Action/Cut

"Don't stand on sentimentality", he said.
"Don't make it out to be more than it is. Sure, it has been 4 years now, more or less. Sure, you have come to be identified with it by many (for good or bad), others have not known you differently. It has fuelled debate and love, amusement, dislike, sighs and squeals and shakes of the head. But why be sentimental about it?"

He sighed. The silent one looked on.

"Yes, it will spark reactions of all kinds even in departing. People might see you in a new light. Or not care at all. Departures are always bittersweet, separation is never easy, more so when wilful. It is, at the best of times, tinged with emotion or sentiment or-"
"Oops", he paused.
"Sentimentality", the silent one completed the thought.

He seemed at a loss for words for a moment. Then, with an air of finality, he just shouted, "CUT!"

Obscured by Clouds

"Obscured by clouds." Instinctively, I thought it was apt. It suited a foggy mind and uncertain thought. Then I paused and saw it again. "Clouds! That explains it."

Grey, looming clouds weighing down on me; but their sense is not of impending doom. They hang immensely in that gentle and brooding way of theirs- making everything only about them, and you can't help but be charmed. Seduced, even, by the lure of their deep and intense grey. Have you looked out from your window or balcony ever, to see storm clouds approach? An expanse of green, looking up uncertainly at the approaching darkness. Trees blowing in the wind, crowned by imperious shapes that excite and unnerve, all at once. In the midst of all this, whither clear thought?

Smiling, white cotton framed against an azure sky. These are clouds, too. They are happy, cheery, and no less powerful. They hang wispily over lush green and streaks of yellow and splashes of blue. A gentle breeze comes along; it strokes your heart as the leaves flutter. You lie back in the grass, looking up at the soothing blue and white, your limbs relaxing, your heart filling, your mind letting go. Little white strands float above, taking your thoughts with them, leading them into quiet nothingness. It is all serene and beautiful and meaningless, all at once. In this gentle pointlessness, whither focus?

They are magnificent and powerful, alluring and misleading; they gently whisper yet brook no argument; I am seduced and I am haunted; I am calmed, and I am left shaken. I am just here, obscured by clouds.

the desert of the real

“Where have I come”, he thinks, as laughter tries not to choke on what wells inside.
What is this place- at once mine, and alien? What is this I smell, is it home or exile? I can touch the warmth, but feel the harsh heat.
He steps cautiously, looking around, looking at everyone.
Is this compatriot or foe? Is he visionary, delusionary, illusionary? What are these voices, that shout out over the music ; this din that tries to drown those thumping, familiar, happy beats?
He whirls, furtive eyes grappling with an unsettled mind. He listens, comprehends. But he cannot understand.

What is this belief, how is this belief? Is it all I see that does this, or is it my eyes?
He feels the arms, their tight grip. They don’t know him, but they reach out to him. Stopping, objecting, holding, demanding.
Where has this desire to control come from? Or has it merely been waiting to strike? Who are these people?
He turns to them, reason in his eyes. They laugh cruelly, their understanding locked away by time and delusion. He speaks and explains and argues with them. But they have already turned away, and even he can barely hear himself now.
Where have I come? What is this place? What is happening to it? Or was it always thus, am I the sleeper? What am I supposed to think?

* * *
Disorientation, disbelief and frustration- just a few links:
marriage offers, Devoutly disobedient, Cultural attack, Noodle straps, Man beats wife for dressing like man, adultery, watch, don't watch, karachi sweets, pub culture tv debate, muslim girl’s tattoo, Bangalore pubs, Delhi/soumya, UP labourer in the train, the idea of indignation,

thought!

A fleeting, incendiary idea. A flash, transitory brilliance. Fugitive inspiration, lighting up and fading away.

Better On Black

- from flickr

tipping the scales

He laughs, a throw-the-head-back-and-enjoy-life sort of laugh. He looks by him, at the smile and loveliness. He looks around and sees blue, green, white, orange; dark and light interplay beautifully. He hears contentment. He breathes abundance. And he is scared.

Sometimes there is so much deep happiness in his life, a pang of fear runs through him. It doesn’t doubt the happiness or question its being, but it wonders if everything evens out. If there is meant to be balance, then there must be sadness. Something bad must happen, and so much good has happened, the bad will be cumulatively worse.

This sounds more depressing than it usually is, once put on paper. But sometimes he just wonders if there is something unpleasant lurking around the corner- could he deserve this much joy?

shut

I lie here, with my eyes closed. I'm ill, I need to do this- nothing. I've had my brief dose of the laptop, I've read as much as I can or should, and now I must do nothing. I often think that I have lost the ability (if I had it to begin with) to just be, to do nothing, to simply think, or think of nothing. But here I am, and I must because the pain is too much.

So now I try to relax. Find something to think of, but my mind will not be controlled thus. Instead i flit from thought to thought. From details to ideas, from memories to opinions, so breezily I can't even catch the connections that lead from one to another. I try to see them, try to hold on to the thread that takes me from abstracts to specifics, but they disintegrate.

I can hear the wind chimes tinkle gently. Ta-dak, dak. Ta-dak, dak. A car whizzes by outside unusually loudly. An infant squeals in the park. I can suddenly smell sea water, hear waves. My mouth tastes salt, then waters for spice and kaffir lime leaves. I think of FairPrice, the local supermarket, and that I haven't been there in some time now. I can see some design, a look, something I could experiment with at work, but I push the thought away. I don't want to think about office. I am aware now again, aware that I am thinking. Aware that I am trying to think. I grasp, reach out, clutch at thin air.

I open my eyes, helpless.

meandering

It was not that life was meandering, it was I.
The laughter, the tears, the pride, the indignation, the love; they all brought inspiration, carried on a wind begging for effort and change; swept away by a breeze of indifference and inaction.

That one day, I remember, was burning hot. At least by my by-then softened standards. The searing heat burnt through the sunscreen and prickled my neck. I clutched a bottle of water in my hand as I walked under shade-less trees and brown streets. The deserted street seemed full of life- it was as if the emptiness of the surroundings was bombarding my mind with inspiration.
But I walked on, unwittingly insistent on letting the inspiration smoulder and wither in the heat. And so I did. The little flames of ideas burnt out. Gleaming points of insight faded away. Crystal clear pools of understanding evaporated.

And I was left walking, looking merely for shade again.

The depth of nothingness

In blank eyes he saw the fullness of life, the endless possibilities of being complete and whole.
In a gaping mouth he espied the yawning chasm of helpless life, helpless love.
In glazed pupils he glimpsed the pointlessness of eternity and the immediacy of the moment.

Yes, those were blank eyes. But they were not empty… they yet held so much…because of him, and for him.

normalcy

He turned to her blandly.

“You aren’t the same anymore. I hardly recognize you. I know you love me, but I am aware of that only as knowledge. From experience, almost as nostalgia.
You look at me with a fondness that seems to come from habit. You touch me with a gentleness that comfort requires. You hold me from need.

You look at me fondly, but you pass my querying looks by without so much as an acknowledgement; you ignore me out of a subconscious indifference, not deliberately.

You listen, but you listen to my words for what they are, not what they could be.
You lie on your back in the ease of normalcy, the comfort of that which is taken for granted, the love of habit.”

His mind was churning with thoughts, yet nothing articulated itself- individually or as messy emotional throw up. He looked at her silently, as her hand disinterestedly fingered the remote, her eyes staring gazing almost numbly at the TV in front of her. Then she turned, gave him a watery smile and looked away again.

the road

I said my goodbyes, and walked wearily but cheerily to my bike. I was on the roads then- dark, empty-late-at-night, wide Delhi roads slick with a rain that had just passed, leaving everything washed and shiny. And slippery.
I pushed at my wrist, and the bike went faster. Soon I was speeding- more than I could expect myself to, normally, and smiling. I was wearing a helmet without a visor, also unusual, grinning into the nippy night breeze and at the reflective roads I was whizzing on. Then I hit something. I have no idea what. I knew clearly, almost too clearly, that my bike and I had flown into the air. Flown high, high up- me even higher than the bike. I was looking down below my bike gliding below me in the silence, and the road glistening way down below it.
I was looking, calmly, but it was the merest fraction of a second; then I closed my eyes. I might even have smiled, as my trajectory took me long and high- for an illogically long time. I closed my eyes because I figured there was little point in freaking out. I closed my eyes because it felt soothing, but then I had a flash- I saw my teeth shattering on impact, and I found my hand rising to cover my vain mouth. It would be soon now, very soon that the crunch of a human form would break the quiet of this night.
Then I woke up.

A distant smile

Laughter, like an oddity.

Then, like the first drop of rain on a sunny day, a sudden disquiet. Her head turns to the window, looking out. Green trees and golden spires, little feet on soft grass, resounding bells over relentless traffic. Beyond all of it, distant but impending gray clouds, a romantic melancholy. Beyond even them, an unseen sunshine that promises a glow warmed by nostalgia. Were that it could be so, her yearning mind sighs. That things that have gone by, those that are passed, can come back to make this time whole.

To make laughter feel right, normal, complete.
And happy.

idea

1
Is it to be blue or red? Must it come crashing down in a frenzied burst of colour and sound, with the beauty of fury? There! There it comes! Bursting through the clouds, its violence splattered with joy. There, now you can picture the eyes, ablaze with passion, announcing its arrival in screeching glory. There, you can see it leaving you breathless and puzzled, exhilarated and enlightened, gasping in its aftermath.


2
Is it black or white? Must it quietly slip in, in a gentle poke of near-silence, the appeal of subtlety? There! There, is it there? Fading in through the extreme white, in shades of itself, its softness still outlined with power. Yes, there, you can see it now- smiling with quiet confidence, eyes smouldering in ice, saying nothing, knowing it doesn’t need to. There, it is leaving you now, in ponderous raptures, your deep breathing struggling for normalcy, riveted and stupefied, sighing in its wake.

positive

His eyes shone like a child's as he strode toward me. I couldn't help but look, though he may have thought it weird if he had noticed. So immersed in his thoughts was he, he didn't even realise. His face smiled without really doing so, and even his hair had the bounce of a shampoo commercial. In fact his entire gait seemed almost to be shot on hi-speed, though he knew it not. He passed me by, but my my gaze remained, transfixed- though now it moved to his body. The upright shoulders, full of purpose (or happy lack of it?), the scant stomach tucked in, and the legs. It was his strides that captivated me the most- bouncing along like a 4 year old, but not skipping foolishly. Then, his hands. His hands swung by him, then spread out in a wide embrace to the world and came down to meet each other in what sounds like a silly clap but was a beautiful signal of his buoyant mood.

The Zoo

I can feel the thoughts rushing around at breakneck speed. Few may be worthy. Not even one , surely, is fathomable.
Some swim rapidly, like little fish; others charge blindly like rhinos. Yet others sprint fleet footed, like gazelles. Above them, chattering chimpanzees swing, using stray words from other thoughts as branches. Resilient birds flutter through, crashing into others and falling down, only to groggily stand up and resume their wayward flight. Clashes, stumbles and random shakes of the head abound.
A beagle sits unperturbed through all of this, watching and not seeing anything. But he is blank and completely thoughtless, so his calm means little.
It only accentuates the inertia of chaos.

A different turn

13minutes.
That is how long the solitude had lasted.
He knew because he owned a watch. He was also wearing it at the time. And he had looked at it when he had settled in, and wearily turned to it again when the inevitable had happened. He was pained, but he almost expected it. Murphy had always been a close associate, and his laws were binding.

On the berth across from him now sat a girl. Her name was Reese, she was 26 years old and was studying for a second Masters degree. Only, Anion had not yet spoken to her. He reflected on this information though they had not exchanged a word. In fact, he could not remember her having taken her shoes and hat off, nor fishing out a notebook from her bag. Nor, indeed, had he seen her pull up her knees close to herself and rest the notebook on it. He only remembered her peeping in, checking the berth number and nodding imperceptibly toward him, acknowledging his presence.
Yet there it all was, her hat hung on the hook, her shoes tucked on top of her bag below the berth, a 2B pencil poised uncertainly above a page on her knee.

He realized he was staring at her just as she noticed it. She looked up, enquiring but not aggressive. His glassy stare snapped, his eyes came unstuck, and he shook his head like a dog that had just bathed. He knew it was foolish even though he couldn’t see himself.

She smiled, and said “Hi, Anion”

fully functional zombie

Slow fade in, the beginning of a day. It flickers, like a faulty tube light. A light boy lethargically reaches across and tries to fix it. It still flickers reluctantly, more darkness than light. He nods off again, not budging till his sub conscious kicks in and he is forced to bring brightness into the day.
Awake.

High speed shots, contrary motion. Atmospheric strains of music unobtrusively emerge, undercurrents to the energy that isn’t there. On-site nourishment; unadvisable caffeine does not let up its stomach burning alertness finding it’s life span shockingly reduced.
Carrying on.

Out focus shot-taking and Gaussian blurs. Green-screen shots- unreal, non existent and eventually invisible backgrounds forming the backdrop. Shift focus, always, to a monitor. The thudding heartbeat sound in the soundtrack is actually in your head. Trudging through, but completing the shot.
Packing and wrapping things up.

Now that, I’d say, is something like what my days have been like.

Land ahoy!

"Fear not, me hearties, I am back!"
Warily he yelled, and wearily, for he was unsure if the teeming masses were clamouring for more-but more of what? Or were they merely an illusion, a figment, as it were, of his oddly stifling imagination? And he was weary from his piracy class today-mildly taxing, and the swim back to the mothership was more so. Wait- was it his ship or the mothership? Cutlass or light saber? Piracy or creativity? Skill or the force?

"Ramu, bartan dho do!"
Crash. Oh, his imagination was playing up again.

Hello then. Greetings and all that.
We learnt today about (or we were told about), the power of 10 -adapted, conceptually, to our work. We learnt about colours and animals. We realised that Lost is a big new (how new?) hit show in the States. We nodded ponderously, or pondered noddingly, whether end credits in television shows were at all relevant. Also, did it matter if we heard, say (hypothetically)- "this blog is brought to you by CrimeMaster Gogo-Aankhen nikaal ke gotiyan khelunga" ? We were also informed too, that while 30=1, 20 could equal 0.85 and 15 could be 0.75.

And then we thought "Sheesh, this cappucino is good"

Crime Master Gogo 1 // Crime Master Gogo 2 //

belonging

Plummeting.
The wind rushes by incredibly fast, yet caressing him as he tumbles. Pushing at him, into him yet inexplicably not destroying him. He looks around, conscious of all those around him, smoothly piercing the breeze where they should be struggling against it. They are all in the same sky, similar gusts buffeting them, but he looks at them and his thought pauses. Momentarily he looms above himself, sticking out in the mass of similarity. Not standing out, but sticking out- out of place, out of sync. But it is a wonder no one looks at him, if he sticks out so.

For it is they that seem absorbed. Lost in their trajectory, in each other’s trajectory- for their delicate orbs have the common bond of familiarity.

Newness, strangeness or intrusion.

Did it matter, when all drops eventually fall to earth, crashing beautifully and gently...