Rukawat Ke Liye Khed Hai

Inconvenience Regretted. My sincere apologies.

I left my carcass on your railway tracks on my way home.

This may be hard for you to see. Trapped as you are in your own home. With nowhere else to be.

My life was the shanty outside your window. An eyesore. Why should my death be any more?

However, I’m sorry for the gore.

But don’t worry. Soon there will be another like me, wiping off the last fragments of my bone.

I was infected with nothing but poor choices of my own. Could’ve died comfortably hungry in the city. Why walk a thousand miles home?

Murdered by the State? No way. There’s no debate. I’m dispensable. Mark me a number under ‘collateral damage’.

There, there. Please don’t shed a tear.

I was only the invisible hand of the market, that built your home and cleaned your street. You know, the things that used to manifest magically on their own. Please, pay no heed.

Hard times, I know. But this too shall pass. And then, there will be no pressure of propriety.

My absence won't be felt. No questions raised over your piety.

You’re absolved of my responsibility. That life will move on is a guarantee.

And all the things that manifested magically shall manifest once again reliably.

Because there will be another just like me.

Inconvenience regretted. But, don’t worry.

Your dead migrant worker will be replaced under warranty.

Test Cricket And The Fine Art of Sphincter Control

It wasn't an uncommon urge in my nineties. Right from my very first test innings. At least about eleven or twelve times had I succumbed to it already. Not that I hadn't overcome the urge a few times to pass a hundred. But this particular day in Adelaide was different.

Jason Gillespie, all limbs and hair hurtling towards me when, just as he released the ball it appeared again. The sensation, a sudden sharp spike like never before, never while the ball was in play, appeared like a dagger in the bladder suddenly discovered. It was pitched short and rose at some pace. I knew there was a fine leg in position, just for the eventuality of the shot I played instinctively. Instinct, the beast I had tamed all my life, only to be defeated by the superior forces of my bladder. In it's defence, it does perform a function of setting free something that I could never allow while wearing an abdomen guard. So it did set free something else instead. Instinct.

A hook. Wild. Uncontrolled. Instinctive. That sailed towards the fine leg fielder. Who seemed to be easily getting under it for that fraction of a second where I remembered thinking that the scoreboard wouldn't, but should read: Rahul Dravid c Fine Leg b Bladder. I wasn't one to easily succumb to pressure. But this was a notch too visceral. However, for some force of nature it sailed over 13 rows behind. By the time Laxman hugged me, the sensation was gone. 101 n.o.

The sensation stayed away for another 132 runs spanning perhaps a binge-watched season of Game Of Thrones where winter was yet to come.

When I returned to relieve myself in the confines of the dressing room john I realised that it wasn't forthcoming. All my piss had turned into sweat crystallising a half inch stone in my kidney.

Nothing that a few beers wouldn't cure.

Bar Code

Hey, this might seem a bit odd. I have an evolutionary predisposition towards you.

Sorry What?

I don't mean to say I love you or something like that. I notice the ring.

Okay.. Evolutionary what?

Predisposition.

Is it your way of saying you want to buy me a drink?

No. But I might as well buy you a drink because this might take a while. (to the bartender) One Whiskey Old Fashioned and repeat her Bloody Mary please.

Did I say yes?

Oh, I'm sorry. Was it Virgin Mary?

It was bloody. And I drink pretty fast so make it quick.

So I saw you from across the room and I'm pretty sure you saw me see you. And some how, I'm here.

So?

Don't you see it?

See what?

Evolutionary predisposition.

You didn't see me see that.

But you see that now don't you?

Nope.

It's like my genes are predisposed to find your genes attractive. Like when I saw you, my DNA knew that your DNA would combine well to produce DNA that is evolutionary-ly superior to either of ours. Know what I mean?

My husband will be here shortly. Know what I mean?

No-No. You have me wrong there.

Do I?

Yes, I mean-

Didn't you mean that you want to go skinny dipping in my genepool?

Yes! Exactly! Wait, what the-

*SLAP*

Aap Chutiye Hain

Lets be polite. Respect is a four letter word. Often you think you have something incredibly important to say. But what escapes your mouth is a loud fart. Speaking of farts, opinions are much like farts. The louder the fart the less meaningful value, density or concentration of its contents, as discernible by scent. The quieter the fart, the more incisive and poignant its content. I think a metaphor just died somewhere.

So calm down. Don't just vomit words to fill up voids in time. Say things simply. Don't cup my ears with your stupid foghorns.

Once, when I was in the army, I was yelled at by my commanding officer when I asked directions to the washroom. It was a bit later that I realised that he was simply answering my question at a decibel level he was used to, just in case there was an enemy helicopter overhead while I wanted to go pee. Well, in the end it did not matter much since by the time he was done giving me directions I didn't need to go anymore. Nevertheless, wet underpants did serve me well by keeping my nether regions a little cooler than the rest of the body for the day, as is generally recommended.

I don't know what point I'm trying to make. But, I'm sure there is one somewhere in here if you are willing to look hard enough.

Best.

Stereotypes On a Mumbai Local

This is going to be a running series of sketches randomly updated as I please, some that you know exist, some that are purely made up for deeply ulterior motives. (Yes, and the numbers are as randomly generated as my updates)


Stereotypes on a Mumbai Local #4

The MOTHER-IN-LAW of Q Face
This particular stereotype of the feminine gender walks with an inch-thick blanket of air, (which by Mumbai Local standards is equivalent to the troposphere) ready to snap, snarl, whack and hurl abuses at the opposite sex almost on instinct, if ever that capsule of sanctity is breached even slightly.

Stereotypes on a Mumbai Local #22

The IT WASN'T ME Face
This is a creature with restless shifty eyes like that of a petty chipmunk scheming for its next cheese fix. He pushes, shoves, burps and farts with a pokerface that would put the best punters to shame. And if you dare to look back at him with even a hint of allegation, he would diffuse any iota of self respect that you own with a repugnant look of having taken grave offence, that it would leave a stench of putrified ego in your wake.

Stereotypes on a Mumbai Local #16

The Smiling NO Face
This is the guy who's just found himself a sq cm space to plant the ball of his big toe on the floor of the bogie, usually found at the exit wearing an unmistakably smug expression of satisfaction. So pleased is he at the conquest of that prized sq cm real estate that his mirth radiates painfully at anyone still stuck on platform yet to board. And he will guard his property with a zeal matching that of a patriot defending his sovereign.

Bored Board

I'm bored. Boredom is central to my existence. Boredom is the unending bottomless vessel that I was born into. And it is a function of my life to fill it with distractions. Endless distractions. Each distraction turning into boredom until the next one comes along momentarily occupying its space before vanishing into the pit, the bottom of which I can not fathom.

Each distraction benumbs the vessel to its own kind such that anything else of as much interest ceases to be distraction enough. I'm no longer amused by a soap bubble as I once must have been. Just the way porn no longer counts as distraction enough. Each successive distraction must be infinitesimally larger than the last to displace boredom of the same magnitude.

So where does that eventually lead us? Someday, I fear, murder won't be distraction enough.

Herein I think lies the crux of humanity and its ills.

There's just so little that can hold our interest, and so much boredom to fill.

Undercurrents

There are two parts of Anand constantly jostling for priority. I am one of them and I am writing this to you, the other.

You want to be a successful filmmaker. I want to make a good film.

I love cinema because It feeds my ego to know I can reach somewhere within a viewer and manipulate him. I crave that power over an audience. You crave their recognition.

You want to make money enough so that you can make your next film. I understand that completely. Even appreciate it. But I want to make just this one film assuming I'm going to die when it's done.

You need to feed your family. You need to have a career. I need to feed my ego. My megalomania.

You will inevitably survive, perhaps even succeed. I will live. Then, I will die.

So long my friend. I should hate you. But I cant. I don't care enough.

All The World's A Stage

Who you are, who you think you are, and who you try to be are very different things. Which one of them is you? May be you are them all. May be you make a conscious choice.

You are who you choose to be today.

What wakes up everyday is nothing but a version. What went to bed last night is not what woke up today.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.

The theatre is your mind. And the play you are a part of is not the same his or hers. And yet, you all share the same stage.

Who is watching then?

You.

You paid for the popcorn
When you were born.

Documentary – The False Pretender. Fiction – The Honest Hypocrite.

Let's establish this one premise once and for all - All of cinema is a hoax.

No no. Don't say a word. I'm not asking you to buy it without reason. You wan't to be the honest, unbiased, unquestionable purveyor of truth, as it actually is. Sorry, not happening. The moment your setting up a camera for a shot, you're choosing an angle. Choosing to exclude what you deem unimportant, what you deem unnecessary. You're automatically colouring it with a perspective. Yours.

Every story you try to tell or capture is untrue. It may even be honest. But it's still unture. You can only hope to get close. Accept your bias. And sell it with an asterisk.

Truth*

*Conditions Apply

So, what if you make a documentary? Isn't it a fair attempt to get close to the truth. Real people. real events. Just reportage. The closest you can get, is it?

Nope. The reasons are two fold.

Hiesenberg's Uncertainty Principle. The very act of observation alters the reality. We'll even refer to Shrodinger in a bit if you wish. Wise men. Even though, they may never have watched a moving picture. The presence of a camera in a setting alters the setting in a significant way. Rather, the closer you get to the reality, the greater the distortion. Stick a camera in your documentary characters face and you will see that he isn't himself anymore. Even if you don't see it, he is projecting an image of his self. Freud. Since we're namedropping in this paragraph anyway.

The second reason being that the presupposition of reality alters the viewing experience of the content. There is only so much reality you're allowed to tell. You may hurt sentiments, stir up communal disharmony, do harm to the character by telling the truth and alarmingly many such that not only filter the content that comes out but also biases the viewer and his viewing experience.

When you tell the world what you're showing them is reality, automatically, the world feels threatened. When you show the same presupposed as fiction, all events become incidental and characters bear no intended resemblance to anybody living or dead. The world feels safe in that comfort.

Fiction happily claims not to tell the truth. Based on real events at best. This claim gives fiction a sense of freedom that is much greater than documentary can hope to match obviously. The actors are trained to perform in spite of the observing camera. They intentionally project a character, not themselves. Hence they do so being truer to the character than the character himself would in front of a camera were he a real person. The camera can get as close as it wants and the reality, which in cinema is coloured by the filmmaker's perspective anyway, is now treated with performance to distill a version of the actuality much closer to itself than filming the real event as closely in a documentary would do. Yes, there are limitations and filters that the content must pass through. But if we're talking only in comparison to the documentary medium, it's an immensely better deal in favour of reality when you come to think of it.

Well, the whole process is futile anyway. Yes, this is the promised reference to Shrodinger and his celebrated cat. The cat isn't dead or alive till you open the box to observe. He goes a step further and claims it is the act of observation that creates the reality. There is no reality-as-is until it is observed!

Fuck the camera. Fuck filmmaking.

Truth itself is only an interpretation.

A Few Thoughts On Cinema

Sometimes I think a filmmaker can only be a student all his life. A feature length film is undoubtedly the most powerful medium of expression. An average cinema viewer invests ninety minutes of undivided attention in the most ideal setting of a dark room with surround sound. Minor intrusions of popcorn combos apart, of course. This is a deal that no other medium can match, be it newspapers, TV, radio, billboards or any other. Therefore the power a filmmaker wields over his mass is incredibly heady. Potentially at least.

Also, cinema is one of the only media in which the viewer directly pays for the content. TV, the written media, and radio are almost wholly advertiser funded. Their capitalistic allegiance lies only towards the advertisers. Where as, the filmmaker is directly responsible to his well paying, time investing viewer.

The filmmaker's challenge is to hold that attention, even though it is already paid for, for the duration of the film. Every scene, every shot, every frame can be reduced to an elaborate con - a con that is designed to keep the viewer seated for the next minute.

But of course it can't be this simple. There are a number of factors in this multiplayer con game. It is not as straightforward as the filmmaker versus the viewer. The filmmaker's vision passes through a number of filters. The budget, the producer, the starcast, the talent, the distribution, the time constraints , the censors to name a few. What eventually makes it to the screen is only a sieved and strained precipitate. And it is this precipitate that still has to work.

I thought this would be easy. I didn't respect the medium for what it is. A year and a half in my chosen field of education has left me as much in awe of cinema as in love with it. When I joined the course, what I had in mind was to exploit the studios, cameras and other facilities available to me, working in tandem with talented like minded people in order to learn by producing as much work as possible in terms of short films. But, the learning I've gone through has been enormous. It is important to grow as an individual.

I had already spent a couple of years as a dignified word peddler at a small print adverising agency, producing work at a client's behest suited to the client's narrow ends. My writing as a copywriter, at least the ones that made it to the publications, were more math than art. I realised that I wanted to make something of my own. Something that begins from within instead of beginning from someone else's financial needs. Films then seemed the obvious medium of choice.

After having spent this time as a student, I've come to appreciate the truths about filmmaking as a career. It is not the cliched 9 to 5 job that pays the bills. It is a job that requires a great investment not only in time and money but also emotions. There won't be placements, as a post graduate from a reputed institute might deem his right these days. It wont pay well in the beginning at least. It will take a physical effort as much as an intellectual one. Your commitment has to be firm. You've to put your faith in the Idea. Lie, cheat, con, steal, you must do whatever it takes. But be brutally honest to yourself. And to your god, The Idea.

The Idea is a sperm. It contains your DNA, the alchemical composition of your experiences. It must be quaked, conceived, gestated before it is born, then nourished and brought up. And when it comes of age it will no longer be your own.

You can only learn from it. You'll be a student all your life.