A Counter Suggestion/ No Smoking - A Review

Going back to originality. Its an assertion of your independence.

Your basic character, your soul, your reason for existence aches for independence, it aches to free itself from the clutches of bondage, of interdependence, of LOVE. Reading through an article, which was reviewing a movie, the author suggested that one should fall in love to understand the beauty of interdependence, of making decisions to live in a world which is better for you.

I counter-suggest!

Fall out of love once to experience what it means for your pensive, aching soul. How the energy sapped being released from the prison of interdependence, of making decisions, for a seemingly better future, rooted in compromises, suddenly bears its grinning and independent, Howard Roarkish face. So astute, orange hair flowing in breezy weather, resolved to make something happen or not be active at all. To angrily mock the rest of the world at their fucking ignorance, feigning surprise at mere hints of revelations.

Fine, when YOU surface, YOU are weather beaten, unable to stand on your legs for lack to interdependence, YOU find YOURSELF stuck in corners, standing at the traffic signal unable to comprehend that very familiar path walked often. YOU reach inside to the guttural corners of the body and scream out the Rock version of Emotional Atyaachaar, drowning every pore of your body in the misery pervading all around ready to destroy and get consumed wholly by lack of interdependence.

Then it hits YOU in the face. The mind numbing voice which screams and calls for help. YOU climb out spitting pieces of the anti-jaunt YOU had last night. Listen to the voice and steady yourself to walk again. YOU look at the clear path and become responsible for your actions, YOU don't have the option of blaming someone else. Of saying “It was our decision.” YOU go to the quarry or start architecting, either cases YOU breath/smoke and don't irk anyone else.

Originality, the finer victim of the grand dance of interdependence, is allowed to breed and more importantly produce results, some tragic and some grander, in all, all decisions for which the price is nothing but the liberation. The society can scoff at the results and the image in the mirror grows proud every moment for all YOU have done for YOURSELF. They dart when results are favourable and point when not so aphrodisiac-al. YOU choose to ignore and acquire for yourself.

Isn't that the aim of most religions – self actualisation!

So fall out of love, get liberated, become original, and self actualise. MASSAGE THE EGO.

Happy New Year

I am not one for New Year Resolutions. They are like a prostitute's promise of virginity. They last only for a night. With a tinge of blood spilled, all innocence is lost and all promises are forgotten. You move on, the virgin moves on and, hanging in mid-air, remains, the promise of virginity. Despite all this, I have made a few Old Year resolutions (they were made throughout the year of 2008) and like the lover, estranged, comes to the bed next night, seeking virgin promise. I have come back to fulfill a few of mine to keep the momentum of breathing going. Here is a list of the promises I made to myself and known only to me are the ones on the road of fulfillment :-)

1. Learn to Play guitar
2. Get a tattoo
3. Learn Boxing
4. Climb a few more mountains
5. Watch all the kind of movies I like to watch
6. Watch as many plays, go to as many concerts so on and on
7. Travel extensively -
   
8. take a 3-4 day trip once every 2-3 months
9. Have a month long holiday every year for traveling
   
10. Trek as often as possible
11. Photograph extensively
12. UPDATE THE BLOG REGULARLY
13. ................
14. .......................
15. .............................
16. ................................

nth. Make a movie

Here is to never losing our virginity.

I Make A Promise

I make a promise;
When tears fall
& roll down the cheeks.

I make a promise;
When moonlight flickers
gently caressing green leaves.

I make a promise;
When muscles twitch involuntarily
going into spasm.

I make a promise;
When from the corner of my eyes
I see hope clad in black.

I make a promise;
Rocking slowly in the balcony
night breeze promising to carry me over.

I make a promise;
When I close my eyes, see you
& remember me making a promise.

Pune International Film Festival - 2009

Its over, and just like all times its leaves me gloomy as the days of sensibilities are over and now no more do I have the luxury of returning to the celluloid and soaking a wealth of information, emotion and forms of depiction. I have been a regular at the PIFF since I came to Pune in 2004 attending by now over hundred movies, some so moving the memory still remains and some so weird I am still trying to defragment the meaning after so many years.

There have been times when I have stood spellbound in the hall well after the projector has stopped twittering and there have been those occasions when I have left in a hurry purely to avoid the felling of nausea. The Pune International Film Festival, organised every year in the month of January, has brought to me a better understanding of the world. Indian films, and by that I mean the Hindi film industry, with its dance around the tree or dance in the cloud or dance in the valley of flowers, hero saves the day, beats up all the bad guys, rosy flavoured all happy ending and they lived happily ever after, is purely a walk in the paradise and definitely a make believe world. While cinema like that has its place purely for entertainment value, I have always felt that cinema that does not say anything comes from a person who does not wish to say anything or has nothing to say at all. Love is an emotion in Hindi films that has been so vastly abused that it has become overrated. It has lost all its meaning amidst the beautiful locales and enchanted forests. Expressions have become borrowed and that too from formulaic successful mainstream films.

Amidst all this comes PIFF to bring in fresh modes of expression, fresher dramas and above all stories that are complete in terms of human expression and human behaviour, not merely a slice of a human being. These stories look complete in many respects and depict the way a human being behaves rather how a super-hero reacts. There has been the real life depiction of the Italian mafia father who commits suicide after knowing his son is a cop and is disappointed at the way his father had abandoned him when he was a kid. The chemistry between the cop and felon is so palpable that you almost feel like reaching out and caressing the teary eyed cop when he first confronts his father (Salty Air).

There has been the depiction of the rebellious 37 year old protagonist and 21 year girl in a Turkish community in Germany who decide to marry each other to get away from the repressive and tradition rich family of the girl to merely live out as roommates, who continue to experiment and explore with the world around them with drugs, alcohol, sex, tattoos and body piercing (all forms of expressing their angst at the primarily dogmatic society), until the world comes crashing down on one night of drunken, jealousy driven murder of one of the lovers of the girl. Driven away from the stigma of the stories in the newspapers the girl goes away to Turkey and the guy gets imprisoned. Turkey again is no easy dwelling for Sibet who gets frustrated with the tied down life only to end up on the streets of Turkey, raped and beaten nearly to death. You cry and feel like burning up the world when you see how this world treats people who just wish to live their own life without following traditions. Cahit comes to Turkey after his release from the jail to find Sibet happily married with a kid and gives up all hope of finding his one true love to go to his ancestral village to settle down (Head On).

There is the depiction of Gulnabi in a village in Karnataka, which has not known any kind of communal tension until a Hindu village damsel decides to run away with a Muslim. Gulnabi (Gulabi as she is known throughout the village) owns a television set and runs a theatre called Gulabi talkies to which everyone flocks for watching movies. After the eloping incidence, Gulabi who was not directly involved in the incidence has to leave the village along with other Muslims leaving the Television set behind for the village to enjoy (Gulabi Talkies).

There is the graphic novel animated screen adaptation of Persopolis, showing a girl growing up in the oppressive regime of Iran only to be taken over by a more oppressive revolutionaries who frown upon the idea of a woman not wearing a headsarf and her burqua and how she find the true meaning of her roots when she goes to Europe to study. Its her trails and tribulations but mainly of an advancing economy suddenly stopped in its track by archaic concepts of a state, where expression of oneself has no place amidst laws of modesty and proper behaviour. Where a girl running on the road is asked to stop and walk slowly as the movement of her hips is considered immodest and distraction for the men around her (Persopolis).

There is the beautiful love story, which brings to screen the torrid love affair that begins with a one night stand between a French woman and a Japanese man in post WW2 Hiroshima and how all adversities (purely of their emotions and their past) do not stand in their way of finally uniting and deciding to stay together (Hiroshima, My love).

I will miss what I did not get to see,
I will savour what my eyes could feast,
And I will wait till next January.

मेरा शून्य !!

कुछ चिढ़ता सा चिल्लाता सा,
डरता सा घबराता सा;
बढ़ता है वीरानो का सन्नाटा,
देख मुझे वीराना सा।

कभी हँसी खुशी में ढल जाता,
साँसों में मेरी गल जाता;
पर बढ़ता है अविरल चलता,
देख मुझे दीवाना सा।

हाथों को मेरे थामे,
नदियों और पहाडों पर;
रुकता सा और थकता सा,
पर देख मुझे हीं बढ़ता था।

जिव्हा पर एक जबानी सा,
साँसों में छिपता पानी सा;
गीतों में मेरी हीं कहानी सा,
वीरानो का जो सानी था।

अब तो अथाह में भी मीठापन,
नीले में भरता सादापन;
पर दामन थाम के घूम रहा,
मेरा अब भी मेरा सूनापन।

तीन दिन

दो थपके हों या चार सही,
मिट्टी से निकले आग कहीं?
ठोका, थपका पानी से सींचा,
दो चार ने खड़े हो प्यार से पुछा।

सूखी मिट्टी थी मुरझाई सी,
पानी के करुणा से सकुचाई सी;
कंकड़ पत्थर की वर्षा होती,
सुबह की ओस से वंचित थी।

नए सृजन की आवाज़ उठी थी,
बाहों में भरकर धुप खिली थी;
आटे से उठकर चोकर में मिली थी,
चाकों की बाटों से पिसकर बनी थी।

हल्की बारिश की बूंदों ने जिव्हा पर,
लालच की मिसरी धरी थी;
हाथों में भरकर सुविनय का प्याला,
मिट्टी के होंठों पर रख सी दी थी।

मैं!!

प्रकृति के नियमों को चीरती,
भेदती, एक असामान्य,
असाधारण उलझन काटने,
कचोटने, नोंच खाने आती है।

क्या असामान्य हीं होना
मेरी परिभाषाओं को सार्थक
और परिपक्व बनाती है?
या मुझे असमय सागर में डुबोने का प्रयास?

क्रियाओं में संलग्न जीव,
हर जीव, अपनी परिभाषाओं हीं को तो
सार्थक और शब्दित करने में लगा है।
फिर मैं हीं असामान्य क्यों?

तर्क से इसे खंडित करने पर,
हर जीव असामान्य और
असाधारण सी हीं तो यात्रा करता।
कुपित कुंठित फिर यहीं यह अग्नि क्यों?

इसकी ज्वालाएं शरीर के हर अंग को,
झुलसा, तपा देती हैं।
शायद, सुना है सोना भी कुछ
इसी प्रकार तैयार होता है।

क्या वो आई थी?

किसको लगता है यहाँ वो आई थी,
झाँका था, पलकें झपकाईं थी;
साँसों से सदियाँ महकाई थी,
किसने कहा वो आई थी।

कभी कंगन की आवाजें हैं,
पायल भी झनकाती है;
पर किसके कहने पर आई थी,
और किसको लगता है वो आई थी।

जब घूमा करते थे अंधियारों में,
कानों के झुमके सुन सुन कर;
जब लगता था वो आई है,
कब लगता था वो आई है।

हाथों की खुशबू बहकाती थी,
चेहरे पर हँसी खिल जाती थी;
पर कबसे पूछता घूम रहा,
क्या किसी ने उसे देखा जब वो आई थी?

One got left behind, or did he??

“This is my dream, this is my nightmare,” said the guide who took us camping to the Black and White desert in Egypt. Mine was a 9 day visit to the land of Pharaohs in the month of April, when my Bhaiya and Bhabhi called me to Cairo. I travelled via Nairobi and landed at the Cairo airport in the night. Two of my Brother’s friends were joining us from US of A and then the 3 of us were to proceed to Luxar. The mysticism wrapped pyramids and sphinxes open their arms wide to welcome us in Giza. The sheer magnitude of the structures makes me understand why it is called a wonder of the world. Enthralled by the magnificence and captivated by the sense of smallness I travelled through the sand and got lost in the history. The tales of the Pharaohs, their wars and primarily their belief in the afterlife and all the paraphernalia created around it which pretty much is THE MYSTIC of AGYPTEN. Fascinated as I always was with the splendour this kingdom once was I got drawn in tooth, nail and hair into it all. The visit of Citadel which remains till dare as a reminder of all the invasions Egypt has seen and all the conquerors trying to establish their supremacy.

But at the end of it all the most poignant experience that remained with me was that of Rashid, our guide at the camp in Black and White desert. It is called so because the sea once extended well inside what is today mainland of Egypt. There were under water volcanoes that erupted and resulted in mountains of black stones and limestone. The sea retreated leaving behind these mountains and stones. Rashid remained with us once we reached the village nearest to the campsite. Scruffily dressed in half sleeve shirt, Jeans and a sleeveless camping jacket he appeared a contradiction from the beginning, more out of place than anyone else around and still more in tune with his surroundings than even the palm trees. He remained quite for most part of the trip speaking only when spoken to. After remaining quite for most part myself, trying to soak in all, I settled next to his fire illuminated face in the night and asked him his story.

After a little probing I discovered that he has an engineering degree from the top most college in Egypt and after working for six month returned back to his village. He said he could not take the moronic and fast paced life of Cairo. He came back to his village as he could not think of life without it. After a point he started working as a camp guide to earn some money. “There is not enough of it, but I like staying in the desert, sitting in the sand. This is my dream, this is my nightmare.” With the campfire illuminating his bearded face, pale brown eyes catching the fire dance, smoke of cigarette escaping his tobacco stained mouth, he looked more content than even the Dalai Lama. He touched a chord in my heart which pulls me now to go back to Egypt again and experience it all over again.

PMji ki Amethi

I am travelling like the wind god, Pavan, through the deforested terrains of U.P. Taking the Janata Express from Benares to Ramanagar, the aim is to travel to tiger country. I am as ill equipped as they come, grossly misjudging the weather, the National Park and the train journey itself. I intended to take trains throughout this trip as a means to tear through and introspect. I am constantly reminded of Mr. M.K. Gandhi's train journey before he chose to resume his political career in India. Small grain of salt, though I am, I challenge none around and only myself to carry on unfettered and package home a wider understanding of life itself. Some would argue that life was right where I left it on 2nd Nov but there is no harm in evolving or looking out the window, at the terrain de-evolving.

The train has picked up and started rolling its ball bearings at 11.55 from Benares and in the typical frustration that plagues Indian Railway's patrons I was unable to find my coach to begin with. Nothing is marked and no official about to guide. In the typical Babudom drudgery of India one of them responds "arre kissi mein bhi baith jaiye na." “Just grab a seat in any one of the coaches. When the TC comes he will direct you to your seat.” Hissing loudly, I storm out of the baggage coach and decide to stroll till the end of the platform and Eureka I find S-8 at the fag end of the train loudly proclaiming the reservation chart with my name on it. I climb aboard and find my berth. Prostrating on it I vent my anger and then snooze for a bit. Waking up I find the train tearing through the Ganga basin and one of the most fertile regions in India. Not much has changed. For those who can afford it, the mud houses have changed to brick ones and nothing around has evolved in terms of infrastructure.

I wonder if these people don't have voting rights or if they choose their representatives for promises of simple things like electricity and road which seems absent all around. The train stops at the famed Amethi railway station. I look in amazement and disbelief at a small and insignificant looking village, which but for its name would have gone unnoticed. The Lok Sabha constituency has voted in 3 Prime Ministers, if you include Sonia Gandhi the ruling party's leader as one. I smile wryly, shrug off my disbelief and think if only they were remotely interested in public welfare.