Sunday, December 18, 2011

For Moments

Life is short-like the winter morning at your window with its white layers and a bewildered orange sun.

The green paint you dabbed on the wall, yellow stick ons of work which flutter like busy sparrows, a cheap map to remind about places to go...

There is never enough time to stare into nothingness. Desert journeys which get drenched in songs of rain and end with a silly string of camels lined up in a bead. A small pub in a quaint town with people and ideas which will float and stay like butterflies in your head....

Moments are like stray need to bind them in some haphazard have the honour of listening to the most exquisite tunes.

Time can also pass by you all dead and still and moth balled. The shrill monotone by which you earn your bread, the dead wall of arguments which lure you to bang your head against them, the choicest morning curses showered on the auto wallah.

So need to keep stealing moments and hours and days and float, to read, to make, to write, TO MOVE...

There is nothing in the world like the surprise of a new land with all its odd ballness looking you in the eye for the first time.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011


Hey street lights on the way, we haven't sat down for a cup of coffee for a while. Need to light and float those lamps in water. For the moments when TIME likes to sit down and explain a thing or two. This too should pass and soon the dust on the road will become everything.

Hey haggard old rain, yes, need to pay your muddy pools a pale little paper boat. In return for the debt of drizzles when hope fluttered to fragile tunes.

Hey flowers which bloom all over the park in a frenzy, hey majestic grey mountains who knock on the train window, hey rainbow which condescends to land on a window wiper...there is a post card written and signed for you, left near the door. Just ask the wind to carry it to your way.

Friday, May 13, 2011

On Life

There ain't any cross roads. Sadly, they don't make it in that bound Hollywood script way. Some one in the sets says a line, and it stealthily makes its way into the dialogue. The lead actors get caught up in a traffic jam or just decides to bunk. The stand in person gives the take and it looks almost fine. A baffling story line, at times with more melodrama than all the Latin American soaps put together, at times just random nothing no signal noise for ages, at times banana peel slapstick comedy which will make your heart break with laughter, at times rivers of sorrow borrowed from Greek tragedy with  a hint of Shakespeare and no clear indication of the fatal flaw. And, the audience walks out dazed caught between improbable and just what was it all about . May be it is  supposed to be an experimental work which sucks at places, with no intention of communicating just about anything, deeply profound at the wrong places and childishly simple and weird in patches.
Please pop into the shop and buy a bit of Zen, available in chewing gum flavours.

Friday, April 8, 2011

The evening will arrive, in all its solemness. A pile of wood, shafts of fire. A hoard full of onlookers. 
"Take a couple of rounds and then, jump in", some one will tell in a matter of fact manner.
To rituals which smell like burnt hair how do you explain that you are from the living?

Monday, April 4, 2011


There are days when self  feels like freezing real life like a live chicken and closing the freezer door shut. All  done and now, let us get back to work.

There is work fuming, cribbing, falling apart. If only I could cut out the multi coloured multi layered crap which plays on loop all the time and just decide to be glued to the edit machine.

Never believe when they tell you that you can do a day job, earn enough money and follow your dream through a few left over hours. By evening brain will  be in a blender and mind might be conjuring up a meditating Buddha in the midst of the 6 O' clock traffic jam.

Then in the true spirit of people who handle their lives not very well, you could dial up a few loved numbers and give out quack therapy sessions on how other people should screw up their lives.

Between, whatever is the fun of life lived the right way? The memory of those moments when you took the wrong turn and ended up in the wrong way. "If I had done that life would have been some thing else, I would have been some one else"- aren't those moments priceless? What is the fun of being our boring selves if not for the idea of losing a chance at being some one or some thing else.
Shouldn't have left in that hurry. The idea of homeland is most beautiful when it is a nostalgia.
But then, how else will you know that you don't belong any where and is hence forth free to float

Some times life has this habit of giving an eraser to you and wishing you good luck with it. So, just shut the eyes tight and let whatever is falling apart go away.

Some day the sea will wash in truck loads of sand and a few sea shells. Then one can may be pull life out of the freezer for a bit of fresh air.

Friday, March 18, 2011


Soon enough yet another rejection letter will arrive from one more esteemed source. When they said hang in there, they might have meant a lot. Or it was just another ingredient to sell self help syrup.

In a sudden shaft of pain might leave the slippery grip to fall with a thud.

Pen sits there giving a smirky smile reminding of a decade old decision-never to send yet another word on a begging round, in search of a publisher.

It would be yet another of those decisions. Place the lens cap on the camera and to leave in a mental sense of the term. To start one more half venture to leave half way down the lane. Unfinished structures with poky grills smelling of cement and failure.

'Failure'-When Santa Claus, Sharukh Khan, True Love and similar tooth fairies died in a natural and heart breaking way at the grand old age of 27, that was one more word which went down. In a nice Rumi moment, that too became another inception, just like 'success'.

Still..To make in the lurking doubt that it might never see much light in the day. To make in the half knowledge that it might never become anything like what was in your head.To give everything to some thing like that.........

May be should take a strong self help syruppy shot

Friday, February 18, 2011

Touch of wind

Chaos, din, getting lost, work tumbling over with the smell of undone laundry, asking the way to the airport in sign language, falling in line in the queue for aliens, removing even shoe buckle to ease every body's idea of fear, trying to mug up whateverish to English dictionary, losing friends, carrying the guilt of not being there, unwritten letters, forgotten phone calls, following the religion of transience, remembering forever to accumulate less, having just enough money for the potato wedges, staying good at being no body's anyone

...every thing..........

For the memory of the touch of wind on skin....

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Homage for Endings

There must be different kinds of hell for different people. Self's kind will be called writing hell. The moment anyone or anything ordains self to write a few sentences about some thing under the sun, self's brain will start running like an out of order washing machine, all sound and fury with no signifying word on the paper or computer screen. Mind you, this happens only when the writing is for anything  fruitful. The logs of this rambling non sense blog will testify that while writing  for any pointless purpose, self can go on and on, even though the result may not signify anything.

Till now the record has been 5 fucking hours to write a sentence. Today self would have almost broken that record, but then fell short of an hour or so. Well, breaking records is not an easy task. Still, 300 words need to be typed and send to the rightful destination before the clock touches midnight. Situations like these very often prompt self to write crap poetry or some thing similar. So, true to the tradition, self has started filling this space instead of the bread and butter worthy 300 words.
Pour a bit more water, light a few more agarbathis and set the spirits of bygones free to a place from where they will never return.
The curse is broken and endings form a procession in all their finery.
Dear poet, keep your lines of spring, how lucky are the ones who can witness fall.
Let the trees shed their tears and give out sighs of relief.
Touch the feet of emptiness and mutter heartfelt thanks.

A few thousand miles here and there. Isn't the world supposed to be a round place?
Spring must be like death, it will find you wherever you are

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Film Screening

Some times you can slog through months, make the 7kg camera bag your tortoise shell, rot in an edit room for 12 hours a day for weeks on end, produce an almost decent film- and then ruin it all on the screening by simply opening your mouth.

There are films which will be saved if the director does it a service by staying at home. Self's film is definitely one among them.

It was home turf and self walked in confidently with not an iota of preparation apart from the customary nervousness about talking to more than four people at a time.Was in that airy state which reads a bit like "have slogged my ass off to make that little thing on dvd. Now relax, sit back, watch it and give me a few seconds of 'filmmaker' glory"

Of course such an attitude is sure to end in a slipping fall with a decent amount of sound effects. To cut a long story short, self managed to dismantle almost every thing the film stood for through a few badly timed sentences. Through a few twists and turns self drove the film right into the heart of  the ghetto from which it was trying to run away from. The ice cold look on the face of the adorable but right wing kid honked it way too loud-boss, you are in the wrong lane.

Hell, if left alone, the film would have tried its best to do that tight rope journey to where it was supposed to go. But what to do if you have the albatross of a 'filmmaker' to bear , that too one who is hell bent on plonking every thing.

While walking back, wished it wasn't home turf.Then, you could just walk away from the mess into the sunset with a "THE END" swagger. There will be no guilt of making any little cute kid a bit more of Hitler's cousin

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


Placid calmness,
I will meet you somewhere down the road, after each particle in brain is pulled over in some random senseless direction, about some thing very important, which couldn't ever wait.
Some where at a dog eared corner of the organiser amidst a cacaphony of things to do, there is a small note for you also.

One day will leave the din, forget the things to do, plunk the phone in a pool, lose the mobile internet connection and  will leave with just the humility of a wanderer. Will stop just eyeing the roads through tinted glass of air conditioned travel coaches and will join the trail of the dust. Will stop treating love like another chore, with a list of friends to be met per fornight and routine calls to mom.Will blink into an oblivion, knowing well that those who matter will still be around.

Will listen to the old monk's wisdom in  a strange incomprehensible language, will sit by the river, walk through the mountains,graze the sheep,wear the dancer's anklets and the monk's renunciation. Will live many lifetimes and will learn the insignificance of existence.
Till all that unfolds, please stand near the corner of the din, and let me be a very busy head clerk

Friday, January 7, 2011


Unending landscape rolling near the window..glow of yellow mustard fields beneath the warm eyes of evening sun... stink from the train's clogged urinal...8 hour delays, bumpy bus rides, oily street food- another place.

You with the red robes and shaved heads and torturous journeys to cross the border- please bring in my cup of nirvana, with a hint of sugar. Talk of peace, moving beyond desires....unclutter the mess of tangled wires within my head. 

You the machans with killer shades, multi coloured lungis, blaring stereos and inquisitive questions- please stand by and be my kitsch backdrop. 

Let me ruminate, think over tomorrows, strike away a few yesterdays, search into as much soul that is left within  and be all ready- for the din, traffic, crazy deadlines, rat race and everything else which is the reason why I should leave by the weekend train.