tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38652298238836422024-03-13T20:35:45.167+05:30Karan TalwarAlways trying to draw a straight line __ - - __ _ _ __ _ ---- _____ --Karan Talwarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15197750156100322449noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-72583777327101029092013-07-10T12:18:00.004+05:302013-07-10T12:18:52.789+05:30C'est La Vie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">“The trouble with life is its amorphousness, its ridiculous fluidity. Look at it: thinly plotted, largely themeless, sentimental and ineluctably trite. The dialogue is poor, or at least violently uneven. The twists are either predictable or sensationalist. And it’s always the same beginning; and the same ending …” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">— Martin Amis, Experience (2000)</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-17967597056611178102012-09-20T17:47:00.001+05:302012-09-20T17:47:27.628+05:30I am the Lizard King. I can do anything.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I like the fact that all my work, in random writing or design or elsewhere, is reminiscent of some treasured strands of feeling. Strands which I like to keep close, like a little boy clutching onto his toy airplane. I remember that time. That year. It was the month of April in 2003. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Numbers ending in three have never been good for me. I like even numbers. And if its an even number multiple (like 24, 48), its bound to be good for me. Just. It was at the time I had just given my board exams, the test which determines your social standing, your families' standing and the university you get into, in that exact order of priority for my parents and peripheral concerned beings. The only reason why that time is one of those treasured strands is because, that at that time, the possibilities were endless.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I would think up new things and career's everyday, day dreaming and many times making real those random dreams... Of the person I could become, of things I was capable of, of the path I could choose. Of course, a lot of that feeling was also as a result of my being sure of very low grades. But, that innocence of saying 'Yes' to anything and everything was beautiful. Do you want to be part of this marketing exercise? Yes. Work in a call center? Yes. Do you want to try designing this? Yes. Would you like to help me shoot this? Yes. Want to be a slave apprentice on a movie set? Yes. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I simply loved it. I used to love being called a 'nomad'. Oh, that feeling when I would walk with beaty background music in my head after a first time job well executed. It was a roll of 'Eureka!' moments in those days. I owned the world in my own little way. I owned myself. And I could do anything. I was the Lizard King. (Okay, no, that's Morrison's line. Getting carried away now). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">But now, I don't know if it was the right year number for me. I want to try trusting the 3's. I don't know if I own myself. I want to try remembering that background music, every strain of which was so clear to me once. I'm at the point where the world will either swallow me up or ... not. I want my airplane back. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Today's a simple even numbered day. This should work.</span></div>
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Karan Talwarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15197750156100322449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-59325337756473555972012-07-28T00:47:00.002+05:302012-07-28T01:41:15.268+05:30I want to be a boatman.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Have you ever had that feeling - that you'd like to go to a whole different place and become a whole different self?"</div>
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A book I was reading yesterday confronted me with this rather other-worldly parallel universe question. And me, like the sucker to always fall for arguments which talk about fitting-in somewhere wanted to agree. But for once, I did not find myself forcing slight tweaks in personality or phrase in order to fall in line. It was just flowing naturally. And it is a well established fact by now in my universe that if the flow is right, it's all bright. That does sound like a nursery rhyme and it's just perfect for the feeling of innocence from a lost era it helps me keep close.</div>
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So, coming back to the question and to answer it with all honesty.</div>
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I would love to be a boatman, say somewhere in the interiors of Bolivia, maybe with a farm or two, speaking spanish or maybe not speaking at all and spending my days dreaming up fantastical realities like underwater elf life or planting magic beans by mistake. </blockquote>
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Maybe not the row-row-rowyourboat kind of boat I would won. That's just too many 'rows' and it makes me feel tired and reaching out for my inhaler even as I saw it in my head. But one with the big round precision polished wooden steering wheel and a steam engine. It would be probably called 'Veronica' for lack of appropriate naming mind space in this moment.</div>
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I love the paragraph above. It's a whole life. And I love it. And I can even live it. And that for me, is a beautiful feeling.</div>
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In reality, though, I'm going back to the start. Way back to the start line. Even before that and beyond. To the time I decided to run. To where they told me that the race is my destiny, that this is what I am supposed to do.</div>
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It's like stopping at one of the water counters at the marathon and just dropping out of line casually, to start walking back. There is no drama about it. It's not a walk of defeat. But not of victory either. Not even of disillusionment or one born out of revelation. Cut it with the right background music and it can become anything, my cinematic mind says. </div>
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I'd maybe stop at an ice cream stall, numb up my mouth and deliberate over new flavor ideas or buy some balloons and leave them one by one at sporadic intervals hoping I may accidently be talking an alien language. Just plain wondrous casual walking back with the cool breeze drying up my sweaty self, thinking of the days when the sky being blue and earth round was magical and shoes feeling happy about the unexpected breather.</div>
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I'm going back to the start. </div>
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I don't want to play anymore. </div>
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I want to be a boatman.</div>
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</div>Karan Talwarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15197750156100322449noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-21003251180297825812011-12-16T19:33:00.000+05:302011-12-30T12:15:34.797+05:30Shooting Stars.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: BettysHand;">Of the people in my life, of those who've come, gone or stayed, there
is a certain breed of people who are best remembered as 'shooting stars'. Just
like a streak of bright light would be seen in close up in a little boys' big
black eyes and the effect of which would be more pronounced when the shot would
cut a little wider to his awe-struck frozen face as he slowly expands his eye
lids to more absorb the moment in all its glory. Some people are like those
moments. You see them, feel them and they enthrall you and amaze you, at their
beauty, at the beauty they bring out in you, lifting you into a different and
probably higher state of being and then... then they slowly or suddenly fade
away. </span><span style="font-family: BettysHand;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: BettysHand; font-size: large;">And just like a selfish mortal practical being, the natural instinct
is to try and capture them, put them in a jar and keep them around. Only that
the lesson that shooting stars loose all their brilliance when captured always
comes a little too late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: BettysHand; font-size: large;">I’ve been witness to a few of these moments. I understand that they’re
rare. The heartbreak which comes with letting these stars be and move on from
them is immense. Not only does the heart break but it consistently does so for
a much longer time than other daily experiences. They reach down in the depths
of your being and make you feel strands of feeling you never knew existed. It’s
almost like you have a hundred other illusionary organs and body parts. You
feel them and loose them in the same moment. There is always the oscillating
feeling between happiness and contentment of a new discovery and the sadness of
never having to get to experience the same again. I want to apply the ‘quick
sand’ phrase to this situation but it miserably falls short. At least, in the
moment, you can feel the sand escape through your fingers which maybe even
leaves a few grains stuck to your hand. But this, this only leaves you with
emptiness. An emptiness which can even be felt in the ends of my toenails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: BettysHand; font-size: large;">But I’m learning. I’m learning to let go with a smile while still keeping
the warmth in my heart. I’m learning to cherish these moments more when they
present themselves. I’m learning to overcome my fears. I’m learning to mark
every piece of my heart so I can put it back together easily. But I’m still
learning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: BettysHand; font-size: large;">So, this one is for you ‘shooting star’. I know you exist. I know
you’re there somewhere in the universe. I feel you and imagine you lightening
up unknown worlds in the far end of the galaxy. Maybe I’ll encounter you again
or maybe you’ve faded away forever. But I’ll always be here, looking towards
the sky, waiting…</span></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-38373136234277928072011-11-27T18:30:00.001+05:302012-03-18T16:08:01.910+05:30That girl who has my heart.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have vivid memories of when I fell in love for the very first time. It was magical. I can still feel that time when my heart used to beat so fast that I would have to put my hand on my chest to calm down. Sometimes, I would go weak in my knees. Rarely, it would be both and I would feel like a Bollywood hero about to die for love. I haven't changed much since then. I still look for love worth dying for. But she often pops into my thoughts, often without any warning or reason. I'd be doing the most mundane thing, like filling up water bottles to put in the fridge and almost like a film scene cutting into another, her kohl lined eyes appear before my eyes in close up, her scent filling up my senses.. like tear gas used to break a mob, it breaks up my momentary self into a thousand pieces. And as naturally, in the next moment, I smile to myself and get on with the water but it does, still, fill up my heart with love and warmth. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The strange or stupid romantic fact is that I never told her. I never even made the effort. And I'm even more stupid to not even know why. </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I remember glimpses of her, of her cycling down the road, of her making funny eye gestures at me, of her silently walking back home in her school uniform, heartily laughing after winning a game... Oh, that laugh.. It could light a thousand lamps. I think I get my laughter from her. Every time I do, its a way of thanking her. And of course, my rosy hued memories are also coupled with my stupidities when in her presence, of making those phone calls to her and never really being able to say anything, of writing those endless letters to her and never posting them, of having the courage to make her a valentine card and dropping it in her mailbox. She was and is a rich girl, living in the upper creamy layer of society. And my only motivation ever of becoming rich and famous had been her. I remember being a fourteen year old riding his worn out bicycle and thinking of reasons I could not be with her. One of the main reasons was money and second was social standing. I didn't have both. I wanted to be with her and I wanted it like water. I felt my life would be worthless without her. I felt I would die if I couldn't be with her. It was my very own personal romanticized version of poor boy falling in love with the beautiful princess. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">My life was all about her. </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Still, I started working towards it. Inching my way into becoming my own person. I used to sit for hours and imagine my life with her, imagine the process of getting her, of how I would propose to her, of how we would be, of life and memories together. And all those thoughts and fragments of imagination converted into a profession and my bohemian selfish self took over. I started living for myself. But till today, I write and think of many concepts and stories. All of them end up being about love and the main character is invariably her. All my relationships are the way I would have been with her. It still is, in a way, all about her.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I owe my very existence to her. And yet, she does not know. She will never know. And I still don't know why I never told her. I don't know if that Valentines day card ever got to her, but I'm still waiting for a reply. </span></span></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-54459086250752052482011-11-09T22:57:00.001+05:302011-11-09T23:00:30.744+05:30Of reminiscences, nostalgia and home cooked food<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Marriages in one's family, at least a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">punjabi</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> family in Delhi, are really emotional experiences as I've come to realise. Its like a communal carnival making you feel a range of emotions. You think of the people who've played a part in your life, big or small. You recollect wisps of memories and try to put them together, savoring each one like a prized dessert from a secret bakery. And as I was going through these days, looking at those faces and taking in those smells, I realised, for the first time what being 'home' truly felt like. It felt like... home. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of a generation which has passed, children who have become adults, adults who have grown old or died out, of other peripheral people who have made homes, families and comfort zones of their own and even the chirpy stationary shop owner who now has his son to help him as he's too old... all of these people make me want to think of my life, in the moment. In my reminiscence of the time now, many years from now, will I remember it with the same fulfillment and fondness that I remember my childhood with? Am I living...?</span></span></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-52314842745771476422011-10-28T20:16:00.000+05:302011-10-28T20:16:24.881+05:30Keep Walking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every couple of years, a time comes in my life, when I loose the ability to structure thoughts. And each time this has happened, I've often written myself off, telling myself that I've really lost it (finally). There is a sense of relief which comes with writing your own self off the face of society. But then there is also the often glorified idea of 'bouncing back' which happens almost all the times other than the odd time when I was too distracted to notice.<br />
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Well... another such time is here in my life, one late festive Autumn in the ancient city of Delhi. I like the idea of being here at this point. This city has been consistently occupied since the past 5000 odd years and has seen empire after empire rise from nothingness and fall into ruin. In a way, its the perfect city for new beginnings or more romantically, rising from the ashes. I've circled half the world, exhausted my brain, put my heart in a deep freeze and I'm only left with this pure physical energy which most probably comes from my consistent love of food (and not from the strength of human spirit as some of my wise friends like to incorrectly assert). With so much energy to dispense, I'm following my old friend Johnny Walker's famous tag line, 'Keep Walking'. The man who came up with this for a whisky brand must truly be a genius, a man of 'heart'.. a man who 'understood'.<br />
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I've often been accused of being contradictory. And I am. Most of the time. It doesn't mean that I don't have a stand. It merely means that I'm willing to see all sides of an argument, even defying my own stance, and coming to a logical conclusion giving the heart and mind equal importance, sometimes even telling the mind to F-off. Who has ever been able to attach logic to the heart? I can't think of anyone from Nagasaki to Nagasaki who has. The best one can do is balance. And young and naive as I am and always will be (hopefully), I will never be able to. Reacting in the 'moment', being in the 'now', 'experiencing', 'feeling'... thats how I am, thats how I'll be. Trying to be otherwise is not good for me, that much my wise grandmother already taught me.<br />
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Lost in my little world, I am simply walking, not caring if I am in circles, if I stumble on a stone, if I come across a bridge-less river or if I find something which makes me pause for the moment. My senses are active. I'm taking it all in.<br />
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I will walk until I get sucked into the world again, only to come back to this beautiful state again.<br />
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A state where... the possibilities... are endless...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-49569742328854119832011-05-10T23:18:00.000+05:302011-05-10T23:18:06.579+05:30PunjDelMaraBiharEngli<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I am a <i>Punjabi</i> from Delhi, living in Mumbai among <i>Marathi's</i>, working in a predominantly <i>Bihari</i> office and mostly speak in English. Never looked at my situation in this way.<br />
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So much for all ideas of identity and the likes. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-45792992084459517662010-11-03T13:48:00.000+05:302010-11-03T13:48:55.528+05:30What's the matter...'What's the matter?'<br />
'Nothing'<br />
'No, something is up.. What is it?'<br />
'No, it's nothing'<br />
'hmmmm... you're not telling'<br />
'Its NOTHING'<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I just invent something to say, just to appease someone's burning fire to 'know'.<br />
<br />
So, nothing is the matter with me.<br />
<br />
Read the subtle signals, invest some energy... but stop trying to 'get in'...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-83364996496700587292010-10-13T17:57:00.007+05:302010-10-29T13:25:13.129+05:30Black Beauty Escapades<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22IJIW5ljaut8FEdokFMkH21-JOOveiQF5DoBFu4xhDiAbCgx6LFzvgwVHPbHxD8-I81pMqtFVCOFIRULAJJEnGnanqxvwTQrBWyIq6rMIJaGSSo4vi0XEcTbmi3Z_Kr0BhGAyA62BBY/s1600/IMG00236-20101010-1645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22IJIW5ljaut8FEdokFMkH21-JOOveiQF5DoBFu4xhDiAbCgx6LFzvgwVHPbHxD8-I81pMqtFVCOFIRULAJJEnGnanqxvwTQrBWyIq6rMIJaGSSo4vi0XEcTbmi3Z_Kr0BhGAyA62BBY/s320/IMG00236-20101010-1645.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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'. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, I reached home.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-52639087633553589182010-09-08T15:48:00.000+05:302010-09-08T15:48:55.971+05:30Show me the love...So.. what do I love..<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
And as the influence of the wine wears off, I see me telling myself yet again...<br />
<br />
I CAN DO ANYTHING... YES I CAN..<br />
<br />
I AM..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-32541937617858081502010-08-15T18:34:00.002+05:302010-08-15T18:42:08.714+05:30A for apple... B for ball...<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">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. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">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... </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">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... </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
<br />
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.. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-77342486372952997282010-04-13T12:22:00.001+05:302010-04-13T12:22:23.814+05:30Of how women are taking over my world<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Whhaaaatttttt.... seriously. No woman is touching my beautiful hair..</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">'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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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..</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span></o:p></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div></div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was no longer about equality, it was war and the ones with the vagina’s had won.</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then began the dreams…</span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-72784461480106249072010-04-04T15:13:00.001+05:302010-04-04T15:14:03.374+05:30Just do itA 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'.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I will complete my film before the world comes to an end in October 2012.<br />
<br />
Done... I will complete and release a commercial hindi/english feature film before the world comes to an end in October 2012...<br />
<br />
The first step: Write a script...<br />
<br />
I'll take the advice.. I'll just do it...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-33711812922148246482010-04-03T19:42:00.001+05:302010-04-04T14:58:57.859+05:30The long short journey of making a filmI'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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
Anyway, so begins my constant documentation of maneuvering my way through the underbelly of making films in Mumbai.<br />
<br />
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....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-24851388183835144552010-03-22T15:34:00.002+05:302010-03-25T13:43:48.652+05:30Me 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..<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>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.</div><div><br />
</div><div>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. </div><div><br />
</div><div>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. </div><div><br />
</div><div>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. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-9923955426088882492010-03-22T15:09:00.001+05:302010-03-22T15:45:35.852+05:30Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.....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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Only questions for now as usual. Lazy answers will take their own sweet time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-43859120943880878122010-02-16T18:02:00.003+05:302010-02-16T18:07:47.951+05:30ek tha raja, ek thi rani, donon mar gaye, khatam kahaniFor the hindi illiterate the title translates to 'There was once a king, and a queen, both die, story ends' <br /><br />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'. <br /><br />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... <br /><br />THE ENDUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-50254880296926749022010-02-12T17:54:00.002+05:302010-02-12T18:34:33.185+05:30Everyone 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...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-21894510762952132822010-01-28T18:08:00.001+05:302010-01-28T18:09:09.784+05:30Poem.. after a long long time... preachy as usual but still puts what i felt in words..The past forgotten<br />the moment felt<br />the future uncertain<br /><br />life takes another turn<br />heads or tails<br />go one way<br /><br />is the decision mine..<br />or is already made<br />Cant see the way<br /><br />wait.. i see a light<br />its very bright<br />it brings another way out<br /><br />its no more this or that<br />This IS<br />should I go for it<br /><br />but I cannot<br />I have a life<br />promises to fulfill<br /><br />But this is tempting<br />What should I do<br />Should I go for it..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-60611913226062948162010-01-27T23:23:00.001+05:302010-01-27T23:24:43.812+05:30I've done it againYet 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. <br /><br />Such a dilemma. If only solutions were as simple as that.<br /><br />Too bad I don't want to care either way.. I want to just live....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-73542624607714069502010-01-22T15:49:00.005+05:302010-02-19T14:13:00.439+05:30Falling in LoveIt 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. <br /><br />So love it is.. and the search for a story starts..<br /><br />Scene One<br /><br />Background song plays: 'And I still haven't found what I'm looking for...'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-29527818992232660662010-01-20T01:37:00.001+05:302010-01-22T15:49:08.252+05:30And 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. <br /><br />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:<br /><br />- more playstation games<br />- finish my script<br />- jazz up my car<br />- get a new phone<br /><br />now i'm just forcing things out.. maybe creating more wants along the way... Lets play<br /><br />- make a feature film<br />- get a life<br />- get a fully loaded entertainment center<br />- buy a house<br />- gain enlightenment<br />- have a house in the hills<br />- never have to worry about money again<br />- accomplish that secret task<br />- send a lot of money home<br />- learn to fly a plane, learn how to sketch, learn how to play the guitar and the piano<br /><br />Ok.. now I'm bored... i'm going to revisit this list after maybe 5 years...<br /><br />NOW I HAVE SOME WANTS... <br /><br />And I still haven't found what I'm looking for..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-28642176068131844892009-12-03T14:47:00.012+05:302010-04-13T12:20:50.254+05:30Of how women are taking over my world<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Whhaaaatttttt.... seriously. No woman is touching my beautiful hair..</span></span></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">'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.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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..</span></span></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was no longer about equality, it was war and the ones with the vagina’s had won.</span></span></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">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. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then began the dreams… </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865229823883642.post-84715908565860302112009-08-20T19:04:00.004+05:302009-12-11T15:01:56.521+05:30Searching for the unknown in the known... Amusing ourselves.. are we??<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I constantly meet or hear about people who're searching for the unknown, trying to unlock the mystery towards happiness and self realisation. First, why does one want to attain the unknown, enlightenment, moksha etc etc.. One reason I have noticed is to have an edge over your neighbor, to have something which very few have, to be part of that exclusive club.. Why do we constantly want to make ourselves better people.. better people for me... simply means more 'socially trained'. Even I am constantly looking for what I don't have. I wasn't born with what I have anyway like all of us, just picked up stuff instinctively along the way and when I became aware and confident enough to question, I started questioning my own 'self'. I use whatever I have picked up to question what other people have. All this leads me to a very suicidal tendency, one which tells me that whatever one comes with, covets, attains or does not attain.. mokha, enlightenment, samsara etc etc, are they all just terms we use to look forward to something in life, which in itself gives us the drive to live. Does it all actually exist or do we just amuse ourselves with something invented just for the same purpose, to make us all live, to survive, to carry on this race.. reproduce, fulfill your purpose in life and perish... </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><blockquote>As of now, I feel that Death is the only enlightenment, the only moksha, the only salvation... </blockquote></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Which, of course, does not in any way mean that I'm going to die and get over with it. I still believe in that nameless energy which runs it all. It would not be possible for this planet to survive without it. But I feel that me and people like me, people who keep searching, are all blind. Because we keep searching for the unknown in the known. We don't, or at least, I don't want to let go of the reality I hold onto. I don't even think of venturing into unknown territory. Its like sitting in a cinema hall and getting involved in the reality of the film and after two hours, coming out safe and sound. I know that for any real transformation, I need to venture out into that unknown territory, open the blindfolds of my consciousness and stop kidding my own self or whatever I am. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe I'll go out of the hall and see if I have courage enough to try some popcorn for a start...</span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0