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Monday, December 23, 2013

Colourblind at Prithvi. Come!

Still from my play Colour Blind - Aranya's new play
27th,28th, December 6 and 9pm, 29th December 5 and 8pm.
Director: Manav Kaul.
Come one, come all! Tickets on BookMyShow #Theatre

Sunday, December 15, 2013

My play Colourblind comes to Prithvi this December, Come one, come all!

Watch the teaser video by clicking on the link below to get a hint of what to expect. Tickets on bookmyshow!

My play Colour Blind comes to ‪‎Prithvi‬ Come one, come all! 

27th, 28th, 29th December, 6 and 9 pm shows. 
Director: Manav Kaul
Cast: Satyajit Sharma, Kalki Koechlin, Swanaand Kirkire, Ajitesh, Neha, Amrita, Me, Avantika, Padma, Chitrangada!

ColourBlind Teaser Video

Monday, December 9, 2013

Death by emasculation: Chickening out of a bar fight.


The sounds and visions of my friends holding down the angry bird, trying to pacify, calm her down, impaled right through me starting from my anus all the way up to my mouth. It tasted like shit.
   
Apart from that, the only two things I could focus on were:
The sounds and visions of me trying to pacify a similar kind of angry bird, in a similar situation, a few years back. I was the pacifier then, and tonight I completely understood how I looked to my friend (who I was protecting), as my friends looked to me protecting me now.
I kept thinking about it between all the dry noise using the memories of that night like a stencil to draw a picture that would explain and answer something.
I write about it now, knowing full well, such a situation is inexplicable.

Alongside, I also couldn't help but notice how this angry bird was so bloody good at this job. Of being angry. I could see her sucking out emotions and words from her deepest injury, putting herself out naked for a random person to respond to. I imagined how deprived she must have been and I loved her a little.

Reminded me of James Dean.
...
In ‘Rebel without a Cause’, Jim asks his father,’Would you do something dangerous, if it was a matter of honor’.
James Dean, the hero, the reckless boy unafraid of death passed away at the age of 24 leaving behind this question in my head.
I kept going over it over and over again, almost wishing someone would ask it to me out loud, so that I would have to answer it back in voice. I wondered what would my sound be.
It would have been a yes, yes.
And I would have run and fulfilled my bloody choice.
Yes, it would have mostly been a yes.
Definitely a yes, had I had my bull-fighter buddy along with me tonight.
...
But life is too big to be bothered by small incidents like this. Bar fights? That’s not for me. I am cut out for better things. My friends know this and that’s why they did what they did.
That’s exactly why I did what I did for my friend years back.
After all, we are the society. Not that angry fucking bird pouring out slurs and spit, like it’s the truth.

...

Friday, November 29, 2013



Good folks in town who plan to run away from the city end of December, do come and watch my play ‪‎ColourBlind‬ at NCPA‬ on the 5th of December.

Others just come for the shows at Prithvi‬ 27th, 28th, 29th December... Because Prithvi is where the love is!

Director: Manav Kaul.
Cast: Satyajit Sharma, Kalki Koechlin, Swanand Kirkire, Ajitesh, Shivam, Avantika, Chitrangada, Padma, Neha, Amrita, Deep, Avinash. 
 

Monday, November 25, 2013

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

What is it about?



A homeless person stationed gloriously at that crossing I have so much spite for, fiddles diligently with his lungi, specially cautious of the loose folds that could slip. Does he think the world has any care for his underbody, or the fact that he isn’t wearing any underwear? I wonder.
I don’t like wearing underwear either, I high-five him on that in my head.
All cloth tucked, he looks ahead as he picks up his jhola ready to leave the spot. What does he look forward to? I wonder.
Endless unwitnessed wander, unless someone stumbles upon him one fluky night…
His life,
One terrain after the next, weather after weather, with nowhere to return to,
A one way trip.
New facing, trying to similarize them with those he has seen in the past, but nothing is none for sure.
Known to none, just him, his dignity, and a sack that has contained only wraps and light air for as long as it has belonged to the homeless man.
Even the sack has enjoyed belonging, doesn’t this dude miss it? I wonder.
Same skin, same smell, I bet he knows the smell of himself very well. He has got keep with himself the stories, not all, just the few stories he has been close to, for he has no illusions of homage to leave them with.
I am still wondering all this, when my rickshaw jerks to a start opening me up to so much sound and dull light that floods my plane of self before I can save any.
Just like that, I am washed aside. I can see all my stuff flowing away at a distance, going farther and farther away.   
The homeless man. Still has his skin, his smell.

Friday, October 18, 2013

A Phenomial read: Meeting God.

So I  stumbled upon this article and was really intrigued by its idea.
Let me know what you think about it?
Source: StumbleUpon.com

Meeting God




You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that's when you met me.

"What... what happened?" You asked. "Where am I?"

"You died," I said, matter-of-factly. No point mincing words.

"There was a... a truck and it was skidding..."

"Yup." I said.

"I... I died?"

"Yup. But don't feel bad about it. Everyone dies." I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. "What is this place?" You asked. "Is this the afterlife?"

"More or less," I said.

"Are you god?" You asked.

"Yup." I replied. "I'm God."

"My kids... my wife," you said.

"What about them?"

"Will they be alright?"

"That's what I like to see," I said. "You just died and your main concern is your family. That's good stuff right there."

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn't look like God. I just looked like some man. Some vague authority figure. More of a a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

"Don't worry," I said. "They'll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn't have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved." "To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it's any consolation, she'll feel very guilty for feeling relieved."

"Oh," you said. "So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?"

"Neither," I said. "You'll be reincarnated."

"Ah," you said. "So the Hindus were right."

"All the religions are right in their own way," I said. "Walk with me."

You followed along as we strolled in the void. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere in particular," I said. "It's just nice to walk while we talk."

"So what's the point, then?" You asked. "When I get reborn, I'll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won't matter?"

"Not so!" I said. "You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don't remember them right now."

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. "Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It's like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it's hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you've gained all the experiences it had."

"You've been a human for the last 34 years, so you haven't stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for longer, you'd start remembering everything. But there's no point doing that between each life."

"How many times have I been reincarnated then?"

"Oh, lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives." I said. "This time around you'll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 A.D."

"Wait, what?" You stammered. "You're sending me back in time?"

"Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from."

"Where you come from?" You pondered.

"Oh, sure!" I explained. "I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there's others like me. I know you'll want to know what it's like there but you honestly won't understand."

"Oh." You said, a little let down. "But wait, if I get reincarnated to other places in time, could I have interacted with myself at some point?"

"Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own timespan, you don't even know its happening."

"So what's the point of it all?"

"Seriously?" I asked. "Seriously? You're asking me for the meaning of life? Isn't that a little stereotypical?"

"Well, it's a reasonable question." You persisted.

I looked in your eye. "The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature."

"You mean mankind? You want us to mature?"

"No. Just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature, and become a larger and greater intellect."

"Just me? What about everyone else?"

"There is no one else," I said. "In this universe, there's just you, and me."

You stared blankly at me. "But all the people on Earth..."

"All you. Different incarnations of you."

"Wait. I'm everyone!?"

"Now you're getting it." I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

"I'm every human who ever lived?"

"Or who will ever live, yes."

"I'm Abraham Lincoln?"

"And you're John Wilkes Booth." I added.

"I'm Hitler?" You said, appalled.

"And you're the millions he killed."

"I'm Jesus?"

"And you're everyone who followed him."

You fell silent.

"Every time you victimized someone," I said, "You were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you've done, you've done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you."

"Why?" You asked me. "Why do all this?"

"Because someday, you will become like me. Because that's what you are. You're one of my kind. You're my child."

"Whoa." You said, incredulous. "You mean I'm a god?"

"No. Not yet. You're a fetus You're still growing. Once you've lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born." 

"So the whole universe," you said. "It's just..."

"An egg of sorts." I answered. "Now it's time for you to move on to your next life."

And I sent you on your way.



By Anonymous. Transcribed by Mac Davis for Philosophy Circle's reading catalogue.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Isis


Isis, the daughter of Kama
The unfortunate one, for she was born when a tree was burning.

Under the tree was a snake, who befriended Isis
And then stole her virginity.

Isis turned, becoming her destiny
She would live her life under the same tree.

I love Isis, and want to be able to be like her
How she gives, and she gives just one thing

I, the son of Carna
Born when a root was rotting.

Living off its mud 
Ready to give the the one thing I can

It is no surprise

I love her so.   

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Woman’s World: Part 3

Remember I told you about the woman who caught her husband in the act?!
Many times over. Upon many women.
The stupid woman, yes the same!
She came to me the other day. It had been a while since we met, or spoke, I was happy to see her, she came while I was sipping on my evening chai, that’s usually when she comes and we pour ourselves over tea and khakras, but when I began to make her a cup… this time, she refused.
She looked in to my eyes and smiled. A smile like never before, it was content but dead. As if the truth of the world had just hit her, and smashed her own. She went on to tell me…
Another greasy tale. It was short and sweet and… regular. I couldn’t figure out the surprise initially.
She told me she came back after visiting her mother in Tamil Nadu, and her train reached before schedule. (Who would have thought that ever happens!)
She entered home with her key, and there he was… sitting in the hall, talking morbidly in to the phone. It was his office, she assumed. He greeted her happily, acting surprised on her early arrival. “How was your trip? How about we do dinner outside tonight?’
She refused. She would rather spend time with her children or at her dance class catching up on all she had missed.
She unpacked, he watched her sweetly. He looked very pleased with himself, she told me. The children got back. She busied herself with them. Later she went to her room and changed the sheets on her bed, put them to wash.
See, I told you… It was regular.
Until she went to cook. Her tone of voice changed when she narrated this last part of the story.
She found a used pan in the sink. Her husband cooked, yes, but turning over the dosa on a pan… no, not him.
...
I kept thinking about it after she left. Her bed had been invaded on several occasions but somehow that didn’t affect her so much. She had made peace with it, changing the sheets on the bed each time. But the kitchen… that broke her.
Stupid woman.


Saturday, October 5, 2013

Notes from my play ‘Colourblind’!




Its been a while since I have written something on this blog, all my writing has been focused through my job as a copywriter, and in developing a new script titled ‘Secret Society: Children of Divorce’.

But a very interesting thing that happened for me was during the rehearsals of my new Play ‘Colourblind’ directed by Manav Kaul. (Comes to Mumbai in December)

I play the character of a young writer, and there are parts where he is seen writing in scene. So I decided that instead of doodling and ‘acting’ to write (cos I am such a bad actor!) I am just going to try writing something for real.

Its free writing and most of it was crap, but I am sharing some of the more interesting excerpts from the book where I write.

(Most of it was originally written in Hindi)

...  

I once went to a forest. I walked for hours, went deep inside and when I reached nowhere, I just sat there.

It wasn't a very dense forest, an occasional hiss of a snake, lemurs, peacocks, squirrels... lots of squirrels. Very active, very buzzing- the leaves of the trees there.

But I sat still, unsure of anything, as I usually am.

I don’t know how long it was before the squirrels decided to include me in their play. They ran around, always cautious, yet close enough to let me know what they wanted. I just smiled.

‘I am too old to play your games, too rusted’, but I appreciated the hospitality.

Time blew and something changed. The squirrels, they were running over me, all over. My hands, legs, stomach, face... I was no longer a foreign creature to them. I was a tree.

I felt like a tree, belonging in the forest.

Vines grew from under my feet, covering me in their chill and dirt. And when I was completely engulfed, laden in fruits and flowers, a bird came and sat on my branch. She pecked on my soul, bit a part of it and flew away. Where she flew to, I will never know, but she carries a part of me wherever she goes. I have always loved traveling.

So many years I spent in my other world trying to find a place, offering my sense and soul and everything else I could...

The forest took me in just like that. She took me back to where I came from, into her womb.  

...

Train hille Baul gire!

We were riding to Shantiniketan on a train early morning. A really wonderful journey. It was a  4 hour chair car train, very well kept, plush seats, and the lovely autumn Bengal landscape rushing by reminded those who had been to Europe, of Europe. A real compliment to the humble deprived outskirts!

Two hours into the journey, the gates of our bogi opened up to a bright orange clad figure. Ah! The great Bauls of Bengal, the legend had arrived. We instantly brushed away our sleepy faces and put our tourist best on, welcoming him with cheers and claps. Then someone quickly reminded us ‘Shadhu’ is how they roll in Shantiniketan, and so did we.

He sang, we cheered... sorry, shadhu’d... danced and passed funny comments... it was a real celebration!

He sang about three songs, collected an awful load of money (Oh, we have some real patrons of art in our group, I myself gave 50 bucks, 50 fucking bucks!) and left. Just as we settled, another one came. Rumor had spread across the train, we were here and we paid.

He sang about 3 songs again, the same songs as the previous guy, 2 of them at least. Joy was in the air, so we played along again. He earned a little less compared to the previous one and left.

I noticed how the locals were not as enthused at the ‘baul’ery and I kept thinking... its obvious, they see this everyday. On the other hand, maybe that's the problem... there is joy and magic all around us but we have become desensitized to it. I never revel so at the songs of the local singers in Mumbai. Maybe I should... of course the Bauls are more special and have so much folklore attached to them...

By the time I was done thinking, the third guy entered, repeating one of the songs... ‘taka lagbe naa...’

A local guy sitting behind me just couldn't take it anymore. He burst out saying ‘See, that is why I don’t give them money anymore. They are just doing this for money, they keep singing the same songs. The same songs over and over again...’

While my dear co actor sitting next to him nodded her head in agreement, I turned to him and thought to myself... ‘Saala, 20 rupaye dekar Baul ka saara gyaan paa lena chahte ho’.

...

Woh: Arre, yahaan akele khade khade kiss baat par has rahe ho?

Mein    : Bas, aise hi...

Woh: Aise hi?  Chalo yahaan se... log samjhenge pagal ho gaye ho...

Mein:  Pagal ko agar log samajh te toh dikkat hi kya thi.

...





Iss jagah se guzaraa toh aisa lagaa ki bhagwaan akele mein rehte hai... veeraane mein. Yahaan bhagwaan zaroor honge. Iss liye maine bike se utar kar ek tasveer kheench li, bhagwaan ki.

Ek ajeeb si bhakti dil mein jaagi... bhagwaan ko paane ka mann kiya. Main aapko bataa doon apne 23 saal ke jeevan mein bahut kam aisa hua hai ki bhagwaan ko lekar kuch bhi karne ka mann kiya ho. Mein thodi derr wahaan khadaa raha aur phir rehearsal ka samay ho gayaa...

Apni lines bolna shuru kiya toh ek baar phir... wahi bhagwaan ko dekhne ki ichcha jaagi.

Aisa khayaal aaya ki mein apne abhinaya mein bhagwaan dekhnaa chahta hoon. Ek natak mein sunaa tha ki bhagwaan sach hai, aur maaya bhi...

Bas... ek baar aisa abhinaya karna chahtaa hoon ki kahaani ki maaya ko sach mein badal sakoon aur uske sach ko apne abhinaya ki maaye mein ghol doon. Mushkil hai... mushkil hai... par karne ki ichchaa rakhta hoon... ek dinn...

...

About a Man



He flew Between this and that

And those

Free

Full



He was time

New every moment

Once gone, gone



He was life

I lived him

While he was mine



I still dream of filling him

But who can own time

...

Carnal

She rose up to him starting at his feet. She took three months to come up to his face. And when she did, she she shed a tear over his lips. He parted them and drank in.

Then, he turned her over and started to go down.

She held him and said... ‘No, not now. Not until you want it so bad that you tie me down and then do what you want, without a care for what I am. Only then will I have deserved you. Until then, I will only give.’

...

Hey, its free writing.

...



 

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Note


This blog was previously called 'My Dirty Job'

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Satya Vachan!

Get a stupid woman to love you.
Stupid women are stupid, and love to love.
Their love, you don't have to earn it. No, don't bother to deserve it.
They will give without asking. Anything.
Don't worry, fuck every random whore you meet. They aren't stupid, they will ask for something. You will give everything. Go crazy, horny, giving.
The stupid woman will find a reason to justify you for you. She will love you still. Forever, with all her heart, which is stupid like her, so don't feel guilty about breaking it. Continue using her.
There isn't a better lottery.
Get a stupid woman, yeah?!

Friday, June 7, 2013

Walk in the Rain

He walked past
I let it go
Then came a woman. A woman, for
Christ's sake!
I said nothing
Then another, another
Yes, gender didn't matter anymore
And as the Old man walked by
It was known. They were all the same
Men, women, young and old, children
Something had to be done
I had had it till up here!

So as I spotted next person
Happened to be pretty girl in blue
I didn't let that deter me!
16 yards
Walking in my direction
I stopped
Placed both my feet on the ground
Firmly, my shoes made a sqilchy sound
I didn't let that deter me!
I looked into her eyes, looked deep
into them
Cos times like this, words are not enough

'Watch it miss' Roared I
'And all you other fucks
Handle with care,
The lethal weapon
You walk around carelessly
Under,
Swinging
Don't you know?
With great power, comes great responsibility'

I could hear me breathe
Way above the rain
But I have a feeling
That's not why she said nothing
And walked away
Tugging at her Raincoat

Sunday, April 28, 2013

To Her Left

Not how much but the way she does, unprecedented like it should, unchained and inflicting while it livens like only her's can, as she gives.

Then there is mine, doubt before any thing, for all that she Could for all that I am.

In exchange of words, my blood
Now empty veins carry only thoughts
And thoughts become things, not senses

Now I can only remember her face which cringes every time my fingers touch hers. Now I can only think about assuming the power she puts upon me when she is on her knees. Only dream about climbing the mountain within her. Only want to offer any thing. I can recognise but pray. I am part man part being nothing.
...
Some day I will hold you and fuck you till you give up your pretenses. She said it over the phone when she read this.
...
That black dress slit from the back, where I slide in from face first and then the whole body, entwine hers starting from the stomach I go around her upwards between her breasts reaching her forehead meanwhile arms strangling hers then crawling all the way down to her feet making her lose balance, all of it under that dress, intact only slit from the back.
...
Hmm?

Friday, March 8, 2013

Nautanki


I wake up to flashes
Wonders playing
Movement, impeccable movement
Greatness, Rand’s poetry

But I wake up
Still

The idle machine, my body
But chants, she is sore
Of worst kind of dull pain
Of unuse

Neck stretched out
Toes
Stomach, nipples
Tight face

Head of an actor
Dreaming

On a clothesline
Dripping pink
White and black

Oh, the greatness
That greatness
Give it to me, it’s mine

Envy fowl
I’d become much more
But nobody slaughtered me
For flesh

Still here
To let

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Womans World (Prose-1)


She remembered that time she caught him cheating, her husband of 10 years as of today. It was the same. He took a long time to answer the door. Wearing an ironed suit, said they had been watching a film and couldn't hear the bell, him and his good friend, her.
He even went on to introduce the woman. They shook hands. And then out of nowhere a stray underwear entered stage.
Cued the woman to put up an over aggressive show, tears, justifications, proofs and all that. ‘I am married, for Christ’s sake, please’
‘So is he’
It was him she wanted to talk to, but he stood without a word. It was the same.
There would have been a cunt of an awkward silence had the woman not filled it with her continuous babble.
How did it end? She couldn't help but console the woman. 

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Gunshun (Part1)


Somebody hurt many bodies 
His gun took blame
Gun man is just a person
Take the guns, they said 
Take the guns, Take the guns 

Nobody wanted to know anything more
Everyone was after the guns
Took mine away

One day I took my father’s car
Drove over 200 persons at the fairground




Tuesday, January 8, 2013

He fell off the train.


7th January, the new year.

I was just in time and caught the 12:50 last Borivali local from Churchgate. There is Bandra, few minutes later, and then last Virar at 1, which for some reason I never rely on.
I wish I had looked at him more carefully. If he was drunk, or depressed, or whatever, I wish I had seen his face. Traced something, helped him maybe… or simply let him know he was noticed.
He stood at the door. Short guy, I believe wearing a reddish shirt. Slipped down so quietly as the train picked speed at Grant road station. Or was it Charni road I just can’t place.
What I do remember is that split of a second where I saw him try to reach out to the vertical bar at the door. I will never forget. And then he vanished. No sound, no texture, no color, no disturbance. If he was a magician, I’d say it was his finest trick. But that’s the thing; I don’t know who he was. And I realized twenty seconds later, as the train started to move again after a quick pause and the few people who had got down hoped back in hurriedly… Nobody worried.
Somewhere in the background the speaker growled, last train to Virar had been cancelled and the inconvenience caused was regretted. Everyone was instantly happy.
It was hard not to be. There was no visual cue to evoke sorrow, even for us who did get down to inspect. And too little time. The only red on the sides was the paan and tambaaku peek. For an incident so horrid, it was shamelessly clean.
It could well have been me. It could well have been you.
Rest in Peace Brother.