desertion....not to be has ceased to be a choice.
Wonder how life is gonna change,if at all
Mumbai,cant wait to meet you,my solace of the soul,my irrelevant logic,my cuppa beside
salt water reservoir,and the aimless walk perspectiva.
To say it all together,kinda anxious,dunno if that is called the fear,the fear of denying fear but isnt denial reality?
09.09 hrs
17th May,Kolkata
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