What's the matter...

'What's the matter?'
'Nothing'
'No, something is up.. What is it?'
'No, it's nothing'
'hmmmm... you're not telling'
'Its NOTHING'

I've been asked this often and continue to be inflicted with this question ever so-often. Its almost as if you're at this unwanted center of attention, trying to always explain your expression, impression or state. Now, I don't know if I am sooo interesting that it keeps happening to me or my vibes are extremely strong or maybe people around me have downright boring lives or I am just being unnecessarily maniacal, but this observation stands.

Why should I always be truthful about what I'm feeling? Is it like a cardinal sin to not share? Get a life everybody. I'm not letting anyone in. I refuse to be the one satisfying your voyeuristic urges. If you can find an underhanded way of getting in, good for you, but beware that you will be thrown out at first sight.

Sometimes I just invent something to say, just to appease someone's burning fire to 'know'.

So, nothing is the matter with me.

Read the subtle signals, invest some energy... but stop trying to 'get in'...

Black Beauty Escapades

Another day, as usual, had passed by like a blur. There was a lot going on on many fronts. I rested my pained body on my couch staring into space. I looked at the watch and it was eight in the evening. Many of my friends from all over the world had been partying in Goa since days and I was getting another one of those incessant calls to come there. I was contemplating on ideas of love and life.

Flash. I got up, picked up my helmet, put in one t-shirt, towel, swimming gear and my toothbrush in my laptop bag and headed out of the door. My small bag was bursting at its seams. The decision, to go, as it seemed, was not one which jelled with the energies of the universe. My key chain, which was anyway symbolic, a small brass chariot wheel with one wheel missing, completely came off. Black Beauty, as I lovingly call my faithful motorbike, refused to start. At least five of the closest people in my life called me in a matter of ten minutes. I felt like I was going to die if I went. So, I fixed the key chain, force started the bike and told everyone that I'm fine. It was surreal and the thought of so many signs at once did not leave my being for the next hour. My heart was beating fast. I kept driving. 

Then I realised a very important fact, I did not know the way. Now, how does one know the way to a place six hundred kilometers away. One imagines it'll be straight, like highways normally are but I was wrong. I had driven for about two hours and was faced with two big boards, both pointed in different directions and both had Pune written on it with different highway numbers. So I did my mental coin tossing after not finding anyone around to ask and turned to the left. Another fifty odd kilometers went by and there was no signage. I wondered where I was but kept going. Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, there were four official highway patrol cars with flashing lights flagging me down. For a moment I felt like a criminal from one of those FBI video's. They told me that I was on a fast expressway where two wheelers were not allowed. It seemed like a major offense in the manner they spoke to me. I apologized, but they insisted on taking me to the police station. So, two hours into my journey, it was interrupted. I felt that the universe had had enough of me, it gave me a hundred signs to not be so dumb and outrageous and now it sent the police after me. I was prepared to spend the night at the station.

As I entered a dingy little shack, I was immediately handed a cup of tea. The inspector took one look at my bike number which was a delhi registration, another look at my attire which was a tibetan om t-shirt with flowy harem style pyjamas and immediately came up with a story inside his head that I was a restless traveller. He seemed very impressed and almost fell to my knees when I told him that I work in films. He had many ideas of scripts and songs. We debated, chatted and sang old film songs for an hour, his men who had flagged me down gave each other puzzled looks, and finally, I casually got up and said I should go. His so-called 'power men' were instructed like servants to escort me to the nearest diversion off the expressway. I sat in the front seat like a king trying to make conversation with them but they just gave monosyllabic responses so I kept shut. 

I was left at a junction in the middle of nowhere. There was no street lamp, no person, no sign of existence, not even the night time animal sounds. So much for pushing up my ego with the power men. I was faced with a narrow meandering road with a dense forest on both sides and the trees shaking hands above me. There was complete silence and I felt it to be a cinematic moment. So, shifting the background music in my head from low frequency silence to warrior drum beats, I kick-started the Black Beauty, had a moment of connection with it and started off. Thirty minutes into the dense forest, there was still no civilization. I started singing songs to myself to kill the eerie silence around me, even the moonlight couldn't find its way to me. An hour passed. Nothing.

Finally I saw a lone kerosene lamp with an old man making tea for himself sitting by it. I asked him for the way to Goa, he didn't seem to understand my language. I stopped and asked for a cup of tea, he gave me half of his cup. I was a bit hesitant at first but went for it. As soon as I took a sip, he smiled. That I couldn't figure out. I imagined him sitting in the same place since decades waiting for someone to come and share a cup of tea with him. We sat facing the forest, both with cups of tea and a lamp between us and did not speak a word. I smiled at him and I tried to pay him as I got up. He did not accept any money. Just pointed to a trail nearby. I gestured if he was sure. He put his hand on my shoulder and speaking for the first time told me in broken hindi, 'to trust'.

So I ventured into the trail and the black beauty started missing, probably because of being manhandled by those highway rogue's. It was like it was coughing and I rubbed its fuel tank, talking to it and trying to make it feel better. It gathered the necessary courage almost immediately and zoomed off. 

The highway welcomed me a few hours later and the first signboard said: Goa-620 kms. I went on the other side to see how far I had come and it said: Mumbai-50 kms. Well, after 5 hours of leaving Mumbai, I was actually only an hour away. I was facing the mumbai milestone and I almost felt like telling myself to quit and return home. At the precise moment I had that thought, my bike revved up without my doing anything and I had to control the involuntary race with the clutch. I thought of it as a sign to go then but this problem would plague me for my entire journey. 

So began my conquest of never ending winding roads. There is this extremely frustrating thing about Indian highways. The kilometer readings are all mixed up. It says 620, then when you've travelled for an hour, it'll confidently tell you 560, after half hour more it'll say 580. I stopped seeing the milestones beyond a point, they were frustrating and demotivating. 'What the fuck is wrong with you milestone?' No response. 

This detail would be incomplete without me mentioning the joy of traveling on a bike. It's a freeing feeling with the engine whirring under you, the wind invading your senses and 'being' and you zipping past the landscape, feeling every moment of it. Its like you're suddenly much more aware and alive. The good thing was that I had just bought a helmet a couple of days ago and one with a good visor. I tried to get a feel of the wind against my face and all I got, at least in the night, was mosquito’s in my eyes. So, every some kilometers I had to clean my windshield off the mosquito dead bodies. It was a massacre and I wasn't very happy with the feeling of having killed so many. I mourned every time. 

Another thing about this highway was that they had made the roads to be really good. They were smooth, there was less traffic and one could go at a really high speed on the straight stretches. But, in between these long stretches, there would more than often be these really really bumpy patches of unfinished road. Expected this of the official highway organisation. So, being constantly careful and alert was of essence. The signs had to be proved wrong.

It was 2 a.m now and my eyes were giving away. I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. I was crying for a hotel to come by but none came for about an hour. My butt and back was seriously hurting. This was a hotel with a locked grill gate. I tried to open it, couldn't. Desperate, I started banging against the grill. One of the men woke up, opened the gate, gave me an absurd rate for a room for four hours, none of us were in any state to have a bargain battle so I gave him my figure and he agreed. This was one of the dirtiest hotel rooms I had ever encountered. Being a freak, I thought of cleaning it (they had very strategically placed a broom and mop in one corner of the room) but simply passed out on the rickety bed. 

I woke up to a knocking sound on my door exactly three hours later. It was the groggy guy wanting his room vacated. I said I have an hour more, he said no and just stood there. I craned my neck to look at the corridor on either side, the hotel was empty, all doors were locked from outside and here was this bizarre guy wanting his lone 'taken' room back. I took out a hundred-rupee note, put it in his shirt pocket and shut the door on his face. An hour later, he was there again but this time I was ready with my bag. I walked past him.

Now, there was one thing I didn't account for all my craziness, the cold. It was cold, freezing cold and there was fog. This was just the hills, not the Himalayas, I said to myself. So, I put on the extra t-shirt I had over the current one and journeyed on. Five hours more of continuous driving and it was time for breakfast. This was a restaurant on a hilltop with no town fifty kilometers either way and it had a menu which ran into some twenty odd pages. I ambitiously ordered scrambled eggs and a hot chocolate. What came was a cheese omelet with a glass of milk with bournvita on the side. These people were living in some different world altogether. I didn't contest my meal, the waiter looked at me with a gleeful expression. I left him a generous tip. He came running as I left, saying I had left my money. I told him to keep it and he looked back like I was god-sent and had just saved his dying son's life. 

The drive continued. It didn't seem to end. Ghats, hills, mountains, ocean, forest, rocky roads, forest again, hills... the landscape was truly thrilling. I drove like a man on a mission. Finally, I was a hundred kms away from Goa. My stomach was grumbling again. Lunch stop. I walked into a dhaba, again in the middle of nowhere.

An old man smoked sitting outside, a boy of ten was cleaning the dishes, a woman, maybe the boy's mother sat on the floor in a corner staring into space. The boy asked what I wanted, I asked what he had and he rattled off with the menu. I only caught egg and curry and roti. So that was decided. After waiting for about an hour, I saw his mother walking in with a packet full of fresh tomatoes and other ingredients. OKAY, now this was not happening. They were just starting to cook my meal, from scratch. I gave the little boy a troubled look and all he told me was, 'All is well'. I smiled and sat back.

Ten minutes later, the boy and the mother were having an argument. Half cut tomatoes lay untouched. That was it. I picked up the knife and starting making my lunch. They felt apologetic but I had to take charge. So, old man, little boy and grumpy woman, all joined in and we made a splendid lunch, for all of us. We sat and ate together like a family. They fed me like a son who had returned from war. The old man blessed me. The woman almost packed some left over food for me which I politely refused. The little boy hugged me and asked if I would take him with me. Now this was becoming way too cinematic for me. I told him in a very 'full of wisdom' like voice that he would one day find his own way. He looked at me with straight eyes and told me that he wanted to go… NOW. I said no and zoomed off, thinking in retrospect that I had just paid for a lunch I cooked.

Goa, one km left. My heart was beating faster and I was thrilled that I had made it. I entered beautiful Goa and called my friends. They were someplace I had not heard of. On asking around, they told me that this place was another hundred kms away. This broke me. Another hundred… for god’s sake. So again started the longest lap of my ride. Finally, I made it. 

We were at a secluded beach in South Goa. My whole Goa experience was a mix of reading, sleeping, walking, drugs, sex, alcohol, love, pain, expensive wine, silence and a lot more. The less said about it, the better, in the interest of myself and other parties involved. Although, our hotel cum favorite restaurant cum bar is worth mentioning. They would normally take an hour to get an order, only after at least five reminders. Else, they would just forget. Sometimes we would order and just go for a walk. Sometimes we would come back, sometimes not. Nobody would mind.

Goa happened. And Black Beauty had rested for two full days. I had a charming breakfast and was tired after getting no sleep at night but still left with a vengeance. 

At least I knew the way now. So I zoomed. I was much more free mentally and emotionally, so I was enjoying the view around. It was breathtaking and every so often, I would stop to just sit and admire. 

The day passed with a lot of driving and an occasional stop for tea, snacks and a late lunch. I couldn't find the places I had been to on my way earlier. The sun had set and I still had five more hours to go. I was driving through the treacherous winding hills in the night. I didn't think much of it earlier until someone decided to spray a lot of sand on a really steep curve. Black Beauty slipped. I went flying off towards the railing which had a deep cliff on its other side. I could see myself fly in slow motion. My whole life passed by me in a flash, the signs of death which I had got also did and I thought that this was it. At that last thought, my hand hit and clasped onto the railing. I was on the cliff side of the railing and holding on to my dear life. There was silence... for the longest time. I did not dare look down. All I could see was the ring on my thumb finger. I tried to shout. I could not. My vocal chords seemed to have gone mute. There was no one to hear me for at least a hundred kms anyway. So, almost like maradona's 'hand of god', my left hand also brought itself to the railing and pulled me up. There was a slight sigh of relief. I remembered my mac was in my bag. I pulled it out to see if it was working fine.

This was a funny sight in retrospect. Me sitting with my beaten bike on a hill in the middle of nothingness and darkness staring at the apple logo in the middle of my screen. Mental check happened: Don't carry your mac on a long journey, especially on a bike. I checked on Black Beauty, it was smashed from the front. The one wheel chariot keychain was missing. I was free, finally. I did some fixing up by hand and tried to work it. I had just been saved from death by an inch and was just too lucky at that moment to be stuck there with the bike having broken down. 

It started immediately. The headlight was pointing in a weird right hand top direction. But I had no reason to complain. I waited for the next car to come along. So, the rest of my drive in the nighttime was spent just taking cover behind cars. Some were slow, some were fast and some were just irritating enough to have no consistency. One of them was of note. A driver who was the probably the best I had ever encountered. Driving an SUV, the overtaking was perfect, every decision perfectly timed and calculated, no speed irregularities, just balanced precise driving. I had a lovely time following this car and it somehow understood my need and fell right in line to help. As soon as I had to go my own way, I thought of peeping into the car and see this marvel of a man and it was a beautiful woman. That was a moment. I would have married her at the time if she asked. I smiled at her, she smiled back, gave me a casual sailor's salute and drove off. The women in my life... always of note. 

Mumbai at last. I entered the city and I felt I had gone for years and now returned. As I was basking in the happiness of the moment, Black Beauty choked and stopped. I was out of fuel. 

I got off and with all the courage I had left, starting doing my final lap on foot. The road seemed never ending and I was an hour away from home. An old sikh man on a beat-up bike appeared out of nowhere and told me to arrange for some rope. I told him I had none. He started looking around in the bushes around as if he knew the exact spot. I was too exhausted to debate or make sense of what was happening. It suddenly struck me… there was someone who was helping me. I shook myself up and tried to get my tired brain to think. The towel. I took it out and his face lit up. Only a sikh man can do this in this country, be so eager to help another and go out of his way at it. So he tied the towel to the back of his bike and since it was not very long, I had to hold onto it with my hand and the bike steering with another. I held onto my towel as tight as I could and we kept driving. He was a crazy angel of a man. While we were doing the balancing act, he wanted to talk to me about random things about me and him. All I could think of was the towel which was slipping out of my hand, one millimeter at a time. I noticed my hands, they were black and burnt from the sun. I was two shades closer to my Black Beauty and another five away from my White Beauty.

We made it to the fuel station and then his bike refused to start. I got off from mine and wanted to help. Then I heard him talk to his bike and I was so happy to know that I'm not the only inanimate object talking crazy person around. I touched his feet, he hugged me instead. And we went our ways.

So, I reached home.

Show me the love...

So.. what do I love..

Other than people and 'select' things, I love doing new things, exploring new possibilities and eureka moments. Now reflecting back on what I just wrote, I'm thinking that my list doesn't include making movies, painting or designing. Strange.. Considering that I've always told myself and believed that to be truly good at what you do and be content and happy at it, you need to love it as if that is the only thing you think about... the only thing which drives you...

But my loves don't include anything tangible... I love the beautiful, the deep, the mysterious but nothing which can convert to a profession. Of course, whatever I do now is an off shoot of what I love but that is not it. I don't know what to love so much that I give my life to it. That really explains my career jumping way of life. Can I really love something as deep? Am I not the special child I was always told I am? I always believed I was but that image of me for myself is slowly fading away.

I am becoming a mortal, someone who can be broken, who can be broke, who can not be good at some things. I'm not good at everything. That is a realization. That 'possibilities are endless' phrase has long been taken for granted by me. Its time to grow up...

And as the influence of the wine wears off, I see me telling myself yet again...

I CAN DO ANYTHING... YES I CAN..

I AM..

A for apple... B for ball...

I'm sitting in a cafe overlooking the mountains with amazing italian food, surrounded by fellow searchers and travelers and an unmeasurable amount of spiritual energy to deal with. It's pouring outside while I put on my pullover and socks and get cozy. Technology seems so 'uncalled for' when in such a beautiful environment. I feel like home... at peace.. in sync. 

Until today morning, I was thinking of the thousand different things I have to do, the obstacles preventing me from doing them and it hit me like a bolt of lightning, the mantra I had started out with, to go with the flow.. a moment at a time. They all seem so unimportant now. I'm thoughtless and I love it. This definitely makes writing very difficult but I have a constipated urge to let it all out. Coming here has made me realise of how crowded my mind is in the city. Can I lead this life in the city? Now that I have re-realised the difference, I may be able to. Things such as career and ambition seem so out of place here. As of now, I don't have a house, I don't know where my work is headed and I'm still grappling with recovering from a break up of a five year relationship. I don't know what we are doing on earth, but its surely not for making a career or a house or to be unhappy for any reason. Growing up in India, phrases like 'you came with nothing and will go with nothing' are part of everyday life. I'm content, in love, at peace... 

The tomato basil soup just came in with some garlic bread and the beautiful lady looking at me lovingly all this while takes it upon herself to feed me... If there is any heaven on earth.. this is it... 

I continue this post after exactly one month of a roller coaster ride of finding a house, settling life in the city - yet again and here I am, the mountains have been replaced by concrete buildings, the lovely lady is seven continents away, the past relationship is amicable, my work still in a state of suspended animation and.... and I'm still at peace. For me, just like the title of this post suggests, I'm back to the basics.. A for Apple.. B for Ball.. 

Of how women are taking over my world

The day had just passed by like a blur as I rested my head on my pillow after months of slave labour. My mind was experiencing one of those few moments of thoughtlessness. I brought my hand towards my face. I realised I hadn't shaved for months now. Going a little further towards my hair, I figured the state I was in and made an instant decision. I had to go the salon... immediately. The thoughtlessness was broken... for a good cause of course, but the blissful feeling or whatever its chemical equivalent is called remained.

I walked down the sea lined road, admired the palm trees lining the road, happy faces, beautiful women enjoying the breeze, even the slum dwellers seemed to be having such a good time. It was truly a happy day for the world and I was aware. Pushing the front door of the salon open like I owned the place, just like I owned the world for the day, I walked in to face a smiling girl at the reception in a smart black body hugging uniform. This was a first, a girl receptionist in a men's salon. A good way to increase clientele, I told myself. After explaining to her what all I wanted to get done, I went towards the usual services section to my usual chair looking for my usual guy who knows the detailing which goes into cutting my small but delicate crop of hair.

Change was the theme for the day and I, as usual, was just going with the flow. The first look my eyes gathered was a woman getting her eyebrows done. I settled into my chair, taking another look at the woman getting tormented by another woman with a thread. Well, my favorite salon had become unisex. Another one of my manly escapes had been lost. A flurry of thoughts were flowing through my blissful thoughtless head when the smily, not so beautiful in close-up, receptionist showed up and introduced me to her new staff. A young beautiful girl was to give me a hair cut.

Whhaaaatttttt.... seriously. No woman is touching my beautiful hair..

'Where's Rakesh I asked', I asked. 'Oh! We had to let go of him as we were restructuring', the now ugly receptionist replied, still smiling. With that, I heaved a huge sigh and surrendered myself into the hands of an untested woman with beautiful hands. The battle started.

The phone rang. I had thought of leaving the big black thing at home but had to carry it out of fear of my supposed not-so-legalised but very dangerous when angry better half. It was not her, it was my kind-of-legalised sweet-poison dangerous woman colleague from office wanting another task executed. The world became all grim, the happy faces started to disintegrate, everyone was rushing to get somewhere, the city was suddenly at its busiest best. I was no longer the ruler, the special one. I was just the random guy next door. Well, the girl got over her haircut, suggesting facials, massages etc.. Maybe she even offered to sleep with me but I was too bored and lost to listen to her ranting.

Getting out of that paradise now under the spell of a black witch, I gathered myself and started the process of taking an auto-rickshaw to office but guess who decided to steal the rickshaw I was about to take, another woman. There is this thing about 40 plus women in India, especially the ones married with children.

They think it is their natural birth right to get first right to everything like they're disabled or something, ready to fight over everything and anything. Guess who always wins and is always right in their head..

My mom called me. She wanted to know about when I was sending her favorite painting print, meeting her friend in Mumbai, calling up some other random relatives, getting my hair cut (I had just done it.. one point up!), when I was coming to Delhi myself.. and the usual everyday q & a’s. Sometimes I think our conversations are like a never ending loop.

Where were the men, I was asking myself. Looking around, I could not see any, just imagine, not one man alone walking with his head held high. The only ones to be seen were the ones looking down and walking behind their wives or driving their wives or convincing their wives. For that moment, that was the state of the world. The hardcore psychotic feminists had won. Not that I’m not for equal right, I’m quite a feminist in my own right. But this… this was simply taking over.

It was no longer about equality, it was war and the ones with the vagina’s had won.

The office work finished, I scooted out of there, waiting to get back home to a film or a book or to my beloved laptop. The phone call source I had dreaded earlier woke up my phone from its slumber and I answered the call with a manly baritone Hello. A couple of sentences down and I was reduced to a squeaky mice like voice. I was commanded by her majesty to come to a particular restaurant where her friend wanted to meet me. Had to go. Her friend, apart from having a fake name, convoluted stories of her earning sources, weirder stories of friends and many more pieces of info that made her truly unbelievable had just got herself a boob job and wanted me to check her out. This was a first, a woman actually wanted me to sit and ogle at her breasts. I happily did it and even commented on them, although there was no real difference actually but of course I couldn’t say that for it would only prove I knew her exact shape and size from before and my blonde is intelligent enough to catch that. Of course, I’m smarter.

Got home, had to sit through a film called ‘How to loose a guy in 10 days’. Wonder how I allowed that title in my house but was not a bad film after all. In comes our house mate with another girl friend of hers. Before I knew it, I was in the company three ‘very drunk' women. A situation close to one of my school time porn video’s almost etched into my memory was just coming alive when one of them decided to puke on my favorite satin sheet. To hell with the memory, they had just broken sacred law and were to be banished from the kingdom without trial. As fast as was physically and politely possible, I switched off my light and was fast asleep, the party off to the other room.

Then began the dreams…

Just do it

A casual acquaintance at a party I was at was blabbering away of how she met one of the most successful actors and he gave her the best advice since her mother's advice to start using birth control. He told her to go and 'just do it'. Another friend simply turned around and said, 'Well, Nike has been saying that for years'.

Can I just go and do it? The answer to that would be yes and no. Although I may be at the risk of being diabetically diplomatic with my own self but this question can really go both ways. Catch -22 is the term I'm looking for. Well anyway, I had decided that I will document my everyday struggle of trying to be film maker. But wait, I am a film maker. I've made documentaries and short films. Now to only narrow down the objective, 'To make a commercially released feature film'. Thats more like it. That I'm at it, why not set a deadline for myself. It is 4th April, 2010 today.

I will complete my film before the world comes to an end in October 2012.

Done... I will complete and release a commercial hindi/english feature film before the world comes to an end in October 2012...

The first step: Write a script...

I'll take the advice.. I'll just do it...

The long short journey of making a film

I've been erratically writing this blog since sometime now and I've always felt something missing. At times, I've felt that I've had nothing to say (which would explain some of the mind numbingly pretentious boring posts). The blog vehicle, until now, was used by me to hop, skip and jump between creative pursuits. To keep the fire burning, as they say.

But now I feel that this must have some continuity. Some kind of chain.. some kind of connection. So, I've decided that from now on, I will detail and illustrate my everyday struggle to make my own film. Many books, quotes etc etc simply put it, 'If you want to make your film, make it'. And that, in some sense, is true and wise. But when you go about setting a certain standard for yourself, you just cannot go and make it...

Anyway, so begins my constant documentation of maneuvering my way through the underbelly of making films in Mumbai.

Having written this, I now feel if I really do want to make film. Do I have a story to tell? Only one way to find out....

Me and my loves...

I love things and people alike so it doesn't affect me if my girlfriend complains that I love my apple computer more than I love her or (in one of the weirder moments) my pen complains that I love my girlfriend more or my car complains that I love my pen more..

Trailing off from that thought, what I would really like to talk about are my loves. Lets start with the pen.. When we were in class 4, we graduated from pencils to pens and I can never forget the exhilarating feeling of finally getting to write with a pen in school. It was so magical. I looked at the pen for hours, tried it out on various surfaces, made drawings with it, protected it with my life. And our teacher, a lover of fountain pens somehow managed to make it a rule in class for all of us to write with fountain pens while other sections would write with cheaper, sturdier and faster ball point ones. But no one was complaining. Ours was the cooler section (as everyone feels about their own class). That was when the love affair started.

My tuition teacher eventually managed to force me to write with a ball point pointing out that I will surely flunk my exam if I combine my bad handwriting with a tortoise of a pen. School ended, my scores were just okay (so much for the ball point) and I never went to college and I suddenly realised that I never really had to listen to anybody, I could live my own life my way and thats what I decided to do. I returned to writing with fountains pens and haven't left them ever since. 

I love the way the nib bristles over the paper forming letters in the most organic way, almost taking a shape of their own. One can almost feel the ink flowing from the plunger and making its way through the needle thin mechanism onto the paper. Over a period of time, the pen takes to your hand, it becomes one with you. It will only write properly when you write with it. Only you will know, most instinctively, the correct position in which to hold it for it to write most smoothly. The process of maintaining the pen in itself is so charming, although painstaking. 

Guess I should stop talking about my pen before the living creatures who love me start getting jealous. I haven't changed my pen since the past three years now and when and if it dies.. it shall get a funeral similar to what a family member would get. 

Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

A thought just entered my head from the air around me. Am I happy, it questions? Funny... I never thought I would ask myself this question. I've always done what I've felt like doing. And simply doing what one feels like doing makes one happy by default. Isn't that so?

After some careful thinking... apparently no. I've always judged my happiness level by the manner in which I get out of bed every morning. Its always been energetic, almost as if I'm dying to wake up and get on with what's on my mind. Lately, with great sadness, I have to say that such is not the case. I miss the excitement.

Should I change my profession? Should I do away with the very organic way in which I live my life? Has my life become monotonous? Have I become like many of the people around me who keep whining about their life but still go on living it? Is it time to take charge and lead my life in a certain direction rather than letting it loose and go where it takes me? Is it okay for me to manipulate my own destiny?

Only questions for now as usual. Lazy answers will take their own sweet time.

ek tha raja, ek thi rani, donon mar gaye, khatam kahani

For the hindi illiterate the title translates to 'There was once a king, and a queen, both die, story ends'

I've been trying to write a short film since quite some time.. Its about a guy and a girl for starters, no not like the childhood story of, 'ek tha raja,ek thi rani, donon mar gaye, khatam kahani'.

No matter what I do, how I weave the story, how I go to the depths of my soul to find some inspiration, my conditioning does not permit me to separate the couple in the end. My mind, heart, soul... demand a happy ending. I have decided to make a decided effort to not make them come together in the end, they will part, they will seperate, because the way they are, they are not meant to be together...

THE END

Everyone has a right to be stupid..

Of the many things people have tried to teach me about being wise, sensible and worldly, the one thing which has come to me as a combined realisation of all that knowledge is that everyone has a right to be stupid. Everyone is, in their own way, in their own situations. And that is something I really love, the right to be stupid.. I hope my mind and heart retains that right always.. it makes life much more interesting...

Poem.. after a long long time... preachy as usual but still puts what i felt in words..

The past forgotten
the moment felt
the future uncertain

life takes another turn
heads or tails
go one way

is the decision mine..
or is already made
Cant see the way

wait.. i see a light
its very bright
it brings another way out

its no more this or that
This IS
should I go for it

but I cannot
I have a life
promises to fulfill

But this is tempting
What should I do
Should I go for it..

I've done it again

Yet again, in the measly little life i've lived, I've managed to put myself in a self destruct situation. Here I was, with the perfect life, a good job, making good money and one decision, which I'm still to make, can ruin/change it all. My whole life will reset itself. Now, I am rational enough to think about this decision but I'm also dumb enough to put myself in this situation. The decision can go either way. It only depends on the circumstance.

Such a dilemma. If only solutions were as simple as that.

Too bad I don't want to care either way.. I want to just live....

Falling in Love

It is now 9 P.M. and I'm still sitting in office, looking out of a window at one of the busiest roads in the city. A very repetitive uninteresting sight but if one goes out to find meaning, it can come out of anything. I've been trying to write a short film which is as of now in just a series of cluttered thoughts, ideas and situations in my head. To start with, I thought the film I make has to be about love. It is one of the best feelings ever and it would be amazing to ignite the same in someone watching my film.

So love it is.. and the search for a story starts..

Scene One

Background song plays: 'And I still haven't found what I'm looking for...'

And I still haven't found what I'm looking for...

Everyone seems to know what they want, things, jobs, relationships... some have a long list. I was confronted by the very same question yesterday and I... did not have an answer. Now, either this is a sad testimony to my flavorless life or it is proof of my enlightened existence. My mind and heart reject both logical reasonings.

So then what do I want, well I certainly do want some things in life, but they're not as significant as the seriousness with which the question is posed. Let me make a list of the things which I currently want and let it rest in internet history:

- more playstation games
- finish my script
- jazz up my car
- get a new phone

now i'm just forcing things out.. maybe creating more wants along the way... Lets play

- make a feature film
- get a life
- get a fully loaded entertainment center
- buy a house
- gain enlightenment
- have a house in the hills
- never have to worry about money again
- accomplish that secret task
- send a lot of money home
- learn to fly a plane, learn how to sketch, learn how to play the guitar and the piano

Ok.. now I'm bored... i'm going to revisit this list after maybe 5 years...

NOW I HAVE SOME WANTS...

And I still haven't found what I'm looking for..