'INSANE ILLUSIONS'

I LOVE YOU...

2011-10-23T12:23:00.000+05:30

I am struggling to find a beginning. I am fighting to never let it end. And I am trying to let it happen. I know I am stupid. And I know I don’t know how to say it. But somebody does live inside me who wants to say this to somebody someday. He is growing inside. He is restless. He is pushing me hard. But I have lost it somewhere. May be on the road I started walking the previous night. I consider recollecting it and putting back the bits and pieces. Can I do it? I ask myself. And I know I can’t. I could have held it close to my heart. But it was something strange. Something naturally supernatural. I was losing myself. And I have lost a part of it inside me. He is still there disconnected, estranged, lost in his own world, moving in circles, drifting away every time I try and touch it. It hurts. He says and goes further away. He feeds me. And he does speak sometimes. Even shouts when things become difficult. But he had become silent for the past few days. I thought he died. I was happy. But I heard him again whispering inside today morning. Making moves and starting all over. I pretended ignoring him. I tried closing my eyes and dreaming something. But he was there, looking at me strangely. He has never been like this. At least this strange. But yes it was, this time. He questioned me. He expected me to answer. I replied. Something I have done many a times, but have always failed. I tried twisting the words, giving it a new look. I thought I won. But he threw it back. I failed again. I sit back and hold myself. I try contemplating. Where did I get it wrong? I could have let it happen. Was it really so difficult? Isn’t it something which should happen to everybody at least once in a lifetime? I thought it never happened to me. It never occurred. But is it really possible? Is it that it really never happened to me or is it that I failed to accept it? I push myself and smoke the last cigarette left in the packet, lighting it with matchsticks stolen from the neighbour’s room. I see myself enmeshed in the smoke rings. I try holding it inside. But can I really do? It burns. He says and goes further further away. I think it’s time. I must run and never let him go. And I must say it now. After all it’s not a bad word at all. It’s something very beautiful. It has always been.

I know I don’t know how to say it. I must wrap it before giving it you. But I told you I have lost it somewhere or maybe I never really had it from the beginning. It’s the charm to hold you and kiss you before letting it go. I told you I am stupid. But I know you are beautiful. May be you would understand me someday. You can name it anything. And you can even return it back. But you must know this before I go.

I love you. And I have really missed you…always.

THE 'OTHER'

2011-09-15T13:54:00.001+05:30

Fuck all the science for a moment and try replace person place and time with body mind and soul. Understanding increases and it increases tremendously. Also understanding the 'other' becomes a lot easier...!!!

IMAGES SPEAK...

2011-08-13T20:00:00.003+05:30

My new crush...camera!!!

THE UNCONVENTIONAL - I

2011-07-10T01:48:00.015+05:30

It was born in 70s, mid 70s. The conception was taking place for a very long time but it was delivered late in the mad mad world of 70s. I am talking about what was named the ‘Parallel’ or ‘Art’ cinema. The parallel or the unconventional cinema was a felt need in a world which was becoming largely commercialized and superfluous. It was a promise to portray the reality as it really is without any embellishments of astutely rehearsed and decorated drama. It was a promise to provide new dimension and meaning to Indian cinema. It was smartly called ‘parallel’ so that it could run its own course without interfering with the mainstream. It was unconventional too because of the avant-garde methodology it adopted in saying what it wanted to say. It marked the birth of neo-realism in Indian cinema. It was a dream which was painted by stalwarts like Guru Dutt, Bimal Roy, V Shantaram and many others who had to even see it getting tainted in the age of commercialization and style. It would not be unfair if a large part of the credit goes to a man named ‘Shyam Benegal’, a cousin of Guru Dutt, hailing from Andhra Pradesh, originally a documentary filmmaker, who made his mark with his first full length feature film ‘Ankur’ starring Shabana Azmi, Sadhu Meher and Anant Nag in the year 1974. The movie was received with a critical acclaim and bagged Shabana Azmi her first national award. It was a sensitive portrayal of rich poor divide and the place of a second woman in our society. Thus was born a filmmaker who had the courage to be different and stubborn in an era of blockbusters and superstars. There were of course intellectual filmmakers like Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Gulzar and Basu Chaterjee who were running a parallel brigade but their cinema still had certain limitations of sticking to the popular and politically correct themes unlike Shyam Benegal who adopted an entirely different format of movie making and often narrated stories that were not only difficult to be told but also had never been told before. He introduced theatre in the arena of cinema. He always worked with his own team of gifted actors. Some of them were remarkable theatre artists of their time and some of them were products of National School of Drama. His actors were not conventionally good looking and attractive but had the vigor and brilliance of representing a common man on celluloid. They wore simple, unfashionable clothes, sometimes even torn, to highlight the poverty and demise of our social structures. His characters conversed in local dialects to connect to the reality and ecology of the subject. Most of his movies were impressive adaptations of important plays and novels. Shyam Benegal was unique in his approach of vividly conceptualizing the entire scenario, bringing it out on screen and reaching out to his target audience.

Justice is well denied and needs to be snatched from the people responsible. In 1975 he used this concept in ‘Nishant’, based on Vijay Tendulkar’s play and introduced Naseerudin Shah and Smita Patil with this movie. The movie was a modern adaptation of ‘Ramayana’ and showed the brutal feudal system of rural India oppressing the poor and miserable section of the village. It portrayed the helplessness of an honest and humble man who has to literally crawl and beg for justice in a dynasty ruled by ‘Ravanas’.

Liberation is highly desired and largely deprived. In 1977 he came out with a brilliantly carved story of a Marathi actress titled ‘Bhumika’ inspired by the book ‘Sangtye Alka’ by Hansa Wadkar and starred Smita Patil in the first major lead role of her career. The film was an excellent portrayal of the complexity of a female mind in a society which drags her in different directions bruising her sexuality and individuality. I must add that Bhumika is one of those rare movies of Indian cinema which has managed to break certain barriers while narrating a controversial and complicated story based on the sexuality and life of Indian woman.

Mahabharata is an everlasting war and a never ending struggle. Nobody could have come out with such an intelligent adaptation of the world’s largest epic ‘Mahabharata’ other than Shyam Benegal who made a multi starrer movie titled ‘Kalyug’ in 1981 with Rekha, Raj Babbar, Shashi Kapoor, Amrish Puri and Anant Nag in lead roles. Kalyug was followed by ‘Arohan’ and ‘Mandi’ in subsequent years.Brothels provide a breathing space to the sexually discontented members of a society which pompously considers marriage an everlasting spiritual and hallowed bonding between two individuals destined to be made for each other. ‘Mandi’ starring Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil, Neena Gupta, Soni Razdan, Ila Arun, Ratna Pathak, Naseerudin shah, Om Puri, Pankaj Kapur, Amrish Puri, Kulbhushan Kharbanda and other geniuses of Indian cinema was a hard hitting satire on the fundamental social, political and cultural inadequacies of our society.

Our present and future are incomplete without the past and howsoever we may try to get away with it, we are ordained to revisit it someday in our lives. It was Benegal’s 1985 venture ‘Trikal’ (Past, Present, Future), again a multi starrer and a striking illustration of the tradition and chores of a soon-to-be-drifted-away Portuguese family settled in Goa.

Following years Benegal got busy with some of the famous television series of his career namely ‘Yatra’, ‘Katha Sagar’ and ‘Bharat Ek Khoj’. Dreams form a momentous and indispensable ingredient in the lives of middle class people and keep them moving ahead in their hopeless and barren existence as human beings. This was the concept of his next important work based on Dharamvir Bharti’s famous novel ‘Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda’ in 1993 starring Rajat Kapur, Rajeshwari Sachdev, Neena Gupta and Pallavi Joshi in lead roles. The highly experienced cast and talented production team managed to cook up a rich tapestry of semi-dream-like experiences of a young man, entering into adulthood with a creatively written rich and unusual screenplay. In 1994 he came up with a novel project about a loud, vivacious, opinionated and funny, partition stricken woman, ‘Mammo’ with Farida Jalal in lead role. The movie written by Khalid Mohamed was a brilliant take on the mindset of an adolescent boy growing amidst the financial inadequacies of his family and his complex bonding with his old mother and eccentric aunt. ‘Sardari Begum’ directed in 1996 was a story of a popular singer and courtesan killed by a stone thrown by an agitated person starring ‘Kiron Kher’ in title role. ‘The Making of Mahatma’, ‘Samar’, ‘Hari Bhari’ and ‘Zubeida’ were his other noteworthy projects in coming years. In 2005 he directed a biography of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose starring Sachin Khedekar in title role.

Benegal changed his filmmaking format in following years seeing commercial and parallel cinema merging into each other with the advent of new century. His last two movies ‘Welcome to Sajjanpur’ and ‘Well Done Abba’ were hilarious social satires on the corrupt and inept social and political system of our democratic set up with new age actors like Shreyas Talpade, Rajeshwari Sachdev, Divya Dutta, Ravi Kishan, Boman Irani and Minisha Lamba in lead roles. His latest works have seen him completely transforming as a filmmaker who still manages to amuse and surprise the audiences while keeping the promise of authentic and unconventional cinema alive. Besides devoting himself into directing full length feature films he has also made some of the very important documentaries including ‘ A child on the streets’, ‘Sinhasta’, ‘Why Export?’, ‘The Pulsating Giant’, ‘Tala and Rhythm’, ‘The Shruti and Graces of Indian Music’, ‘The Raag Imam Kalyan’, ‘Suhani Sadak’, ‘The Quiet Revolution’, ‘Epilepsy’, ‘Jawaharlal Nehru’, ‘Satyajit Ray’, ‘Sangathan’, ‘Vardan’, ‘Animal Reproduction and Artificial Insemination in Bovines’ and numerous others stressing the core social issues and forgotten art forms of our country. Shyam benegal is really the master, master of the unconventional.

PULP

2011-07-07T02:43:00.008+05:30

Recently I watched the cinema of Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez after a long time. And I watched it seriously, very seriously this time. I have always been a great fan of Tarantino and Rodriguez and have seen kill bill, Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, Grindhouse, Sin City, Desperadeo many a times since I got into this rig. But never had I realized why have they always been like this and made such kind of movies. Their style of filmmaking is very unique and different. But it is also very crude and weird at the same time. These two filmmakers work on a genre of cinema which has never been exposed so religiously by any other filmmaker in the world ever. They are working on something which nobody is working on at the moment and that too on such a large scale. To put it simply, their cinema operates on ugly and crude reality of b-grade stuff which in refined language is called ‘pulp’ or ‘sleaze’. They have made billion dollar budgeted movies based on this ‘pulp’ with some of the very famous Hollywood actors and almost all of them have been a great success. But their success is not the point and matter of concern. What really amazes me is the fact that these two persons are so devoted and faithful to this genre that they have created some of the very great and brilliant cinema out of it. Tarantino once said, “I am not making movies for now, I am making them for forty years from now”. His statement seems to be making some sense for me today after so many years since he actually made it.

Pulp is the opium of masses. It has an importance of its own. Pulp is as important for the society as a whole as art is. And sooner we realize this fact, the better for us. No matter how sophisticated and articulated we try to become, more than 90 % of our everyday life is made up of this pulp. To connect to the pulp is like connecting to the reality. And despite being ugly and coarse, the reality is indeed beautiful. Very few Indian filmmakers have now realized the importance of sleaze in our society. It not only makes the cinema realistic but also gives a depth to it. It makes it universally acceptable and likeable without being pretentious. It kind of increases the holistic beauty and widens the scale of cinema. There is no specific reason to it but Indian filmmakers have always remained indifferent towards this facet of reality. They have always tried to wrap it with the sugarcoated layers without making an effort to expose it naked. It much explains the hypocrisy of Indian mind. One may find the cinema of Yash/Aditya Chopra and Karan Johar beautiful but nobody can say it is ‘real’. The reason is these filmmakers have always chosen to stay away from pulp because they are too afraid of it. This pulp is the reality we breathe in and this reality is the real horror. I regard Ram Gopal Verma as the first filmmaker who made a significant contribution to fill this void during 90s by infusing reality into celluloid with movies like Rangeela, Satya, Company, Bhoot and Sarkar. He used pulp to portray the dark and gruesome reality of the underworld mafia and the Indian society. He was then joined by various other filmmakers like Anurag kashyap, Vishal Bhardwaj, Dibaker Banerjee, Rajat Kapoor, Sudhir Mishra, Raj Kumar Hirani, Chandan Arora, Madhur Bhandarkar to name a few in the list. These filmmakers should be credited to have changed the pathetic show of Bollywood. They can be called the harbingers of neo-realism in Indian cinema. They have used the local pulp to blend realism and entertainment on celluloid. They all have a significant contribution for spicing up the box office collections and giving new life to Indian film industry.

Dibaker Banerjee is the Tarantino of Indian cinema. He has used pulp very extensively in all his movies to such an extent that our world appears pornographic at certain level. Dibaker uses pulp to expose the nasty land mafia and the disconcerting problem of land in the overpopulated north India in his directorial debut ‘Khosla ka Ghosla’. He also exposes the frightened face of middle class man who is scared of approaching police, law and politics to fix his own personal matter. Dibaker takes us further to the crowded, corrupt and obscure streets of Delhi cluttered with naked electrical wires and patched broken houses impoverished with unfulfilled dreams of starving middle class society in his wholesome entertainer ‘Oye, lucky lucky oye!’ He takes us inside to narrate a story of a funny Sikh family and portrays the rampant promiscuity, father son hostility, marital discord, domestic violence, greed, disgruntled adolescence of teenagers and the crippled social structure of our society. In this chaos, a discontented Sikh boy develops an inferiority complex which carries on throughout his life and makes a thief out of him. He also exposes the filth muddled inside the minds of urban middle class people who try hard enough to be sophisticated cultured English speakers but end up just being a laughing stock for others. In this movie, he shows how a young, polite, homely adolescent greeting card girl talks and behaves with her customers. He shows how a sleazy, flamboyant dancer from a backward community of Delhi who performs in extravagant, loud north Indian marriages and functions in front of a crowd of arrogant and snobbish so called rich lads, behaves and expresses herself in real world. Dibaker is the master of this genre. He understands the nuances of cinema. He uses pulp to represent the hollowness festering and breeding in our societies. He used it further in his experimental masterpiece ‘Love Sex aur Dhoka’. He narrated three different stories in the movie based on the themes of its main title named squalidly as ‘Church Gate ki Chudail’, Paap ki Dukaan’ and ‘Badnaam Shohrat’ respectively. He uses a documentary style to portray the unbridled pornography and worthlessness proliferating in our society in the form of false, bloated high society pride leading to honour killings, spurious relationships ending up in deceit and shame, tricky but the only road to success in the world of glamour and the well planned grubby media strategies to shock and scare the audiences. He explains metaphorically how the camera has become the god of this precarious and ill structured world. Vishal bhardwaj uses pulp to bring authenticity in his script and screenplay. ‘Beedi jalai le’ not only brought him his first big box office success with ‘Omkara’ but it also added enormously to the splendor of the movie. This very sleazy item number explains the ethnicity and culture of the region in which the tragedy of omkara takes place. And also the local slangs used confidently and boldly in the movie help it explain further. Similarly ‘Dhan te nan’ and ‘Raat ke dhaai baje’ added raunchiness to ‘Kaminey’ and made it a success. Furthermore, the exquisite detailing in exploring the subtleties and traditions of Gorakhpur made ‘Ishqiya’ a modern classic. Anurag Kashyap uses pulp to create a cult for his cinema. In his unique style of filmmaking, he uses sexuality to portray the complex mindset of modern Indian female in one of the most anticipated movies of my generation ‘Dev-d’. ‘Emotional Atyachaar’ has become synonymous with the modern times' brief relationships based on love and romance. He also uses pulp to represent the rugged and brutal royalty of Rajasthan in his political satire ‘Gulal’. Sudhir Mishra used it in his recent works ‘Yeh Saali Zindagi’ and ‘Tera Kya Hoga Johnny’ to portray the complex materialism creeping in our society. Raj Kumar Hirani has used it as a hit formula in all his movies right from ‘Munna Bhai MBBS’ to ‘3 idiots’ to expose the politics and mafia behind the education system of our country. There is another very devoted team of actors and filmmakers who are running a successful parallel cinema in this world of commercialization. It includes talents like Rajat Kapoor, Saurabh Shukla, Ranvir Shourey, Vinay Pathak, Vijay Raaz, Konkana Sen, Naseerudin Shah, Om Puri etc who have made some very interesting and hard hitting movies in recent times and also made them popular among multiplex audiences seeking for instant entertainment. They have used the element of pulp to explore the life style of urban sophisticated societies. Their movies like Raghu Romeo, Mixed Doubles, Mithya, Bheja fry, Raat Gayi Baat Gayi, Phas gaye re Obama, The president is coming etc have established new standards in the genre of comedy and satire. There are some more people on the list who have recently come up with shocking and amazing stuff using this pulp. Shimit Amin’s ‘Rocket Singh’, Navdeep Singh’s ‘Manorama six feet under’, Sanjay Khanduri’s ‘Ek Chalis ki Last Local’, Habib Faisal’s ‘Do Dooni Chaar’, Manish Jha’s ‘Band Baaja Baraat’, Raja Menon’s ‘Baarah Aana’, and Anusha Rizvi’s ‘Peepli Live’ are some other interesting projects worth watching and admiring. These people have understood the importance of pulp in our society and cinema. International filmmakers like Deepa Mehta and Mira nair have always used pulp in a very subtle way in their movies. Mira Nair’s ‘Monsoon Wedding’ has an interesting sub-plot of a sleazy love story between a beautiful seductive maid of the house and a hilarious, loud mouthed, dim witted laborer. Deepa Mehta in her controversial movie ‘Fire’ shows a sexually starved servant of the house masturbating and fantasizing about the two leading ladies of the house.Pulp is a genre which should be explored more and more to create better possibilities and prospects on celluloid. It has given a creative space to writers, lyricists and filmmakers to expose the reality hidden behind the garb of hypocrisy for such a long time. Some filmmakers like Sanjay Leela Bhansali, Suraj Barjatiya and Karan Johar still choose to stay from it for a reason specific to their own style of filmmaking. In 80s and early 90s, pulp was used in an awful way to make sleazy comedies, thrillers and dramas. It was a period of great depression in Indian cinema. It was a period when Indian film industry suffered huge financial losses and also the popularity of Indian movies in international market shattered critically. Subhash Ghai and Yash Chopra did their best to recover those losses but their style of filmmaking started fading away by the end of 90s. If there had not been any Ram Gopal Verma, Indian cinema would have continued losing its charm and vitality or it would have completely collapsed in the beginning of new century. So pulp proved as a savior for Indian movies. Indian cinema is reaching new heights and establishing better standards every day. Hordes of young and genius filmmakers have appeared in this beautiful world of creativity. They have realized need of the hour and have devoted themselves in creating a sensible and realistic cinema. Few structures have already been destroyed. And some more will be destroyed in times to come. If pulp is the body, art is the soul. So pulp is something required to be delved in for understanding the anatomy of our society and reaching out to its soul. And both of them are required to create something which we call ‘cinema’.

After all ‘pulp’ is what we all are made up of…

A MIGHTY SEA

2011-07-07T02:37:00.002+05:30

A mighty sea
It lives by the shore
Quietly I walk
Upon the sands
And spread my soul
Under the naked sky
I look around
As far as I could see
And I see a silent wave
Approaching
From far far away
Emanating somewhere
From the caverns of
The burning sun
Gentle
Calm
Dispersing and merging
Every minute
I sit there for hours
Together
Resting and watching
The silent wave
Growing and
Making way
Towards me
I choose to run
But something keeps
Me grounded
And it comes
Finally
Like a demon
And engulfs me
Inside…

DEATH IN THE CONTEXT OF INDIAN CINEMA

2011-07-06T23:23:00.007+05:30

‘Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaaye to kya hai’, Guru Dutt sings it and he sings it loud to expose the poignant materialism of our society in his autobiographical ‘Pyaasa’. He pictures death as the only escape from the mounting depression. A woman dishonored and tormented all her life shoots her son who is an outlaw to save the honour of her village. This was ‘Mother India’ way back in 1960s. A mughal emperor orders the beloved of his son who is a gorgeous courtesan, to be buried in a wall and saves the honour of his dynasty. This was K Asif’s megalomaniac venture of 50s ‘Mughal-e-Azam’. Death was portrayed as a guard of honour for the community as a whole in both these movies. Satyajit Ray portrays the dismal face of Indian poverty in his legendary ‘Apu Trilogy’ where death has been shown just another facet of life which lives and breathes along with its protagonists. An ecstatic young man in the prime of his youth dies of intestinal carcinoma in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s masterpiece ‘Anand’. And he leaves behind a following of people who love him because he challenges death without fear and rekindles their faith in life with his uncanny humor. Mukherjee calls it an inevitable part of life, a life which is nothing more than an agglomeration of various characters where everybody has been assigned a role to play. He carries the notion of death further in his another movie ‘Mili’ where a charming young girl full of life suffering from blood cancer flies abroad with her fiancé for advanced treatment. Her father keeps waiting and standing alone at the roof of his building as he watches the plane gaining heights taking his daughter to a place where death finds some cure. A final shot full of hope and life and the movie ends. We live and die of course but something remains even after death and it remains to stay forever. Raj Kapoor portrays it magnanimously in the biggest disaster of his career ‘Mera Naam Joker’ and his words resound in air when he sings ‘kal khel mein hum hon na hon, gardish mein tare rahenge sada’. Yash Chopra spices it up in ‘Deewar’ where a man who lost his father during childhood in a political warfare and has himself been a victim to the ills of society, achieves big and is killed in self-created circumstances by his younger brother. He portrays death as a necessary evil in the rigmarole of human existence. He also uses death in his experimental love stories ‘Silsila’ and ‘Lamhe’ where he brings it out as an unexpected accident and a lifelong jolt to the people left behind who keep suffering endlessly till they find a healing touch of love. Ramesh Sippy calls it a tragic affair born out of an act of abhorrence and vengeance in the biggest blockbuster of Indian cinema ‘Sholay’. Sometimes it is easier to die than to live a life without any hope and future. Mahesh Bhatt made a statement when he directed ‘Saraansh’ and showed two old parents making an attempt to end up their lives after the death of their only son. He proved that strength is required to live a dead and barren life than to really die. He also showed death as a unifying force in a much underrated work of his career ‘Kaash’ in which a divorced grieved couple decides to reunite after the death of their son to battle the haunting and loneliness of their lives together. He used the similar concept further in his autobiographical ‘Zakhm’ where the death of the mother acts as a unifying force between two brothers caught in a political combat. Govind Nihlani in 1983 represented death as a medium to break the ‘chakravyuha’ of life in his critically acclaimed ‘Ardhsatya’. Then arrived the showman Subhash Ghai, who created typical bollywood products in the dying 80s and 90s and used death as a device to boost up the box office in ‘Khalnayak’ and ‘Raam Lakhan’. He was absolutely clear in his mind when he directed these movies using old tested formulas that he didn’t want to make any statement out of it. Death is the ultimate level of eroticism as shown by Ketan Mehta in ‘Maya Memsaab’, an adaptation of Gustave Flaubert’s controversial novel ‘Madame Bovary’. A free-spirited promiscuous and seductive ‘Maya’ dispels into thin air in the final moments of the movie after she fails to find the true erotica of her life. On the other hand, Gulzar demonstrates death as the ultimate form of true love and devotion in his mythological ‘Meera’. Death is also the final conclusion of extreme radicalism in this conventional and clichéd world as shown by Gulzar through one of his characters in ‘Ijaazat’. Sometimes situations arise and both the victim and the accused get trapped in a web to die their own deaths. And this is when large number of people are massacred and sacrificed. There are no apologies in this universal crisis of terrorism and underworld mafia. Gulzar knew it so he made ‘Maachis’ and ‘Hu Tu Tu’ in which he shows death as a global phenomenon born out of a politically mastered state of affairs. So was also said by Ram Gopal Verma through his distinctive approach of filmmaking in ‘Satya’ and ‘Company’. Both these directors show the horrifying face of death and the obvious fear associated with it in their own manner. Gulzar uses poetry and emotions while RGV uses brilliantly crafted dark and gruesome camera visuals to paint death on a common canvass. Sometimes death remains the only mode of salvation. A trigger-happy gangster groans in pain and begs her mother for renunciation. Nobody knew that this thing would come unexpectedly from somebody called Mahesh Manjrekar in his directorial debut ‘Vaastav’. It’s really a moment to watch a mother shooting her son in a movie of 90s almost fifty years after ‘Mother India’ although the scenarios have matured from honour killing to a plea for salvation. Karan Johar has gone beyond imagination and used death in almost every script of his life from ‘Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai’ to ‘We Are a Family’. He brings it forcibly to create situations for love and romance and even tries to make a sad remake of ‘Anand’ by the name of ‘Kal Ho Na Ho’. Death can bring a change and it can give rise to a revolution too. Mehra uses this idea to change the corrupt face of Indian politics in his contemporary freedom struggle ‘Rang De Basanti’. An afraid, middle-class old man dreams about his own death and foresees his family members making a mockery at his funeral. Dibaker Banerjee sets the tone in the very first scene of his humorous directorial debut ‘Khosla Ka Ghosla’.
He blends satire and realism to portray the fear of death in Indian middle class society. Vishal bhardwaj has been instrumental in using the tool of death every time through his own adaptations of Bard and Ruskin bond. He interprets death in a contemporary style to portray a harsh reality. He has used death to culminate emotions. If it’s jealousy in ‘Omkara’ then it’s greed for power in ‘Maqbool’ to conclude in death. But he goes beyond all possible realms when Suzanna uses death to search for her love in ‘Saat Khoon Maaf’. Sometimes death is required to find resonance with life, a thought beautifully depicted by Aniruddha Roy Chaudhary in his Bengali work ‘Anuranan’. Anurag kashyap calls it a ‘darshan’ in ‘Dev-D’ when the protagonist stumbles on seeing a car crashing in the wall leading to a violent end. He decides to put an end to a life of destitution and sympathy and goes onto accepting a concubine as his partner. Death has also been shown as the dark reality of metropolitan life and culture in Mira Nair’s official Oscar entry ‘Salaam Bombay’ and Kiran Rao’s ‘Dhobi Ghat’. In ‘Dhobi Ghat’ one of the female characters of the movie embraces death after she fails to blend into the congestion and tradition of the big city. A lot has been said about death and portrayed several times on celluloid. But nobody has done it like Sanjay Leela Bhansali. Death had never been painted so beautifully ever before as in ‘Devdas’. Paaro running all the way through the long, magnificent corridors of her big haveli to the entrance, with her white red bordered sari unfurling and waving behind in the air, to embrace terminally ill, drunk devdas taking his last breath and he finally collapses as the gate closes in front of their eyes. And for the first time on Indian cinema somebody celebrates death and accepts it with open arms as in ‘Guzaarish’. For the first time people are not mourning the occasion rather they are celebrating it with drinks and smiles. It has never been done before. And it will never be done so beautifully ever after like bhansali has done it in ‘Guzaarish’.

From Guru Dutt to Anurag Kashyap death has always remained a fantasy for Indian filmmakers. They have used death as a cinematic tool to represent emotions and generate circumstances. They have used it again and again to prove that life is beautiful so it should be treasured in all possible scenarios. They have also shown it singing, dancing and smiling on celluloid. Sometimes it’s a necessary evil and sometimes it’s the only escape. But we have also maintained that death should be considered a pause, not a full stop. The concept still continues to be used variously by our filmmakers. The search which began almost a hundred years ago in the form of cinema still persists and manages to engage the audiences with the time tested formula called ‘DEATH’.

Bhansalism...

2011-03-17T16:12:00.006+05:30

It’s been three nights, three consecutive nights that I have been listening to the music of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s movies. He is one of those rare filmmakers of India who work so meticulously on every aspect of movie making. Very few Indian filmmakers have been so committed to the holistic beauty of cinema. Raj Kapoor, Gulzar, Subhash Ghai, Vishal Bhardwaj are other filmmakers who can be named other than Bhansali who believe in working on each and every aspect of their movies to make them a true piece of art. Their movies not only dance, sing and celebrate on celluloid but also breathe and speak through their audience, live and die with those who cherish them. But this post is not about these people. This post is about a painter who knows how to fuse life on canvass. This post is about a poet who doesn’t only rhymes words with words but also rhymes them with air we breathe. This post is about a musician who not only creates music but also allows it to flow and vibrate in our systems. This post is about a man called Bhansali who is a painter, a poet, a musician, an artist and a director. This post is about Bhansali and his ability as a filmmaker to blend poetry, art and music in every frame of his movie.

Every time I listen to the music of Bhansali’s movies I am transported to a world which is beyond the world I live in. This world is a momentarily created, illusionary realm replete with thousands of beautiful colors splashed randomly on a huge canvass of life. This world is like a small island in the middle of blue sea on a starry night with music reverberating in atmosphere from all the possible directions. This world is an intoxicating dreamland where I see myself dancing and rejoicing all through centuries and ages. Jhonka hawa ka, Devdas theme, woh chand jaisi ladki, daras bina, sawar gayi, yun shabnami, dhundhli dhundhli are those compositions which are conceived once in a lifetime. His art is like a fascinating irony on this insensitive and ruthless world we exist. Whenever I listen to the music of khamoshi it makes me believe that silence not only speaks better than words but it also resonates and pulsates in the ambience. The music of hum dil de chuke sanam tears me apart and of devdas takes me back to an era where devdas would be living getting intoxicated in the memories of his beloved. Black too leaves an everlasting impression through the rousing background score given by Monty Sharma. The music of much criticized saawariya has a special place in my heart because I consider it Bhansali’s most well conceptualized and accomplished work ever as a musician. The music of this movie seems to flow in layers, falling one over another, integrating and breaking further into many more layers creating magic and spark in the air which surrounds me. I listen to the music of saawariya and sense the current passing through my body. I get hypnotized and lost in a moment full of music and light. I listen to guzaarish and feel that life is sad but too beautiful for all this sadness. The musicians don’t compose music for his movies. He makes them compose it for him. Bhansali creates a symphony with thousands of violins, guitars, synthesizers and drums echoing in harmony with life. Bhansali is a master magician who creates life and makes it breathe through celluloid. His movies are like beautiful exaggeration given to a poem by a poet. He may not always be original. And he may not have much to say every time. Or he may be saying it again and again. But he believes in saying and he believes in saying it beautifully. And this is what Bhansali is all about.

ALTERNATIVE SPACES...

2011-03-16T16:41:00.003+05:30

I woke up in the morning and touched myself to believe I was alive. I washed my face and wiped it with a towel. I felt slightly itchy, itchy behind, in the groove of my left ear. I touched the part. Found it to be somewhat rough. I tried to look into the mirror. A fungus had grown in the groove and was causing me trouble. I applied the antifungal ointment. And smiled. I smiled because a fungus had found a place in my body which is unknown and alien even to me. My senses do not remind me very often that such a place exists in my body which can be a dormant ground for some kind of ailment. This place is almost like a barren piece of land where the possibility of any kind of growth is remote and impractical. But the truth is it exists. It exists and harbors a potential possibility too. Anyways I had my breakfast and went out in the garden. Stumbled in the pots and fell on the ground. It had been years since I had fallen anywhere. I laughed and looked at the ground. I saw grass, roots, weeds and ants, flourishing and breathing in the wet soil. I saw a squirrel swarming and grabbing the roots of the tree, climbing it and mounting on the edge of the boundary wall. I looked around and saw birds chirping and perching on the branches of the tree. Scientists say that there are a millions of galaxies other than us where life exists in some form or the other. There exists a possibility of another universe with similar sun and planets revolving around it. They also say that there are millions of lives other than us, breathing and harboring in the spaces we live and die. Some years ago I read that millions of bacteria exist on the tip of our finger. So the tip needs to be thoroughly cleaned with sterillium before making a pin-prick. Seven years ago when I dissected the first dead body I found lots of spaces which exist inside us and are very own. Last year when I was posted to an altitude of 18000 ft, I found thousands of pieces of demineralised bones scattered everywhere in the cold desert. There were human as well as animal skulls, mandibles, femurs, tibias, fibulas, vertebral columns and all sorts of bones lying in their natural fate. Because of the demineralization, the bones seemed to be hundreds of years old indicating the presence of life in a place considered to be inhabitable and unfamiliar to a majority of our population. I looked around and discovered thousands of spaces existing in my immediate vicinity. Spaces which haven the possibility of life and existence. If creatures below us on the evolution ladder can find those spaces and encourage life to exist and thrive, then we as human beings with better capabilities must find some spaces having better prospects of life and its survival. Spaces which might be foreign but where a man could breathe without fear. Spaces which might be barren but where hopes could be cultivated without apprehension. Spaces which might be novel but where dreams could be seen and accomplished all over. Spaces where a new world could be erected and structured. Spaces where life could deliver again and flourish into a new civilization. We need to look for them. We need to hope for their existence.

Spaces…Alternative Spaces…

Alternative Spaces…With Alternatives…

PORN - V

2011-03-16T16:24:00.010+05:30

The Flock Of Sheep And My Power

Note: This is one of my very old posts. I have published it again in this series.

“Power is when you have the power to kill someone and you don’t. That is what the emperors do” says Oscar Schindler

“Now I think you are a little drunk…!”
(Schindler’s list)

I am educated. I am sitting on a chair. I have the power to consume whatever I want to. Some body knocks on my door. They want water. They are starving. I will die if I share what I have. I can’t run. I will be caught. I will sit inside and not open the door. This is the only way. They know what's happening inside. But they are helpless. I have the power to exploit. I have the power to hide. They are meek. They can’t organize or revolt. They are handicapped. They need someone to initiate. A spark. Seems impossible to light up from anywhere. Someone needs to be insulted badly. Someone needs to be ripped. Darkness is their weakness, their darkness my power. Phone is ringing. A warning call. A call for help. They know that I'll not pick up the phone. But still want to try their luck. Luck is their last resort, their luck my escape, my power. They chose me. They have to suffer now. They could have stood up that moment. They would have blocked my way if they wanted to. But they didn't want to. They were having nice dreams. Feared they would depart if eyes see the morning sun. Dreams were their leisure, their dreams my realism, my power. I didn't want to drop what was coming my way, in my ‘luck’. They are dwarfs. Lonely dwarfs. Now they are entangled in a web. A web of dreams, a web of lucks, a web of misfortunes. I have the power to cut the web and break the wall. But I don't want to starve. I have to eat. Someone has died outside. They are crying. They are howling for help. Believe somebody would come and help. Their belief is their destiny, their belief my treasure, my power. I am helpless to help them. We both have the key to the door. I have not changed the locks. I didn’t have time. I had to eat. They have lost it somewhere. They can search it if they want, open the door and kill me. But I doubt they would find the key. One needs to fight for it. They can never. They want to cry and dream and try their luck. They are adamant. Ignorance is their light, their ignorance my steer, my power. Oh! I can’t listen to the music. They are screaming like beasts. But who cares for the music. I am starving. I have the power to eat. I will eat...

“Bleeding and babbling
We fell on his neck with a scream
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream”
(‘sheep’ by Pink Floyd)

PORN - PART IV

2011-03-15T15:29:00.003+05:30

The arena

People go there. They go there often. It’s a large well in the middle of town. They make prayers. They take circles around the well. They look into it. And smile. Also wave into it sometimes. Then they close their eyes. And pray. I tried hard. Many a times. To solve the mystery. Also looked into it. I didn’t see anything. I could only see some coins thrown by the people. And some food packets scattered all over. There was a rotten smell. Putrid. Repelling. It was hard to stand there. But people spend hours standing there and looking into it. They go there in large numbers. But only one person is allowed at a time to go near the well. Others wait in the viewing gallery. I also made a visit to the well. Other people were standing in the gallery. There is another place in the town. There also people visit in large numbers. It’s called the arena. Basically it is a large circular platform made up of red bricks with an amphitheater all around. It has a capacity of about 50,000 people. Herds of people go there every Sunday evening. For a show.

I was new to the town. I had heard a lot about these places. They were famous tourist destinations of the town. But I didn’t know the significance of these places. So I asked a gentleman passing by. He got frightened and ran away. I asked a number of people. Everybody acted strange but nobody gave me a reply. A six year old girl was standing in the corner watching me struggling in the new town. She pulled my shirt, gave a smile and said, “Do not worry. You will come to know…soon…very soon…” She laughed and ran away. I got scared and returned home. And struggled for two more days asking about the significance of the well and the arena. Until I met an old man having a cigarette in the corner of the street. I stopped there to have a cigarette. He seemed old but intelligent. Hesitatingly I asked him, “Why do people go to the well and arena?” He smiled and told me to accompany him. He was going to the well so he took me along. We reached the well. There was a ticket counter. Nobody could enter without a ticket. So we got the tickets. We entered the viewing gallery. Thousands of people were curiously waiting for something remarkable. It was hot. So people were getting restless. But nothing could smash their enthusiasm for the show. I asked the old man, “What the hell are we waiting for?” He told me to have patience and wait for the gong… Gong? I got irritated standing there in the hot sun on a marble floor. I was looking all over when I heard a loud sound. It was the sound of the gong. People got into attention and there was absolute silence as soon as the gong was heard. After few minutes, I saw a young girl. About 18 years old. With long black hair. Naked. Absolutely naked. She came from behind clearing the crowd in the viewing gallery, going towards the well. She reached the well. Folded her hands. Closed her eyes. And jumped into it. I was taken aback. For a moment I thought it was a dream. I looked around. And the crowd went into applause. People clapped and shouted victoriously. I looked at the old man pleading him to explain the situation. He told me not to ask anything and follow him to the arena.

It was six in the evening when we reached the arena. An equal number of people had gathered there too. We got the tickets and went inside. The tickets were costlier as compared to the well. We got the back seats. Since front row seats were reserved for the aristocracy. I was in a deep shit after watching that young girl dying in the well. I was not able to forget her face. I requested the old man again to explain what was going on. He told me to wait for some more time and let the show begin. I did as he instructed me. There was a loud cheer in the air. People were going mad waiting there for the show to begin. I heard a gong again similar to the one I heard at the well. I got frightened and decided to run away. But all the doors had locked and there was no escape. And I saw a smart man in his thirties coming into the arena. Naked. Absolutely naked. He reached the center and sat down on a chair. Folded his hands. And closed his eyes. Then I saw a six feet tall dark muscular man approaching the man from behind with a sword in his hand. He came closer and within a fraction slashed the neck of that man. I went into shock. Felt dizzy. The old man shook me and told me to relax. I looked around. And the crowd went into applause once again. I felt disgusted and came out of the arena. The old man followed me. I requested him to explain.

He told me that it’s a regular ritual of their town. Every Sunday two shows are organized. One in the afternoon. Other in the evening. And people wait for the whole week to watch them. He told me that the people are fed up of their lives. So they give it up in the manner they like. The hard ones who can do it themselves go to the well and commit suicide. And others choose the arena to get murdered. It’s the only option they have in their lives. It’s the only escape. But it’s not a moment of remorse. It’s a moment of renunciation and celebration. It’s a new beginning…a new life.

I requested the old man to take me back. I was really disturbed. I couldn’t sleep at night. The faces of the young girl and the smart man were dancing before my eyes, mocking at me. I spent the whole week thinking about the situation. And at last decided to visit the old man. I went to his home. Knocked. He opened the door and looked at me. I said, “I want to talk to you about the whole situation. I am very disturbed and confused. Please help me.” He told me to go back since he was very busy.

I asked him, “Sir, Can I come tomorrow?”

He said, “No, I won’t be there.”

I poked him further to know where he was going.

He told me that he was going. Going to the arena.

To die.

PORN - PART III

2011-03-12T15:21:00.004+05:30

1,537,469,028

Note: Russell is a work of fiction. So are other characters and facts mentioned in this write-up. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental and unintentional.

Russell sang it. He sang it great. It’s a wonderful world by Louis Armstrong. He always believed in the words. In fact embraced them like anything. His father used to sing it for him. Now, he used to sing it for his son, Michael. He took him in his lap and kissed him on his forehead. Michael looked just like his father. Dark eyes. Brown hair. Sharp nose. He poked his finger into Russell’s eyes. Russell kissed him again and handed him over to his wife, Laura. She was a real beauty. Appeared to be an angel. And also dressed like one. She ruffled Russell’s hair, took Michael from his lap, kissed him goodnight and went to sleep. Russell continued talking. He wanted to continue speaking. Nobody ever stopped him. He felt hungry. Went to the kitchen. Grabbed a cookie and then he was back again. Russell and his words. It was a pleasure listening to him. He started with a joke like he always used to. But couldn’t keep up with it. Something was hurting him really bad somewhere. We wanted to know. We wanted to poke him. But we didn’t. We wanted to let him speak for himself. He resisted a bit. But he gave up in the end. Russell was a captain in British army. A tough soldier. And an honest officer. Right from the day one in army, he was observing everything too carefully. He was uncomfortable with it somewhere. But he never told anything to anybody. We tried to ask him many a times. But he always used to divert the whole thing with his jokes. That day we asked him again. But he was too good with his words. He knew the art of doing it so easily. He played Beatles on guitar for us. We clapped and sang with him. He was doing it fine trying to hide everything but couldn’t hold it for long. He forgot the words. He tried hard to recollect but couldn’t. The guitar slipped from his hands. He felt sorry. We tried to hold him. He resisted. Even stammered a bit. His face turned red and eyes blurred with tears. He said it’s nothing but the weather change. He got up from the chair. Turned his face away with his hands resting upon the sidearm. Kept standing there for few minutes. And finally exploded. It was the first time we were seeing him so helpless. He had always made us laugh with his jokes. We had always seen the shine in his eyes and the moment on his face. It was quite a site. He was crying like a child. Like he had fallen on the ground and was asking for help. It seemed he was asking us to pick him up and give him a hug. We felt weak unable to help him in his condition. He was alone. Nobody could stop him. Nobody could hold his hand and wipe his tears. It was just not possible. He disappeared from the site for some time. We thought he would have gone to wash his face. Then we heard something. There was some problem with the sound. We couldn’t figure out. We looked at each other. We were worried and were waiting for our Russell. We were waiting to see his sparkling eyes once again. He came after ten minutes. With fiery red eyes and a gun in his hand. He smiled. For the last time. Put the gun on his head. Pressed the trigger. And shot himself.

Russell was dead. So were Michael and Laura. He had shot them both.

We were watching it live. Live on our computer screens. Millions of people were downloading it simultaneously as Russell was uploading it on the internet sitting in his room that night. We always used to do it earlier while he used to entertain us with his stand up acts. He was very popular among us. He was our hero. And he proved to be one.

Nobody came to know why Russell acted like this. A court of inquiry was organized by the army. It took them six months. Finally, they drafted the final report and labeled him a coward. They said that his wife was disloyal to him and was sleeping with somebody else. They also proved that he was having a mental condition and was incapable of handling stress.

Whatever it was. Nobody poked it further. But the live video generated millions of sympathies and millions of fans for Russell. The video became quite a sensation on You Tube. We still watch it sometimes because it’s very compelling as well as thrilling at the same time. Yesterday only, I had organized a small party at home. We were having beer, listening to rock, getting high and screwing each other. We also watched Russell’s video and then partied whole night.

It has become the most watched video on You Tube.

The video has generated 1,537,469,028 views. Highest in the history of You Tube ever.

PORN – PART II

2011-03-11T16:26:00.003+05:30

Dilatation and curettage

She walks inside the gloomy corridor of a dilapidated building in the secluded corner of the street. She goes to the counter and addresses a stocky dark man sitting there with muck in his nails and moles on his face. He speaks very little and works only by gestures. He gives her a slip and indicates her to sit in the place provided by raising his right eyebrow. She crumples the polythene bag which she is carrying along between her thighs and crushes the piece of paper in her left hand. She walks in a direction opposite to the counter, moving hardly 10 steps and grabs a seat on the left. She settles herself and wipes the sweat on her forehead with one end of her yellow sari. She attempts to open the crushed piece of paper in her left hand and looks for the number written on it. Its 127. She looks all around and finds almost 200 women with bloated bellies with a similar piece of paper in their hands, waiting for their turn. The man on the counter shouts a number after every five minutes and every time a lady gets up from the end, goes inside the room next to the counter and another lady with a bloated belly comes out from inside the room. Sometimes it’s a happy lady. Sometimes it’s a sad lady. And sometimes a lady goes inside and doesn’t come out for hours. The man shouts 120. She starts getting up. Then a lady sitting by her side tells her that it’s not her turn. She feels thirsty and asks for a glass of water from the man on the counter. He raises his eyebrow to indicate the water cooler installed in the end of the corridor. She walks towards it, quenches her thirst and returns to her place. She sits down, closes her eyes and goes to sleep. Then the man shouts 127. He doesn’t see anybody getting up and going inside. He shouts again. She gets up in surprise, hesitatingly and almost stumbling on her way to the counter. The man looks at her with disgust while she crosses him and gets inside the room.

She keeps her polythene bag in the corner of the floor. A middle-aged bulky woman dressed in a white sari grabs her arm, almost crushing her fingers inside her flesh, takes her to the bed, gives her a white towel and tells her to lie on the bed. She lies on the stinking white bed sheet with stains of blood and mucus all over. The woman in white sari holds her legs, raises them, takes them apart and places them on either side of the bed, almost touching her abdomen. On her right side she sees a big machine with a small screen, a probe with a long handle and a panel with numerous buttons of various shapes and sizes. A tall man wearing a white coat and spectacles with a rectangular frame appears from behind the machine, grabs the handle of probe in the right, clutches a bottle of gel in his left hand, places it upside down, squeezes out the gel on the round of the probe, smears it all over and drops the bottle on the table. He then orders her to take a deep breath and inserts the probe inside her vagina without any prior notice. She closes her eyes and cries in pain. He rotates the probe inside for five minutes, slowly and carefully while watching the images on the screen. Then he takes out the probe, clicks a button on the panel and begins writing on a paper. He gives her the paper, lowers himself to the level of the bed and whispers in her ears. Then both of them converse quietly for few minutes. She gives a final nod and gets up from the bed. The woman in white sari grabs her right arm and takes her to another room behind the machine.

The woman in white sari hands her over to another similar woman in white sari. She is told to remove all her clothes including the undergarments. She undresses herself. Then the woman in white gives her a torn green gown and a mask to wear. She wears the gown and follows the woman. She walks down a long cold corridor with doors and doors on either side and sees lot of people wearing similar gowns and masks on their face. She is taken inside one of the rooms. The room is cold, made up of four bare cemented walls with a naked steel bed placed in the center. It stinks of flesh, blood and dead rats. The woman in white tells her to lie down similarly as she lied before on the scanning table. As soon as she lies down, a group of five people, men and women, dressed in green gowns with masks on their face rush inside. She is then asked to turn to one side with thighs touching her chest. A syringe is loaded and injected in her backbone. She cries in pain. She is switched in her previous position after five minutes and her arms are strapped on the side rests of the bed tightly with a Velcro tape. The people surround her from all sides. Two of them stand on either side of her breasts. Other two stand holding her both the legs. And the fifth one stands between her legs. He looks at the trolley on his right. He examines it carefully to make sure. He then takes some gel on first two fingers of his right hand and inserts them inside the vagina. He takes them out and mutters something to his assistant on the left. He then starts inserting metal dilators of increasing diameters inside her cervical canal, pushes them inside one by one until he is able to dilate it sufficiently enough for the rest of the procedure and finally places them back on the trolley. He then takes a curette and inserts it inside her vagina. He scrapes it all around against the walls of her uterus and continues doing it for five minutes. He finally takes it out and places it in a kidney tray. He inserts his fingers again for the last time and gives it a wash with warm saline. He reassures her and advises her to take the prescribed medicines for few days. She is then transferred to a stretcher and taken to the adjoining room. She rests there for some time. Then the woman in white sari comes to her with a kidney tray in her right hand and shows it to her. She raises her head, takes a look at it and turns her face to other side. A tear rolls down her eye and she sobs in the silence of the room.

Some pieces of dead, blood stained flesh, worth few grams, removed from inside her body were lying inside the kidney tray. They were dead. And they had been removed from her body. Forever and for good.

They say it was a girl. And it weighed 300 grams.

मौत - भाग २

2011-03-11T16:02:00.008+05:30

कई बार सोचता हूँ,

फिर सोच के मुस्कुराता हूँ,

और मुस्कुराते हुए कहता हूँ

कि नहीं हो सकता,

ऐसा कभी नहीं हो सकता,

भला ऐसा भी हुआ है कभी,

मैं भी कितना पागल हूँ,

फिर लगता है सोचने में

क्या हर्ज़ है,

कौन सा सोच पे कोई क़र्ज़

लगता है,

सोच भी अपनी है,

वक़्त भी अपना है,

और ज़िन्दगी भी अपनी ही

तो है,

सपना ही मान लेते हैं

चलो इसे,

सपने तो होते ही ऐसे हैं,

हकीकत और ज़िन्दगी से

कोसों दूर,

अपनी ही दुनिया में मस्त,

फिर भी उन्हें देखने का अपना

ही मज़ा है,

सच न हुए तो क्या,

एक उम्मीद तो रहती है न,

कि काश कभी ऐसा हो जाये,

ज़िन्दगी नई सी लगती है,

धुली हुई,

साफ़ सुथरी,

शहर के धुंए से दूर,

कहीं किसी गाँव में बसी हुई…

ऐसा ही कुछ सोचा है मैंने,

कहना चाहो तो कह सकते

हो एक सपना,

कि मौत अगर ज़िन्दगी से पहले

आ जाए तो कैसा होगा,

ज़िन्दगी ही ज़िन्दगी होगी,

बिना किसी ख्वाहिश के,

बिना किसी खौफ के,

और बिना किसी सरहद के,

मुक्त,

मदहोश,

खुशहाल,

अंतहीन,

ज़िन्दगी

सच में,

मौत अगर ज़िन्दगी से पहले

आ जाये तो कैसा होगा,

ज़िन्दगी सिर्फ ज़िन्दगी होगी,

बिना किसी अंत के,

बिना किसी लक्ष्य के,

और बिना किसी सहारे के,

नग्न,

वीरान,

उदास,

अधूरी,

ज़िन्दगी,

सिर्फ ज़िन्दगी…

सच में,

मौत अगर ज़िन्दगी से पहले

आ जाये तो कैसा होगा...

मौत - भाग १

2011-03-08T09:44:00.005+05:30

छुपी पड़ी है
न जाने कबसे,
ढूंढ रहा हूँ
इधर उधर,
पलक झपकते ही
छुप जाती है
न जाने किधर,
कहीं कोने कुदरे में
दब गयी हो गयी
शायद,
रख कर भूल भी
तो जाता हूँ अब,
किताबें हटा
के देखूँगा कल,
देखना वहीं होगी
और झांक रही होगी
मुझको,
जहाँ पढ़ते पढ़ते
छोड़ा था उसी पन्ने
की दरीचों में,
नटखट है,
नादान भी,
कठिन है,
कठोर भी,
रूठ जाए तो
मनाये भी नहीं
मानती,
जिद्दी है,
आखिर मुझपे ही तो
गयी है न,
आवाज़ देता हूँ तो
बोलती है कि
अभी नहीं आऊँगी,
गुस्सा होता हूँ तो
पलट के
पल्लू झटका के कहती
है कि देखलूँगी
वक़्त आने पर,
एक दिन रूठ कर
दरवाज़ा तोड़ के जो
भागी थी घर से,
घंटों तरसता रहा
था खिड़की पे
बैठे बैठे,
कि गली के मोड़ से आती जब
नज़र आएगी तो
खूंटे से बाँध
दूँगा उसे और
अपना बनाके रखूँगा
उम्र भर,
उम्र बीत गयी,
दरवाज़ा आज भी
उसकी उम्मीद में खुला
पड़ा है,
और खिड़की से जब भी बाहर
नज़र घूमाता हूँ तो
लगता है जैसे वोह आ रही है,
पर ऐसी है यह कमबख्त
कि आती ही नहीं,
बड़ी ही अजीब चीज़ है
सच में,
ऊपर वाले ने भी
बहुत सोच समझ के
वक़्त से बनाई है,
कि जितना चाहो फिर भी
नहीं आती
कभी
यह मौत…

PORN – PART I

2011-03-07T18:39:00.004+05:30

Funeral fashion (Rating: xxx)

It’s a proud moment of my life. Years of hard work. Seemed to be an unending struggle till yesterday. Today I am a graduate. A professional. A bread earner for my family. There were too many options. I could have chosen anything. After all I was brilliant. A gifted child. There were lots of retaliations. Mother didn’t spoke to me for 6 months. It’s too difficult a profession especially for the people who are not used to. But I always wanted to do this. I was simply excellent. Today she sees me perform. She feels proud. I have achieved what I aspired for. I am a professional now. A professional mourner.

It seemed impossible in the beginning. Lakhs of candidates. Disturbing questions. Tough interviews. But I passed them all. And got into the All India Academy for Mourners. Best in India and one of the finest in the world. Hundreds of lectures. Demonstrations. Vigorous training sessions. But I sailed through all. We were made to sleep on the marble ground under the scorching sunlight in the months of June. We were stripped and beaten with iron rods on our backs in the middle of night. We were shown the horrifying visuals of blasts, explosions, accidents, wars, murders, suicides, rapes and foeticides. And were asked to cry in unison till the bell. Since it has become almost impossible to cry nowadays. So we were taught to fake it. The most difficult part was the one when we were asked to do it instinctively without any stimulus. It was hard. But we had to do it. And we did it. In the end we became really good mourners. And I was the best of them all. I could fake it like anything. There are other colleges also which train the students to fake other emotions. The students are taught to fake smile, disgust, hatred, anger, passion, sadness, jealousy and all other kinds of sentiments. They are taught to laugh and shout. They are taught to express rage and jealousy without being obvious. They are trained how to be nice and behave with parents, relatives and friends. But everybody accepts that faking a cry and mourning is the most difficult of them all which I finally managed to excel.

So people started calling me to the funerals to fake it. Nowadays funerals are very large scale organized events. People really look forward to attending such kinds of mournful proceedings. They gather from everywhere in flashy clothes. Women wear gaudy make-up, heavy jewellery and dress up in designer stuff. All the people who gather try their best to fake it. But since they can’t do it so professionals are called to mourn and help them cry. Once I was called by the governor of the state to mourn on his father’s funeral. I went there and performed for nearly two hours. Everybody was damn impressed and they valued my art and genius. I was given a handsome amount as a token of appreciation. Then I was also called to the Mayor’s funeral. Mayor’s wife was trying too hard but she was not able to cry. I took her to the corner and taught her the basics hurriedly. The tears started rolling down her eyes. I had taught her the art of faking. After all it’s a fake world and one must know to fake everything. She was so impressed that she gave me a contract to perform at every funeral of their family and relatives. Last month I was called to the funeral of an army officer. I was hesitant to go first but then made up my mind. It was a real big event and everybody was expecting something unusual at the occasion. So I decided to go a step further. I performed the mourning dance and danced for almost about an hour around the funeral pyre. I was given a salute by the royal fraternity of Indian army. In the end army band was played in the honour of my performance. I was really happy. I had become a renowned mourner of the state. I was too confident and thought I could fake it anytime and anywhere in the world.

It was getting a bit monotonous. So I decided to visit mom and dad. I had earned a lot of money and was going to give it to my mom. I purchased a lot of stuff for everybody. I was too happy to be home after such a long time. Father was also proud at my success and gifted me a golden watch. We had dinner together and then I went to sleep.

Next morning I went to see my mother. She was lying in bed with a blanket over her face. I removed the blanket and turned her face towards me. She was dead. Her blank white face was staring at me. I was dumbfounded and taken a back. I shouted and felt like crying.

My mother’s funeral was organized. Since I myself was a professional mourner, nobody was called from outside to perform. So I was asked to give a performance. I got up and took a breath. I had mourned at many funerals. And had even taught people to cry. I could fake it anytime I supposed. Thousands of people had gathered to see a professional mourner performing at his own mother’s funeral. Many of them had seen me perform earlier. So they knew my competence and genius. They expected it to be a hell lot of fun. People pushed and cheered me hard. They even ripped my clothes. I stood there motionless making a deliberate attempt to break. I scratched myself. Even lifted a stone from the ground and began hitting my head hard. Blood started dripping. I could watch it falling on the ground. People started abusing me. I lifted the white cloth from my mother’s body. Grabbed her face and shrugged it violently. Then kissed her and covered it again.

But being a professional mourner I couldn't perform at my own mother’s death. The crowd was really disappointed.

I tried hard but just couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t mourn. I couldn’t fake it.

तुम...

2011-03-05T00:30:00.008+05:30

एक तनहा शाम का
वादा है तुमसे,
सूरज की गरमी और
रात की ठंड में
घुली हुई
कुछ ऐसी शाम का,
थोड़ा मुश्किल है
शायद नामुमकिन भी,
कभी इस डर से
सहम भी जाता हूँ
अकेले बैठे हुए,
पर यह मन है कि
उलझता जाता है हरपल
और कुछ ऐसे ही
नामुमकिन वादे कर
बैठता है तुमसे,
जिनके टूटने से ज़्यादा
पूरा होने से डरता हूँ मैं,
शायद अधूरापन
अपना सा लगने लगा है अब…

सफ़ेद कपड़े पहने
खुले बालों में
दूर से आती
एक सपने जैसी लगती थी तुम,
वोह सच में तुम थी
या तुम्हारी कल्पना,
इस उलझन को सुलझाने की
कोशिश में
लगा हुआ हूँ कबसे,
सुलझाते सुलझाते
खुद एक उलझन बन गया
हूँ मैं,
“तुम्हारे ज़िंदा रहने
का एहसास हूँ”,
ऐसा कहा था इक
दिन तुमने मुझसे
और ढलते सूरज के
नशे में,
सब सच मान लिया
था मैंने,
सच और झूठ के
बीच का फासला
कितना फीका होता है
अब जान पाया हूँ शायद…

शाम की तपती नरम रेत पर
बैठे हुए
सागर की लहरों में
गीले होते,
और घंटों तक
आनेवाले कल की
मंज़िलें तय करते रहते,
तन तो घर जाते ही
सूख गया था लेकिन,
पर मन आज भी तुम्हारे
होने के एहसास से
गीला पड़ा है तब से…

सोया नहीं था उस रात,
जब मेरे हाथ का अधूरा चाँद
अपने हाथ से पूरा किया था तुमने,
उस लम्हे को कैद कर
तकिये के नीचे रख दिया
था मैंने,
बिस्तर पर उस रात की
करवटें आज भी बिखरी पड़ी
हैं तबसे,
सब कुछ वैसा का वैसा
अधूरा अधूरा पड़ा है…

बस एक तनहा शाम का
वादा है तुमसे,
सफ़ेद कपड़े पहने,
खुले बालों में आते
देखना चाहता हूँ तुमको,
जल्दी जल्दी में,
मेरे चाँद का टुकड़ा
अपने साथ ले गयी थी तुम,
और मैं कई पहर इंतज़ार
करता रहा था तुम्हारा,
अब भी अधूरी चांदनी बिखरी
पड़ी है मायूस मेरे हाथों में,
लोग कहते हैं
कि तुम नहीं आयोगी,
और ऐसी उम्मीद करना भी पागलपन है,
कभी तो लगता है
कि एक सपना देख रहा हूँ मैं,
फिर लगता है सब झूठ है,
सब धोखा है,
और शायद यही एक सच है,
कि तुम नहीं आओगी,
तुम कभी नहीं आओगी…

HOLLOW - PART III

2011-03-04T19:09:00.005+05:30

Tree

I planted a tree in my room. Few days back. Since it could not be planted outside. In the cozy comfort of my room, I installed it just next to my bed. Protected from sun, wind, water and other climatic hazards. Neon light of my room provided energy to the tree. Air conditioner which I purchased last year was a constant source of air exchange and chlorofluorocarbons required for the growth and survival of the tree. I also used to breathe into it few hours a day. For this purpose I even carved a small hole in the bark of the tree. I was concerned about the water supply. In the beginning I started watering it with tap water. But soon the roots became shriveled and dead due to the acidic content of the water. So I had to switch onto my own body fluids including urine, saliva and sweat. They were also acidic but less acidic than the drinking water. Within few days it showed a phenomenal growth. I consulted a lot of experts about the fertilizers. I spent thousands on purchasing some of them. Even started nourishing it with these artificial nutrients. But with experience I realized that there is nothing like human shit. Even animal shit proved to be a very good source. Gradually I started experimenting with other sources of nourishment. Once I found a dead dog lying in the street. Somebody had crushed it under his speeding vehicle. I brought it home. Tore it apart into smaller pieces. Further crushed those pieces into finer ones in the grinder. Mixed those pieces with my body fluids and made a thick paste out of them. Applied the paste in the roots and buds of the tree. Within few days the tree grew numerous branches and even bore fruits. I had to even break one of the walls of my room to give space to the growing tree. I was really happy. I had developed a father son relationship with my tree. Watching it grow inch by inch was a pleasure in itself. The tree became a voracious carnivore very soon. I started feeding it with chicken and meat. It became greener, taller and bulkier. People used to visit my house to have a look at the tree. It had been decades since they saw a phenomenon like this. After all nobody grows trees nowadays. They grow only buildings made up of bricks and cement. Anyways, within few days the tree dropped its first ever fruit on my bed. I was sleeping at the time. It hit my head and I woke up with surprise. I celebrated my success and tasted the fruit. I heard about fruits during my school days and even tasted one at my grandma’s place many years ago. But since then it had been a dream. Tasting it almost for the first time in my life was a delightful experience. Though it had no taste at all but it was indeed very rich and healthy. I had found an alternate source of business of selling fruits. I grew prosperous day by day. All was going well. But all good things come to an end someday. I was out of town for two days. It started raining heavily and within few hours turned into a storm. The water flooded into my building.

I returned home happily. I had made good money during these two days by signing important contracts. As I opened the front door, I found everything soaked in water. I immediately ran to my bedroom. And found that the tree had turned all yellow. The sulfuric and nitric acid of rain water had burnt and damaged the roots of the tree. The parched leaves and branches were lying dead scattered on the floor. The dream was over.

People say nature destroyed my tree.

I remain silent and think... it's time...

HOLLOW - PART II

2011-03-03T22:05:00.003+05:30

THE ROYAL BLUE CARPET

I happened to meet him on a gloomy street yesterday evening. He was walking 10 steps ahead of me. It was dark, darkening with every step we were taking ahead. It was very quiet, even though thousands of vehicles were passing every second. I don’t remember the moment I started following him. I don’t remember what the hell happened that I started walking beside him and even accompanied him to his apartment. We were walking together but he didn’t take notice of it. I thought he was up to something. He walked at a constant steady calculated pace. I could hardly see his face in dark. Everything seemed animated and programmed. He opened the door and we were inside his apartment. As we entered, there was a big, dark drawing room welcoming us. The floors and the walls were heavily carpeted and the roof was made up of dotted asbestos sheet. They were all painted in royal blue. The house was absolutely sound proof. We could hear each other breathe. There was total silence. It appeared if I had entered a different planet. There were very few things filling up the drawing room. A small, circular table of steel and glass in the centre of room, one large, heavily cushioned sofa stuck to the wall and a small primitive television set of 60’s stuck to the opposite wall. Everything appeared clean and empty. And the clock on the wall had stopped ticking. There was a small bulb illuminating the entire room. I could barely see the other end. There was a small, dark passage leading to some other room, may be the living room. He lived alone. His name was Paul Anderson. He was born in 2057, graduated in 2076. It was all written in a framed graduation photograph on the wall, in black and white. Soon after, he undressed himself, removed his socks and shoes, switched on the television set, prepared a cup of coffee and settled himself on the sofa. This was probably the first time I could see his naked face clearly, as he sat facing the dimly lit bulb on the opposite wall.

He was different. Something strange. He had scanty blonde hair on his large, round head merely covering the scalp. There were no eyebrows above his small, mongoloid eyes. He didn’t blink. His eyes were blue and still. They were absolutely blank. He had a little remnant of nose, small lips with no features and almost no ears. There were holes on either side of his face with a small skin tag covering the opening. He had a prominent, scarless face. It was white, scary white. For a moment, I felt as if his face would rotate and laugh at me. There was absolutely no trace of hair on his naked body. He had thin large hands with lean, long fingers. He had slender physique and a flat belly. He had a rudimentary, minute stalk like penis with pea-sized testicles covered by small, flaccid scrotal sacs almost like a hermaphrodite. He had thin legs with no fat in thighs and calf muscles. He had thin long feet with no anatomical arches, almost like flippers, making them rest absolutely flat on the carpeted floor.

He moved very little, as if every muscle is programmed previously to move a calculated distance. There was an air of divine silence around him, frightening, deafening, astonishing. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and remote control in other. He showed very little movement as he brought the cup of coffee near his lips. I could hear him take a sip of coffee and bring it down his throat. He changed channels with another. He was gawking at the television set. To my surprise, when I looked there was actually nothing running on TV. There were only blank colored vertical lines on every channel he flipped with a caption in black and bold, “INCONVENIENCE IS REGRETTED”. It almost scared me to death. I touched him to make sure he was alive. There was no response. I poked him with a knife. He just blinked twice. He was definitely alive. But as good as a dead. I called him with his name. He didn’t respond at all. I even managed to shout. But he was still as always. I brought my ears close to his chest to listen him breathe. He was breathing very slightly. His chest moving few millimeters with every puff of inspired air. It was like a naked piece of flesh lying on the dead couch with few last breaths in his account. He was completely impassive to any kind of visual, auditory or tactile stimulus. I even shut down his TV to evoke some kind of response from that piece of dead flesh. He blinked again and kept on flipping channels. I wanted to go inside and search but I was scared to death. Just the idea sent shivers down my skin. After a while he finished his coffee and carefully kept the cup on table so as not to make a noise. After a while I saw him peeing sitting there on the sofa. He urinated beads of a red jelly like transparent substance of exactly the same length and width. They traveled beautifully down the stream, from his rudimentary phallus, falling like gems on the couch and finally embracing the royal blue carpet. The substance disappeared from the scene completely after few seconds. I thought it was there to stay but it was like a magic.

He sat there completely frozen for about an hour. I stood there in the corner, watching his slightest activity, motionless. Thereafter he finally stood up, walked towards the corner and settled down on the carpet with his chest facing the roof. For sometime he kept staring at the roof. Then suddenly he shut down his eyes and went to sleep. He was absolutely quiet. There was not even a slightest movement of his chest. I decided to disappear from the scene. I looked around to make sure there was nobody. As I tossed my eyes across the room, I stopped at the graduation photograph of Paul Anderson. He was dressed in all black with a piece of folded paper in his hands along with 20 other similar guys. As I looked carefully, all of them looked absolutely similar to one another. All of them had blank, blue eyes on a big animated, white face with small lips and no ears. They were like copies of one another with different names mentioned at the bottom of the photograph. It was hard to believe. 20 odd guys with similar face but different names.

How the fuck is it possible? Am I in a different time frame? Or am I in a different zone all together? Or am I doped? There is definitely wrong somewhere. But how can it be figured out? With these questions I managed to slip from his apartment. I ran as fast as I could, holding myself not to look back. Finally I reached my place, opened the door and looked in the mirror to make sure everything was in place. For a moment I saw the face of that mysterious man in my mirror. I shut down my eyes and looked again. It was me there, staring myself as if it was the first time. I picked up that day’s newspaper and found it was year 2010. I shut down the system and went to sleep. I didn’t know if I was going to be so alien and cold but one thing was sure I had decided to revisit him the following day.

HOLLOW - PART I

2011-03-03T15:08:00.004+05:30

House

I have built a house. With rooms. A big house. With many rooms. A room for me and my wife. A room for kids. A room for mom. A room for guests. A room for maid. A room to sleep. A room to fuck. A room to shit. A room to wash. A room to dress. A room to play. A room to study. A room to think. A room to see. A room to listen. A room to speak. A room to shout. A room to cry. A room to laugh. A room to eat. A room to smoke. A room to drink. A room so warm. A room so cold. A big room. A small room. A red room. A white room. A dark room. Just rooms and rooms and rooms. Sometimes I get lost. Moving from one to another. Sometimes I enter the wrong one. But soon I realize. What a mistake I have made. Because it’s just not possible. To stay in that room. When you really want to go to another. Once I went to the room to fuck. And realize that I couldn’t think. Another time I went to the room to eat. And realize that I couldn’t speak. I also went to the room to see. And realize that I couldn’t listen. It’s very confusing. I get irritated sometimes. I keep on tossing from room to room. But I never enter the right one. I tried to label the rooms. I thought it would solve the issue. So I was looking for the room to laugh. But when I found it I had nothing to laugh. Then I looked for the room to smoke. The moment I found it I wanted to drink. Along my journey I felt an urge to shit. But when I found it I wanted to sleep. I got frustrated. I wanted to shout. But when I found it I had nothing to shout. The labeling failed. But somebody gave me a navigator. It’s the latest. And considered to be very precise. So I wanted to go to the room of my kids. I reached well. But since I was looking all into it I stumbled in the toys. Then I wanted to go to my own room to meet my wife. I started but realized that the battery had discharged. Somehow I got it charged. But when I reached my room she had gone to sleep. Frustrated as ever I went to the room to think. Reached well but just couldn’t think at all. Then I went to the room to cry. When I reached I tried but failed to cry. I just wanted to die. But realized that there is nothing such room in the big house.

Now I Wish I could have made one.

A room to live.

And a room to die…

Indian Woman And Her Lost Appetite...Part III

2011-03-02T14:51:00.005+05:30

A page from the dairy of a woman...

Warning: Dr. Meenakshi is 35 years old, famous Dermatologist of Mumbai running a successful private set up since last six years, married to a general surgeon and comfortably settled in the city. This is an extract of her daily diary. But she is work of fiction. So are other characters mentioned in this extract. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental and unintentional.

01 march, 2011

0300hrs

Hmm…I knew he was going to come. It was all in mind, etched and clear like a beautiful dream. I just couldn’t resist the thought of him. He came and settled there. From nowhere. I woke up early. Took a long bath. Washed my hair. Dried them. Wore the costliest perfume I had in my cupboard. Dressed up in blue. Just to match his blue jeans. He seems to be very fond of this…color…kind of stuck to it. Haven’t seen him wearing anything else… but… blue. Felt elated when I saw his name in the appointment book. Got settled for a while. Just to make sure. Took a deep breath. It was too difficult. I was like losing myself. I grabbed my neck. Eased a bit and rang the bell. And he was there the next moment. In blue jeans and white shirt. Tall, fresh with pimples on his face. Hmm…seemed to have increased in number compared to his last visit. It’s too difficult to get hold of these hormones. Prescribed some new medicines and lotions. Gave him next month’s appointment. And bid him goodbye. He was gone. Felt as if he is never going to come again. Thought of calling him, shouting his name. But it was just not possible. How could I? Being a doctor, a married woman and a mother of two daughters. He was just a patient who tickled me and made me believe that I was there. Very much there. Kicking and alive. Anyways I finished the OPD and had lunch with Karishma. She hasn’t changed a bit. We did our dermatology post-graduation together from Manipal. We were meeting after 2 long years. Meanwhile, she got married and got divorced after six months of her wedding. Aborted a child with her previous husband. And madam is in a relationship again. With her husband’s childhood friend. I just can’t believe her sometimes. She is so unpredictable. You would have seen the glow on her face. Felt as if she were pregnant. Anyhow we planned to meet again coming Saturday. Returned late at 7. Had to do some shopping for the evening. After all, it was our 10^th anniversary. A decade long relationship…hhh. Had some wine. Bloody marry. A nice dinner in taj. Deserts. Rajesh gifted me a diamond necklace today. And I presented him an I-pad. He is too fond of all this stuff. And then we were back. Hmm…I know what are you waiting for so long? Yes we made it. After all it was a special day for both of us. We got to enjoy. We got to relive that moment when it was all very beautiful and nice. Rajesh played Beatles on his new I-pad. And we got lost in the heat of the moment.

Something happened tonight which was strange. Too strange. We were making love. My eyes were closed in anticipation of an orgasm. And he was there again. Opening the door, walking towards me and making him comfortable on the stool. He wished me morning; I adjusted his face in the light and touched his spots. I felt uneasy and opened my eyes. And saw Rajesh reaching the climax. I felt as if I was cheating on him. My throat swelled and felt as if I couldn’t breathe. But it was not the first time. Very often I see my father lifting me and ruffling my hair. What’s he doing there at this time? I got to be crazy. Sometimes it’s Anand with his geeky spectacles. I do get his odor sometimes suddenly as if he just passed while we were making love to each other. Sometimes it’s my old friend Amit hugging and kissing me. Sometimes it’s my physics professor slapping and abusing me. Sometimes I see an entire orgy pushing inside me. I see lot many of them. But I don’t see Rajesh very often. He is always there. All over me, inside me. But not in my mind. Sometimes I don’t even recognize the faces I see. I feel strange. After all, I will be forty in next five years. And my daughters will join their high schools. This is something which I am never able to figure out. Is it right for me? Do I need to talk to somebody about this? Do I need to see a psychiatrist? I can hardly figure it out on my own. I want to hammer down my head to see what all filth is cluttered inside.

It’s not possible to sleep tonight without the pills. I'll go mad thinking about all this. I need to take them. I need to get a good sleep. This is what is required at the moment.May be one day I find an answer to my sexual fantasies and urges...

Indian Woman And Her Lost Appetite - Part II

2011-02-26T14:54:00.001+05:30

Note: Nayani is a fictional character. So are Madhav and Bhiku. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental and unintentional.

The hair drier

Nayani is a beautiful Marathi girl. She lives in Fatima Nagar, Pune with her husband Madhav Rao Lokhande and a three old son, bhiku. Her house is a 2 BHK flat in one of the newly constructed apartments of Fatima Nagar. Her husband, Madhav, a celebrated and horrific figure in the police department of the city, is a senior inspector known for his bad tongue and numerous infamous, cold blooded encounters. While Nayani was still pursuing her graduation college, she was married to Madhav Rao forcibly against her wishes by her ill-reputed, alcoholic father. She was just 19 when she got married to Madhav who was 35 then. Compared to her husband, who is a six feet tall, well built, muscular man with thick skin, Nayani is too short and lean and appears to be his child. Her wedding was basically a contractually settled political dispute. Since the fateful day, Nayani has served him day and night being his maid and whore at the same time.

Nayani works the whole day looking after the house hold and doing purchasing for the kitchen. Madhav leaves early and returns late at night in a dilapidated state. She serves him dinner and settles the kitchen. Almost every day she is being dragged and thrown on the bed for a violent sexual intercourse. As soon as the process is over, Madhav goes into a peaceful sleep devoid of any dreams and phases. Madhav is not only older and stronger than Nayani but he also has a bigger phallus compared to her almost pubertal vagina. She goes into a flight of pain every time he thrusts inside her. The act always leaves her groaning and bleeding in pain.

Her life has been a bagful of incompatibilities ever since the day of marriage. The whole thing has taken a heavy toll on her beauty and innocence. She has gradually started turning into a world of her own. Over a period, she has become more introvert and lonely. But despite all this, the fire still burns inside.

That morning while seeing him off, Nayani managed to slip away a cigarette from his wallet. After dropping bhiku to school, she returned home and prepared her breakfast. She, then, took a long shower and washed her hair. She switched on the electric drier and took out a beautiful red sari from her closet. Thereafter she got dressed and called her mother. After a long time she talked to her mother for almost an hour. Her mother was not doing well since the day of her marriage. She was an old case of pulmonary tuberculosis and had lost almost 20 kgs of weight crying for her child and looking after her sick husband. Anyhow, Madhav tried to help them financially as best as he could. But her mother burnt each and every penny given by him in the fireplace. Madhav, as a consequence, strictly prohibited Nayani’s visit to her family and even made sure spying her every move out of the house. She also called her elder sister who lives in lonavala with her husband and three children. During early years, both the sisters used to be good bharatnatyam dancers and they even managed to bag some prizes by performing in annual functions of their society. Both were great fans of Vajayanthi Mala and they used to dance madly whenever her songs used to come on Doordarshan. It has been four years since they last met and that was the last time they danced together. She discussed some of the basic moves with her sister on the telephone. Her sister still manages to perform as and when the opportunity comes. But Nayani has not even dared dancing since years.

The phone call greatly inspired her. She locked herself inside the bedroom. She opened bhiku’s almirah and took out his rattle from the drawer. She hammered the rattle and took out the beads from inside. Then she tore her beautiful silk dupatta and cut two threads out of it. She weaved the beads into the silk threads and tied each one of them around her ankles. She began practicing some of the basic moves. She then danced and danced in front of the mirror for hours together. She got all drenched in sweat and fell on the bed exhausted and elated. She then took out the cigarette from under the pillow which she had slipped away from Madhav’s wallet and placed it between her lips. She smiled and began laughing at her daredevilry. She closed her eyes and smelled the cigarette. She couldn’t resist lighting it. She went to the kitchen to fetch a light and returned to her room. She took a long puff and exhaled the smoke. She didn’t cough. She smoked it just the way Madhav used to, snubbing it tightly between thumb and index finger, almost crushing the butt, taking a deep puff and exhaling it sideways. Her entire life in the past four years began dancing in the smoke. She felt as if she is puffing out the toxicity packed inside her chest for these many years. A tear film smeared her lower eyelid. She didn’t let it get out and dried it in the smoke of cigarette. She got charged with anger. She removed whatever she was wearing and threw her naked body on the bed. She inserted her fingers inside her cavity and began pushing them hard, just the way Madhav used to with his long penis. She screamed and pushed harder till it started bleeding. Then she inserted her entire hand inside the vagina and gave it a good blow. Tears started rolling down her cheeks but she continued torturing herself. Then she removed her hand out and smeared the blood on the white flowered bed sheet.

Madhav returned home late at night in usual pathetic state. It was a tough day. He was insulted badly by the commissioner of police for his negligent approach to work and bad tongue. He even got a written counseling for his behavior. Nayani was going to have a tough time. But she always prepares herself before Madhav is about to return from duty. He was surprised to find the front door open. He got inside and shouted in anger. He stepped inside the bedroom and saw the blood smeared bed sheet. He got furious and shouted for Nayani again. But she was nowhere to be heard and seen. Then he opened the bathroom door and fell flat on the ground.

Nayani was lying silently in the bathtub with Bhiku on her naked chest. The tub was full of water. Nayani was holding the rod of the hair drier tightly in her right hand. She had electrocuted Bhiku and herself with the hair drier.

Nayani was dead. So was Bhiku.

रूबरू...

2011-02-25T20:22:00.004+05:30

हम कुछ यूँ उभरे उनसे रूबरू होकर,

जैसे उजड़ी हुई सियाही में डूबकर,

पीले दीमक लगे कागज़ पर

कुछ हर्फ़ नज़्म बनकर,

रूह से बाबस्ता हो

मचल उठते हैं…

Indian Woman And Her Lost Appetite - Part I

2011-02-18T02:40:00.000+05:30

Warning: Sapna is a fictional character. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental and unintentional.

The black sari

Sapna is a middle class Punjabi girl married to a bank employee. She lives with her husband, son and mother-in-law in a suburb of Ludhiana city. Though pretty well educated as compared to other women of her age and place, her marriage was an arranged affair organized by her parents. As a girl she always wanted to marry a very rich and handsome person, preferably an NRI. But fate had something else in store for her. Anyways, married for five years, her marriage has been a very smooth affair without any significant hassles and issues. Her husband, Madan, works in a central bank and is earning a decent salary. Her mother-in-law, though quiet old, is overall in-charge of the house. Madan still prefers to hand over the entire salary to his mother and let her manage the house. Sapna like a normal Indian female has never complained and has been obedient throughout her stay in her husband’s house. She hardly gets time for all such issues concerning dominance. She is engaged all the day managing the household stuff and her family. Her son, Rahul, a small brat, keeps her busy and brings a smile to her face with his little pranks.

Sapna always wanted to continue her studies after the marriage and do a job. But her responsibilities as a wife, as a daughter-in-law and as a mother couldn’t let her pursue her career. She sacrificed without ever complaining and blaming anybody. She hardly gave it a thought after her son was born.

Like any other woman, Sapna is very fond of clothes. She has managed to afford a decent wardrobe for herself since the day of her marriage. She has a thing for colors. She always manages to make a style statement at the family functions. But the credit goes more to her beauty than to her clothes and style. She has always doted black since she was a school kid. Black tiffin, black sketch, black shoes, black skirt, black dupatta. When she grew older she wanted to marry somebody with black eyes and a big black contessa. She simply adored black. But she hardly got a chance to manage all this black stuff in her mama’s home. How could she? Black is inauspicious, depressing and sad. Her mother never allowed her to wear anything black. She once wore a black skirt gifted by her aunt. She was just nine years old, small enough to hardly understand any consequence. Her father lost his wallet the same day while returning from office. It contained the month’s salary. She was scolded badly for wearing that color. Not only that the skirt was burnt down and the remains were flushed in the drain. She watched her favorite color getting burnt down in ashes. Since the day she never dared to ask for black.

She grew older and her marriage got fixed. Somehow she managed to buy a beautiful black chiffon sari while the clothes and jewellery were being purchased for her wedding. She slipped it into a hidden compartment of her wedding suitcase and brought it into her husband’s home. She is a free bird now. She has her own house and own life. Nobody can stop her now from wearing her color. She opened her suitcase on the second day of her marriage and took out the crumpled sari from the hidden compartment. She got it ironed and wore it to her skin. She looked in the mirror and smiled. Her eyes sparkled. She came out of her room. All the relatives and friends were waiting to bless the new member of the house. How could she dare to wear such a color on the second day of her marriage? Her mother-in-law got furious and rebuked her for bringing bad luck to the family. She ordered her to change it immediately and wear something flashy and colorful. She rushed inside her room and cried. Since the day she never dared to wear the black sari in her husband’s home again. Her dream was sealed in closet forever.

Sometimes after completing the routine stuff, when her mother-in-law is asleep during the afternoon hours and nobody else is there at home, she goes to her room, locks it from inside and draws all the curtains. She drags the big suitcase from under the bed and takes out the crumpled black chiffon sari from the hidden compartment. She touches it to her skin and looks in the mirror. She irons it carefully so as to remove all the wrinkles and wears it quietly inside the closed door. She looks in the mirror again and adores herself as she has never done it before. She smiles and feels like dancing. She unlocks her hair and lies on the bed relieved and contended. She closes her eyes and begins to dream what she couldn’t dream otherwise sleeping with her husband on the same bed every night for so many years. She lies there for hours together in the warmth of that color. But then Rahul usually arrives from school and begins knocking the door. She gets up in surprise, changes, hides the black sari in the suitcase and is back to her work again.

She commits this crime whenever she gets enough time to do it. Somehow she manages to be a free bird wearing that black sari. She manages to dream and think for a change what she could never do otherwise. She manages to be promiscuous with that black chiffon sari wrapped around her skin while being committed and faithful to her wedlock.

This is the only time she feels like breathing.

And this is the only time she lives for herself…

God - part II

2011-02-16T03:07:00.001+05:30

Horror

I've seen horrors … horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that … but you have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face … and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies…Colonel Walter E.Kurtz, Apocalypse Now.

I remember I was preparing for my medical entrance examinations. I was living as a paying guest in one of the households of bhathinda. As far as possible I could see myself a part of this profession only. There was only one focus. Though a second thought always used to persist and poke. What if I don’t make it to the finals? What if I lose and scatter without reaching the end? Finally, I made it. I got into a medical college and earned a degree. I got a job and started earning. Soon I realized I could buy all those things with my salary which I couldn’t afford yesterday. Yes, I could until one day when it all got shattered. I am very thankful to my friend Gaurav for causing this damage. He took me to a lane in the multiplex area of Saket, New Delhi. He introduced me to a forty something lady, a rag picker by profession sitting on a cot, surrounded by a group of 35 well fed, healthy street dogs, sleeping peacefully in the cold winter of Delhi with some fire in the centre. She was their mother. She used to feed those 35 street dogs picking up from the rags. How the fuck is it possible? It woke me up and burnt down my entire ego. It exposed a part of me which I always clothed and pampered. This was horror. Sheer fucking, nail biting horror. We have always been wrong when it has come to the portrayal of horror on screen. Horror is not some visually disturbing, ugly, brutal, torn piece of dead flesh portrayed on celluloid. Horror is something which is very alive and soulful like a piece of music or a beautiful painting. Horror is a moment of creative transformation. Horror was that second thought which persisted and sailed me through my examinations. Horror was that visual which exposed my timidity and crushed my ego. Horror is the persistent negativity which keeps us moving. Horror is a necessary destruction, a necessary murder which we are required to do. Horror is an unexplainable something which is a part of me, a part of you and a part of all of us.

Horror is the last hope.

Horror is the necessary god. Yes the god…

God - part I

2011-02-16T00:50:00.000+05:30

Oh god…!

This was something new after countless days of watching snow making mounds and mounds in front my shelter. Finally, it was a bright sunny day with a lot of chill factor to make it more juicy and horny. Moreover it was Tuesday and a mandir parade was organized in my battalion to apologize for the mistakes made in the past and to request nature god to be merciful throughout our tenure. And more interestingly, after a long time I was paying a serious, though forced visit to an organized religious ritual. Unlike civil, mandir is a very formal and structured event in army compulsory for all ranks and beliefs to attend. That is why I addressed it as a parade in the beginning. So there was no question of getting a day off (I deliberately got it once and still remember the chaos it brought to my mind and soul). I was having my afternoon siesta which had generously extended to an evening one. I got a call at quarter to six from a staff officer of my unit reminding me of the parade. The hell broke. I had to get ready. My eyes were swollen. I was feeling shitty getting up from my sleeping bag at +30 and going to attend mandir in -30. What the hell has happened to me? The time has made me wiser. But I was always happy insane. Anyways, I stepped inside the mandir and saw my troops lost in a mad world of devotion and deities. Religious hymns were being sung to the tunes of bollywood numbers. I was given a comfortable place to rest my arse. I sat down and met somebody. Yes, you guessed it right. It was god. Decorated and ornamented in a beautiful stone carving and a glass frame. Besides, the punditji of the battalion was sitting on the floor waving god with a bunch of peacock feathers. Indian soldiers were chanting with their closed eyes and cracked voices, ‘we are fucked, we have been raped, please help us god!’ My relationship with god has gone through many cracks and crevices. My facebook status has shifted from a believer to a non-believer and finally to an agnostic over a period of time. There is no serious animosity between us. But we have decided to remain indifferent and insolent towards each other. It’s a mutually signed agreement. I read somewhere written that there is a 99.9% probability that god doesn’t exist and there is a 99.99% probability that he doesn’t exist in the form we worship him. Though I am not sure about the first part of the statement but I definitely believe the second one. Anyhow, we were facing each other again. I tried to look straight. Into his stoned eyes. You are still the same. You haven’t changed ever since. Are you the one I was looking for so many years? Are you the answer to my questions? Are you the one I compose in my poems and dreams? Are you…Really…? But he didn’t even blink. I tried sounding desperate. Do you really breathe and eat? Do you ever fuck and sleep? But he was as cold as a stone. I closed my eyes. I saw colored patterns dancing on a black canvass. I saw the whole world, thousands of men and women, dancing, singing and making love to each other. I felt deceived. I opened my eyes. The patterns collided with each other and vanished into a thin air of trouble and longing. Are you the one responsible for this dichotomy? The question remained. I shrugged and heard people reciting hanuman chalisa. I was the most ignorant fool sitting in the whole crowd. I closed my eyes again. I saw a big zero with millions of small zeroes in front and million others following it, running and chasing each other creating a mayhem. By the time the show was over. And I had got my answer. The prashad was finally distributed and we decided to call it a day. I returned to my room, dazed and confused, logged in to my facebook account and saw some unread messages waiting for a reply.

SCIENCE VS GOD...

2011-02-13T01:42:00.000+05:30

The exorcism of Emily Rose

The second title may seem abrupt as the article proceeds. It is the title of a 2005 American horror film directed by Scott Derrickson loosely based on the story of Anneliese Michel and follows a self-proclaimed agnostic defense lawyer representing a parish priest who is accused by the state of negligent homicide of a young woman named Emily Rose after he performed an exorcism. The film brings out the conflict between medical fraternity and the fraternity of church over the death of Emily Rose. The film gives a very balanced unbiased opinion over the death of the woman by being both politically and scientifically correct at the same time. Rather the onus is on the audience to believe what they want to believe.

It was 7 o’clock in the evening. I was involved in a regular chat with one of my friends on facebook when I got a call from a nursing assistant on a post at 16000 ft. The doctor is usually not deployed in this terrain at such a height. So to provide medical cover to the troops serving there, nursing assistants are available giving them first aid and monitoring the patient till the evacuation by air effort takes place. It was an unusual call at such an hour of day indicating some kind of urgency. I could sense the apprehension in the voice of my nursing assistant. The things were definitely not in his hand.

“साहब, यहाँ एक केस हो गया है. एक सिपाही की पूरी बॉडी अकड़ गयी है, उसके हाथ पाँव मुड़ गए हैं और पूरी बॉडी हिल रही है.”

I got concerned as soon as I heard these words. I poked him further to get required history of the patient and other necessary details. It all started with a headache and numbness in both the upper limbs and tongue followed by two episodes of tonic spasms involving the whole body. In medical terms patient had suffered two attacks of seizures at an interval of 10 minutes lasting five minutes each. I enquired whether the patient had any such attacks in the past. The nursing assistant told me that patient had a similar attack previously while worshiping in temple when his body got stiffened. I ignored this history at that time. I found it to be insignificant. I immediately instructed the nursing assistant to give him an intravenous shot of injection diazepam to control the convulsions. The injection was given and the seizure activity stopped. Vitals were taken at this moment and they were found to be stable. It seemed to be case of Cortical Venous Sinus Thrombosis (CVST). CVST is a rare form of stroke that results from a blood clot in the venous system of brain. The symptoms include headache, numbness, weakness of one side of the body, seizures and altered sensorium. This condition though particularly rare but is fairly common at such high altitudes. The reason being the low oxygen concentration leading to increased hemoglobin and increased viscosity of blood making it more prone to phenomenon like clotting. Moreover, decreased physical activity at this altitude and such weather conditions combined with decreased water intake and more urine output contribute to the factors leading to conditions like CVST. I looked out of my window and realized that the weather was totally packed. It was snowing heavily and no stars could be seen. There were minimal chances of patient getting evacuated by helicopter. And the patient in any case could not be brought downhill by other soldiers on foot given the risk of avalanches and snow slides. It would only mean risking the life of other four to five people. I called up my officer of the unit and explained him the condition of the patient and my probable diagnosis. I also informed my senior medical consultant who advised me to put the patient on priority and raise a demand for heli evacuation. All these formalities were on. I again called up the people on the post and enquired about the general condition of the patient. The officer at that post told me that the patient is otherwise stable but is talking unusual things. At first I gave up a shut up call to the officer there and told him stop the bullshit. But he insisted me to listen to him.

“सर please आप मेरी बात सुनो. सर जब आपने injection देने के लिए बोला तो उसके बाद यह बिस्तर पर ठक कर के गिर गया और फिर एक दम से उठा और बोलने लगा, ‘ माता रानी तुम सब को कभी माफ़ नहीं करेगी. मुझे पता है किस ने मंदिर के पैसे चुराए हैं. माता को सब पता है. मेरी आत्मा बहुत नाराज़ है तुम सब लोगों से. गाँव में भी पहले किसी ने ऐसा किया था. उसको माता रानी ने बहुत कड़ी सज़ा दी थी. मेरी आत्मा को भभूती चाहिए.’ सर patient बुरी तरह से अपनी पूरी बॉडी हिला रहा है और सर झटक रहा है. जब यहाँ लोगों ने मिट्टी उठा के भभूति की तरह इसके माथे पे लगाईं तो एक दम से बिस्तर पर गिर पड़ा और सो गया. सर इसे और कुछ नहीं देवी आई है और इसलिए यह खेल रहा है.”

These were the exact words of the patient as told to me by the officer there. I ridiculed all this stuff and thought that the patient is not in his senses because of the clot. On further enquiry I came to know that the patient was from sirmaur district of himachal Pradesh and the things like black magic, jaadu toona, devi etc are very common in that belt of himachal. The patient had similar such episodes in the past and was observed by other people of the battalion in mandir before.

When this whole episode happened my senior officer decided not to raise the demand for evacuation of patient at that time. He explained me that it is a fairly common occurrence in people of sirmaur district and it is more of a psychological thing which has got aggravated because of the tough living conditions at that post. Moreover, the religious sentiments of the troops must be respected. But I insisted that the patient is critical and anything can happen to him if he is not being evacuated. Even if the weather doesn’t permit evacuation, at least raising the demand for it will save us from administrative repercussions in future if anything happens to the patient. At least it would show that we were concerned and we identified the problem timely for the betterment of patient. I explained the problem of CVST to the officer and told him that such type of behavior could happen in this condition also because the patient is not in his senses. I ridiculed that such type of behavior was related to his upbringing and place of origin.

While the discussions were hot, several other senior officers were put into picture and their opinion was taken. Everybody insisted that it is all psychological and nothing medical. I was abusing them to the highest order in my heart and calling them ignorant. Although I was the principal medical adviser for the troops there but being the most junior officer I couldn’t interfere much. Meanwhile the pandit of the battalion was consulted and his opinion was taken. He advised that a pooja would be undertaken coming Tuesday and we all would apologise to maata rani for our mistakes.

I called up the post again and enquired about the patient. The nursing assistant and the officer there informed me that the patient has become perfectly stable and is talking normally. I talked to the patient.

He said, “saab yeh mujhe pehle bhi hota rehta hai. Jab bhi ghar mein koi takleef hoti hai to mujhe maata aati hai.”

The medical adviser down below told me that it is nothing but psychological and there is no need for immediate evacuation. By this time I was also almost convinced that the things are under control and nothing sort of CVST has happened to him.

I also took my decision back and decided to go with the flow leaving everything to the destiny. Hope he gets fine and the attack doesn’t recur. The decision was taken that a big pooja would be held coming Tuesday and all the troops will apologise Maata rani for our mistakes.

I was convinced that the patient certainly didn’t have CVST. But can I explain the things medically? Yes the patient might be schizophrenic. In schizophrenia patient might feel possessed and he might have auditory and visual hallucinations associated with paranoid behavior. Or the patient might be having hysteria or the conversion disorder which may have all such type of symptoms and behavior. Or the patient might really be under supernatural possession. People behave weird when they feel possessed and under the effect of some supernatural power. But my grooming as a doctor expects me to be rational and scientific.

It was a clash. A clash between local customs and medical science. A clash between religion and science. A clash between man and god. medical science has come a long way. But it still needs to be politically correct and ecologically adaptable.

Is the patient schizophrenic? Or is he really possessed?

I rest the matter for discussion…