Who Am I?

I am a moment
now ‘n gone.
I am a faint memory
of days begone.

I am a dew-drop
fallen ‘n slipped.
I am a desire
arousen ‘n killed.

I am a flower
blossomed ‘n crushed.
I am a secret
shared ‘n hushed.

I am a heart-beat
skipped ‘n stopped.
I am a dream
dreamt ‘n hoped.

I am love
blooming ‘n strained.
I am a body
dimming ‘n slain.

I am a vision
clean ‘n blurring.
I am lust
coaxing ‘n slurring.

I am a memory
slipping ‘n fading!!!

Ik koshish.........

Soch-Samundar dub jaavan layee,
chote nahi hunde.
Katra katra karke bhijde,
roz mari jayeeye.

Pata nahi kyon tupka tupka,
aa tarsaunda hai.
jee karda hai deek laga ke,
katha pee jayeeye.

Pyas inni vi kee hoyee,
jo bujhdi na jaape.
bujh jaave je kite achanak,
maut nu jee jayeeye.

Mehak fullan ne sambh na rakhi,
aap hi vand dende.
jeeyondeyaan wich shamil hoyeeye,
je inj karee jayeeye.

Deep nahi koi roshan hunda,
laat mamuli ton.
aap hi bal ke shayad,
kise nu zindagi dayee jayeeye.

sorry pretentions

unless of course, you're willing to cut the crap and talk sense to me and not just because I'm a journalist and you're more concerned about making an impression on me.

Contemplating

In the past 14 days,

I've spent 43 hours working out (and lost appropriately too).....

35 hours studying (or trying to)......

15 hours covering music orchestartions (not concerts, western classical black

tie...wine and cheese kinds)......

5 hours eating out (for the food page of course)......

2 hours compiling foreword for Masi's Anthology of verses(long

overdue)......

10 hours screening and editing movies for friends......

26 hours designing bridal shower for close friends' sister......

and the remaining hours fornicating with my new laptop and devicing the new script (as my boyfriend prefers to put it)......

But the biggest is yet to come. . .

My book of Revelations

Being here, at this moment ........ is a volte face.
A pandemonic trance.

Call it sudden adrenalin rush. The two hours spent sweating it out. The sudden momentum of too much knowledge grasping (two units per hour...) The surreal weddings of close friends. Or the sudden apprehension of meeting the PMS beast around the corner......... its just one of those times when you recount the grains that have fallen in the hour glass, against your lifespan.

And the beat slips. I'm one score and three and these years have brought in those inevitable realisations. I may not have it all figured out, but there are some things I know for sure......

that life is the answer to your birth and need not be questioned...
that half of the problems and miseries are self generated...
that a positive attitude always helps...
that regret is the most expensive thing...
that its high time I take my own decisions and stick to them, even if tides are against it...
that one starts to value life the moment one sees death...
that tears are inevitable if faced by violence of any kind...
that if the same tears hadn't been shed behind closed doors, I would'nt have been that better now...
that pain needs to tackled or it travles deep down and rests forever...
that its extremely difficult to forgive and forget and it takes just two seconds to snap off and act detached...
that its easier to smile and convenient to frown...
that the bank of emotions is always half empty and never full...
that love hurts but its worth it...
that people will awlays be reckless with our hearts, but we still let them play...
that the expected never ever happens...
that because the unexpected happens, hope floats and belief grows stronger...
that nothing and nobody can really ever be perfect...
that boneheads seldom comprehend...
that no matter how hard you try, you can never walk straight, because roads are always curved either in the middle or at the ends...
that because they are never straight, we keep looking for curves and don't stop till we do...
that cavities hurt as they are bound to do, but we costantly peer further in them...
that the end is near, as has been since the first we were aware of it...
that in our haste of finishing everything before the end, we hasten it each day...
that each day in life is more precious than the last...
that it has more imagination than what we see in our dreams...
that the simplest gifts come straight from the heart with a lifetime guarantee...
that life is like a blind date, sometimes you just have to have a little faith...

The Apprentice

June 30, 2005 (I remember the date. coz it was me last day there)
Small envelope with even smaller cutouts containing contact details for some scheming jobs… pasted on a lampost bang outside Globus, Bandra. Had a laugh.

Cut to April, 2006, Return of the same envelope. Friends called and sent picture of the same damn thing..........

Employment Raped or what???

children of heaven

Some movies one can't get enough of. A yearning for the frames to keep rolling onto the screen again and again. The maths somehow all work out then. A foot of film has 16 separate images; a second in time, of sound and image has 24; an average feature with synchronised sound has 200,000 images. And sometimes, these images remain etched in the memory and conjure themselves into perfect packages on an idle rain soaked, light deprived Indian afternoon and refuse to leave. Each second lasts an eternity. An eternity of remembrance by the end of which a light hearted glow rests, the same after a passionate night.

I still remember, that rainy July evening, back home in Matunga a season ago. Soaked and arriving back tired from a mentally exhausting day at work. (fevicol fevicol fevicol……..was all I could think!) and cramps in my legs. (not from walking, but skateboarding right into those calves in office again! No fevicol still didn’t work)

And something strangely familiar on the screen warmed me to it immediately. “It’s an Iranian film. Come sit. You’ll enjoy it,” Vicky Mamu invited. And yes, heart warming it was. I still curse myself for not having carried a copy, every time I relive those 89 mins of pure cinematic scopic genius (1:8:1 ) Children of Heaven, written in farsi greeted me with warmth and those broken glasses…………. Couldn’t quiet read those subtitles. Yet cinema spoke to me that rainy evening and I sat glued to my chair. Giggling like a school girl, hugging myself, that heavy feeling welling up the throat at the climax. The movie was pure pleasure.

The story of two siblings, Ali and Zahra. A simple story told simply: a nine-year old Iranian boy accidentally loses his younger sister’s shoes. Their family is poor and probably couldn’t afford new ones, so instead of getting into trouble, the siblings concoct a plan: they’ll share the boy’s pair of sneakers.

The scheme backfires when the boy becomes chronically late for school and is targeted by the headmaster. Ali, a desolate-looking boy with huge brown eyes and a way of sending tears suddenly rolling down his cheeks. As guileless as possible, even when the film contrives to turn the shoe issue into its main dramatic focus, Ali and Zahra meet secretly in the middle of each school day to pass along the sneakers, but that proves to be no solution. Zahra is hampered by ill-fitting shoes at the rigorous girls' school that she attends. And Ali, against all odds, determines to run a long-distance race and win the third-place prize of running shoes for Zahra. But the spirited boy comes first and is forcibly handed the first prize as he keeps on eyeing those pretty shoes that are perfect for Zahra. The peeling pictures, the morose disgust, the apprehension of disappointment drives Ali home alone, with the free trip prize falling out of his pocket and the cup heaving heavily on his frame shifting his weight towards the cup.

And Zahra washing utensils and blowing soap bubbles, awaits her pretty pink shoes and sees Ali’s worn out, torn look and the same torn shoes they share together………..Zahra goes back to her washing and Ali soaks his feet in the pond with little red fish circling his ulcerate feet. A melancholic alto viola fills the square with the sound of a harmonica and Ali’s father walks home with two new shoes.


I still remember watching the credits scroll out of the screen, and Vicky Mamu telling me, “If I had kids, Id make them sit down and watch this movie again and again.” I knew exactly what he meant. It was a call home to mum, which explained it all…………..

A letter

Hey people,

I need to know your firsts. Share those secret memories that youve held for so long. Your first memorable experiences.... Lets not lie, we all jump with joy and gleefully gaze at all our firsts.

Open that treasure box and show me what's inside.

All you musicians............tell me what you heard the first twang that greeted those tuned into ears.
All you performers.........tell me what greeted thee the first time you met the mask you had to adorn.
All you writters..............show me the first cuvers that you scribbled onto those yellowing sheets..
All you players..............make me too sweat it out through your first goal through the post..
All you seers................show me too that foresighted gaze the first time you looked through those new frames..
All you movie-makers..................show me what you saw the first time you look through that (un)familiar iris...
All you exploreres................narrate me that first voyage away from home......
All you people.................tell me the first passionate night, the first lip-lock, the first gaze through souls desired, the first nookie, the first time you tied your shoelases on your own, the first time he smiled your way, the first time she brushed her fingers through those blushing cheeks, the first slip, the first fall, the first jump, the first goof-up, the first test, the first breath, the first wasp bite, the first snake bite, the first dog bite or hey even the first bro - sis bite.

Talk to me ..... Enchant me.... Enlighten me..... I love to listen what makes your world a bit like Neverland.........

Bated breath....

Settling old debts . . .

When did I first meet Gandhi??

It just suddenly struck me, while I was compiling notes for history. Gandhi as a journlaist.....

"When was it that I first met Mahatma?" Was it at a school function? A history lesson in class? A passing mention in a politicians campaign speech? Or did I question the identity of the bald man present on every currency I used to buy my chocolates? My memory fails me and like many others I don't remember my first meeting with Mahatma.

But whichever way I met him; this man left a lasting impression. In my quest to know him better I found out that clad in a dhoti, with the support of a lathi and armed with truth and non-violence my Mahatma, 'Mohan Das Karam Chand Gandhi'; for official records had led our way through the dark forests of slavery.

During my many more meetings with this man through 'his experiments with truth' and his journey 'from Gandhi to Mahatma', I realized that he was an apostle of truth, peace and non-violence.

Today this most celebrated citizen of India suffers from an identity crisis. Do we remember the freedom fighter... the lawyer... Bapu... the nanga fakir... the mahatma...the philanthropist... the father of the nation? How do we recognize him? Or do we recognize him at all?

While writing about Gandhi, I hate to lie. I have forgotten my Mahatma and his teachings. I vote for caste, kill for religion and worship fanatism. I create truths; structure lies and believes that the only way of survival is "an eye for an eye". I'm helpless. I can only silently watch my Mahatma die.

Its not just his ways, I fear soon Gandhi will be ousted. Sponged off our present! What'll remain may be is his feeble presence in history.

Gandhi's Gujarat burns in a communal fury, Jessica cries for justice, diplomats chalk out war plans, and soldier kills his fellowman. Morality is publicly raped and my nation weeps Gandhi's death in as many different ways.
A candlelight protest to throw light on injustice... a hunger strike to save hundreds of lives ... I resurrect from my Mahatma's ashes... the phoenix of a nation on the rise!

The Butterfly effect!!

 

Sex no Bar . . . my first documentary....

Eunuch /’ju;nck/ n. 1 castrated man, esp one formerly employed at an original harem or court. 2 a person lacking effectiveness (political eunuch). {ME f. L. eunnuchus f. Gk. eunokhos lit. bedchamber attendant f. eune bed + second element rel, to ecko hold}

from the concise oxford dictionary of current english
---------------------------------------------------------

From the ethos of humanity
Rises a deformed figure
Burn it
We are sexless
We laugh, breathe, cry and scream
Our flesh melts too
Tattoos on our cheeks
Jasmines in our hair
We are dark and even fair
Dignity? We speak and wear our skin on the fore
We walk the streets on which your silent feet tread,
Virgin blood oozes from our wounds
The bruises life marks us with
You suffer too, oh gentle human form
But though perfection reeks from your skin
Our plague ridden deformities blesses thy kin
Make us an instrument of life we pray each night
As neither male, nor female but as the third kind.


Sex No Bar released today, with the sweat and blood
of six movie makers....

Today.... sudden contentment...............

They let us into their worlds,
and helped us discover worlds within us ......

Here's to more movies, more contentment, more eunuchs to find...............
Eye Scream Productions first shot...
first documentary.
first snap of the shutterbug
straight from the iris....

When will such a moment be, when the camera never has to stop rolling......
Oh! gentle human form...

Just. . .

I'm Happy today....

A contented relief....

A sigh of hesitation....

After a long time......

Those wrinkles on the forehead seem to have finally rested........
A gleeful calm smile rests on my lips.........
Irises are weary but are still shining..............

I'm finally finally Happy Today................

Lest I stumble

Fatigue such as this.

Relief such as this.

Emptiness such as this.

I await more such.

When, IF (I will! I will!) I write the book.

And those tenderly harboured dreams of doing a doctorate.

But what I can't grapple with ~
this ineffable, overarching, faceless sorrow.

O what plagues thy little heart that thou hast poured on paper?
that tomorrow will adorn the shelves of the library
for the world to see, for the world to read
O what a remarkable piece of work is a woman
O what stories incense out of derelict gates
and you imped with sensitivity
and you believer in serendipity
O what plagues thy little heart that thou hast poured on paper?

Warped & Twsited-II

Abey yaar! when the hell is this God Damn Term Paper gonna finish and the documentary be all edited...................

Me going out of my head........................

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee................

Kisne bola tha itna complicated subject lene ko......

Bloody no eunuchs are willing to dance or perform and neither is this term paper condensing....................

History presentation too due..........
How the hell am I supposed to condense 50 years of Media, including print, radio and television in under ten minutes.....

I never knew losing weight could be that stressful and 'heavy.....'

weighed in 7 below normal today....... Not good.....

P.S. my normal is usually 10 over ..... No one scared of me now

Newsroom Action...

It may sound weird but I think in many ways journalism is like an adventure sport. Obviously by saying this I don't intend to undermine the seriousness of the profession in any way but just the pace and unpredictability of what lies ahead makes it addictive.

If you've been in the newsroom when there's breaking news, you'll know what I'm talking about.

And not just breaking news, there's a deadline that needs to be met every hour. The pressure, the urgency and the desire to put out the best in as little time as possible. It's like the night before your exam when you can't afford to waste a second. When you drug yourself with caffeine and curse the university board for making the paper so tough. But as you're doing that you're also loving every second of it.
Only in the newsroom there's an exam every hour and the entire team runs around to make sure we pull it off. Just like these last two weeks.

Session's ending and so is the backlog of work suddenly piling up. There's the term paper due in a week. The documentary waiting to be cut on the editing board. The freaky assessmnets everyday. Presentations, tests, project reports..........Argh! If there was such a thing as endless waiting; Im begining to understand the meaning now. But as they say, you do actually tend to work better under pressure and its this thrill of an escapade that is so stimulating. Suddenly, I want to get hold of all those books I never really got down to reading. Just a walk to the bookstore around the corner, or as in this case the 'deadline around the corner!''

I remember my exit interview with Piyush Pandey, the National Creative Director of Ogivy, Mumbai almost a year ago. I had actually gone in to get my work analysed, when he ended up counseling me, with me all looking excited and all. Of course! its the brain behind Fevicol, Cadbury's, Happy Dent White, HT. I had to be jumping out of my mind. (was already doing loops in my head.) Anyway, he'd asked me really passionately 'so does media give you a buzzzz?' I obviously didn't know what the f**k he was talking about but I'd said 'yesss' like it was the only thing that ever mattered to me. If he'd asked me if I preferred a chocolate brownie to a 'sheermaal' god knows I would have said yes with equal conviction. But really today I know what the poor freak was talking about.

If you've worked in media once, you're spoilt for life; because there's nothing else you'll ever enjoy doing.

The Gods must've been playing Holi in the Sky

A play of colours on a placid morning.
A ray of sunshine splitting through the morning sky.
A gust of torrential rain sweeping the blues, greens, pinks and purples.
A shiver of ice running down with each tear of the Heavens.

A breath of the stormy seas waving the skyline.
A sound of thunder cracking the reef of the clouds.
A particle of spectrum bleeding through the air-
traveled through the known to the unknown.

A hiss of the rubber skidding off the tar.
A trail of white gripping the path.
A hue of white frost garnishing rosy skin tarts.

Then suddenly
A rageful spark of warmth in the air.
A hum of sunshine splits midday again.
A puddle of water is all that remains
A melted platoon of little white dots in the fields -
scattered everywhere...

To think its March 2006
And have played Holi on the virgin Kasauli Hills.

Pue Bliss!!

The day The God's coloured the Earth white and then green. . . . .

Scoff

What music is this?
That you keep playing inside your mouth.
Ever so quietly that I can't catch the tune.

What sport is this?
That you follow between the branches and adrift eyes.
Like the winner is somehow superior.

What literature is this?
That you fire behind doors of dignity.
If the only literate were you.

What plot is this?
That playeth hide-n-seek like a weasel.
Only thorns are inevitable.

HOLI

The best thing about painting when your canvas is human is that the dirtier your canvas, the better artist you are. And ofcourse, it goes without saying that if you’re not the best artist, you’re the dirtiest canvas!

Holi-day 2006, my firts splash in colour. and it was fun!!!

A complete kaliedescope...... and I enjoyed every bit of it.......

Would I try it again??? Can't wait to...

And the best part it rained.... The Heavens parted, shed tears, washed away my inhibitions and fears..............

Soaked me in colour. Smudged the fine grey lines of black and white I try so hard to carve into myself.

Techicolour existence against a backdrop of a gloomy sky.....

Poetic? not quite.............Its all real

Nostaligia

Re-reading the words
resting in the first few pages
took me back to when
my days spiraled around you.

Unfolding an old cloth
memories flew out like dust
that gather over time
that nobody particularly put there,
along the creases of time,
in the deepest folds of life.

Two lines of nothingness
a stationary moment
short silences, long walks
strumming guitar
on a cold January night
praying, promising, pizzaing,
mulling, musing, musicing.

I gather my words, memories, dust
safekeeping a time
I hold very, very dear.