tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37396662561734235012024-03-12T20:10:10.983-07:00Words are ImportantShivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-70902644063288728472015-08-17T23:30:00.002-07:002015-08-17T23:30:37.215-07:00Fill up your room with things from your past.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ox1owQWVPR2S6RwI2H0wvuUH8P5uZ7gk4uRHmRuX2yS81zkgIysc8zB_meI1v4dbDkazMQelykc7NmNNwZ2GgYsVrafptH7Foih1NjdtZCjR_dszoaKHDXObODawLl0xOxSic5cbfdM/s1600/IMG_20150817_194429205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ox1owQWVPR2S6RwI2H0wvuUH8P5uZ7gk4uRHmRuX2yS81zkgIysc8zB_meI1v4dbDkazMQelykc7NmNNwZ2GgYsVrafptH7Foih1NjdtZCjR_dszoaKHDXObODawLl0xOxSic5cbfdM/s400/IMG_20150817_194429205.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone who has ever come to my flat where I have been
living for almost two years after moving out my parents’ home has said the same
thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You should do up the place. Get a few paintings or a lamp
maybe? Your walls look empty.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything I am, everything I needed, I carried inside me. I
never let my walls become barriers holding up reminders from my past. Empty
walls let me be whoever I wanted to be. I didn’t let lamps impose warmth;
instead I let white light expose everything I was going through without the
filter of soothing yellow. I faced everything head on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it made me weak. I only realized that last night when I
found a chart I created long ago that lists important events in my life. I was
packing and I found it rolled up, forgotten in a corner. I opened it and my
life lay before me. Everything I was, all things that have brought me where I
am, it was there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The answer to what I am and wanted to become lay there chalked
out in who I have been. Immediately it started to fill me up taking over the
emptiness I have been battling in recent months. I took me back to tougher situations
I had handled and won over. It brought me back my old joys and victories, old
love affairs, discoveries… I felt full. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t believe I have lived two years in a place without
letting it comfort me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have decided to move back to my parents’ for a couple of
months to regain what I have lost to unfamiliarity. But the next house I move
into… I am going to bring so many things from my past and let them surround me.
You should too! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-11782282245176934222015-06-07T03:42:00.002-07:002015-06-07T03:53:40.353-07:00The itch. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am trying to make sense of it. I am trying to vomit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am trying to bring myself to cry. Just somehow, release
it. This inexplicable itch that runs from somewhere in the chest all the way up
to my brain. Which way does it flow, where did it originate, I do not know. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The itch is all consuming. It doesn’t let me find any
stillness. I have not been writing as much as I would like. The itch is my
excuse for everything I am not doing. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to be loved I think. I want to love I think. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Its a funny world we live in... People hold it against you if you fall in love with them. The itch will drive everyone away. </div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-71805072990666482832015-04-10T23:29:00.002-07:002015-04-10T23:29:27.704-07:00Free writes <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lie on bed blue. I arch my back and slowly my body lifts
itself from the center, feet and neck pressing into the foam supporting all my
weight. My pelvis is determined. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am kicked twice but my pelvis is determined so piteous
arms pick me up instead. My neck is heavy and falls twisting to reveal the nape.
Spit drops softly and rushes to my ears. I look up, lips parted, parched, and I
am once again shown mercy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am pulled higher. It should scare me. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am held from between my legs two fingers clenching into
me so I feel safe. I have a taste of the stars. And when I am done my pelvis
curls sinking the body along to its beginnings. Everything returns to normal. </div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-90185526115072013922015-02-27T19:40:00.001-08:002015-02-27T19:40:26.455-08:00Queer art and perfromance.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Shivam S is a writer, performer, theatremaker, copywriter based out of Mumbai. This discourse was a part of his session on 'Queer art and performance' at The Goa Project (27.02.2015)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Queer art and performance. And not art and performance! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell everyone I don’t have a coming out story. Because I
was seeing women till I was 23 and I was happy. Satisfied. Then at some point I
didn’t feel satisfied enough and I thought let’s see how the neighbors live.
And it turned out I belonged in their home. I kept everyone in the know about
my moving including my friends, parents, colleagues even… bit of a big mouth, me… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I tell everyone I was never inside any box… when in fact
I was. For that brief moment when I considered what it would do to my career as
a performer… actor… hero maybe? Because let’s face it… queer people only get to
play 2 types of characters in India: Queer, if it’s a modern, bourgeois, indie
project and in case of those targeted towards larger audiences… creeps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a beautifully tragic story that would make… to fulfill
the artist in him, he lived a life in the hiding, very unique don’t you think? I
didn’t so either. I thought to myself if my work does not fulfill or draw from
who I am… what’s even the point of everything else that grows from there on!
And because I thought so… because of this remarkably evolved choice that I
made… you can all stop clenching your teeth and breathe a sigh of relief
because this session isn’t about a tragic story of a gay man trapped in the
closet! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This session is possibly about evaluating my choice of being
a queer writer and actor, which means in some way giving up on the avenues that
lie in the straight art pool and jumping into a rather smaller pond which is
not yet fully formed and certain of its existence, especially in a country that
denies its very foundation. This session is also about taking a peek at the
queer art movement in India and thinking where are we headed? And by we I mean,
even straight people because at some point queer art and culture will reach
them too no matter how much they run away from it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are already seeing stories sprout up in films, on stage,
in writing and it’s only a matter of time before commercials start harnessing
their potential and then what will you do?! You will be sitting in front of
your TV and an ICICI insurance advertisement will have two men or women looking
dearly at each other, after one of them has agreed to pay heavy premium to
safeguard both their lives. You will have to have that conversation with your
friends, your family, you kids… you will have to be involved in the queer art
and culture just as the queers have been involved in yours. And talking from
experience… it hasn’t harmed us to know about relationships we will never get
into ourselves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Am I tricking you into consuming queer art? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Great stories live in wretched corners of oppression and a
plethora of Indian queer stories await their telling. Unfortunately we have just
one known queer filmmaker making films on the subject, no popular queer
novelist, no big theatre groups or painters telling queer stories and our
designers… well our designers don’t really stand for anything. Some people in
their heads are going … this fucker was only trying to scare us! That means
there is still time before the commercials get to it right!? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not completely sure but from what I know queer art
movements everywhere else in the world have always been initiated by the older
lot so it’s very interesting that in India the movement largely belongs to
young people. I am still trying to wrap my head around the implications of
that… that means our art will see a lot of bravado before it settles into
subtler themes. Does that also mean a huge chunk of the subject matter and
characters and stories will revolve around younger demographics? This is really
sad because it leaves out generations of people and their stories… unless those
people decide to stand up for themselves and tell their lives! I really hope
that happens. What I hope doesn’t happen is that the older generation of Indian
queers loses interest in contemporary Indian queer art… because god knows we
need all the support there is… It’s a critical time for the arts in India,
leave aside just queer art, as we buckle up to battle an essentially
authoritative and totalitarian new regime.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Politics of queer performance… try casting for part of a
necrophiliac and you will find many actors willing to perform the starkest
scenes or delve into the deepest darkest psychographics. An opportunity to
understand what’s unknown to you that’s what acting offers. I was casting for
my play last year and I read almost a dozen of Mumbai’s most popular and
evolved theatre artists who loved the play but wouldn’t get physical with
another man on stage. These are young actors. Not because they wouldn’t do that
in private, but because casting directors across India work by the queer for
queer, straight for straight rule. I mean isn’t it revolting I had to make a
conscious choice in my head to be prepared to give up on a certain aspects of
my job in order to do what I do today. That the best option for me is to be a
queer artist if I am queer and want to tell queer stories. Mind you, I don’t
regret one bit of it I have had a sea of opportunities open up to me as I went
through that decision. Niches can be good for art, limitations as opportunities
you know about that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some may argue that its me who made that choice. Some may
say it’s the gays who go ahead and segment everything. The porn, and then the pride,
and then film festivals, hell… even marriage! I think you guys know the reason
behind this phenomenon; you seem pretty intelligent, attending the Goa Project,
art ‘unconference’ and all that! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what is queer performance? Is it performing queer
characters? Or is it a queer actor performing? I have lots of people coming up
to me after my show and asking if I am ‘really gay’… I wonder what sense do
they make out of the fact that I am. But that my co-actor who also plays a
queer character isn’t… Are we willing to believe what’s true of an actor only
if it’s true of the person he or she is? And in that grind… have actors
forgotten they can be someone they are not when they are acting? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a beautiful lovemaking scene in my play between the
two male protagonists, I feel beautiful performing it, partly because my
co-actor is a gorgeous looking boy … flattest stomach in the world, very good
friend… but what’s equally exciting is the effect that it has on the audiences.
I wonder if it’s repulsive even to the most homophobic eyes… I wonder if we are
able to surpass conditioning and bias and evoke a feeling of empathy… envy, love
maybe? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I wonder if queer art
can be on the forefront in the confluence of queer culture with the larger
Indian society. Because art doesn’t need to break walls, it can simple paint it
invisible. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We love watching films from other countries, reading fantasy
novels and writings from distant parts of the world, we like knowing about
things we don’t know… and I want to tell everyone here that consuming queer art
whether you are queer or not is exactly in tandem with that quest. Don’t let
anybody tell you it has any other implication apart from that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if that doesn’t convince you… I will say witness queer
art before you are thrown into facing queer advertising! I love how advertising
has everyone’s balls in its hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a country that legally takes away your rights to individuality,
personal expression becomes a very important political tool. But for people
feel like queer individuals, queer people need to know there is history and
culture and stories and literature and art and tradition… yes, tradition for
them to be a part of… That queer lifestyle exists beyond queer sexuality. And
that’s where Indian queer art must play its part. Build a world for people to
live in, relationships for people to believe in, tell about histories for
people to remember, freedom struggles, victories… we are very rich in heritage.
And have full rights to Be. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-67392141461216967652015-02-02T01:44:00.000-08:002015-02-02T01:44:36.479-08:00Stories from #Nation377<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwnetGF7fJRJtT1VvXXj3kG2OcGUvlxv93crHVNxycPwjU-5aC13sbwQYKzYhqUiRq2wml28yKOan0C_2sY1ZYD6hPBeLS_Egc4J3_GWqAAKFQxF2KY1kZpttOqAou_2U40EpQF4_4Dk/s1600/Or+i+will+tell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwnetGF7fJRJtT1VvXXj3kG2OcGUvlxv93crHVNxycPwjU-5aC13sbwQYKzYhqUiRq2wml28yKOan0C_2sY1ZYD6hPBeLS_Egc4J3_GWqAAKFQxF2KY1kZpttOqAou_2U40EpQF4_4Dk/s1600/Or+i+will+tell.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
This is fiction. Check out the facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/somethingssimple for updates on LBGQ arts and writing in India. </div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-15891626812174859092014-10-24T16:39:00.003-07:002015-01-05T01:34:51.016-08:00Politics of Sexual Control. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your city where you have lived most, more often than not, is
a terrible place to exercise your sexuality, absolutely horrible for
maneuvering it in new directions, and a nightmare god forbid if you’re on a
path of exploration.<br />Every space in it is etched with some remnants of who you
have been and any unprecedented desire will make you feel treacherous towards
yourself killing the will to explore it.<br />And if spaces weren't enough… there is your social circle
and square and grid which commodifies your sexual honor pulling its value up
and down as per every little move you make. Parents, relatives, friends,
colleagues, institutions, every random person you cross is constantly
scrutinizing and negotiating the price of your sexual being. <br />Negotiating with whom?<br />Negotiating it with you. Such is its manipulation.<br />Religion, industries, politics all thrive off stifled
sexuality (Sexual freedom is the aspiration underlining every sales pitch,
sexual control in case of religion) and they come together and bombard you with
propaganda so immense, you think you can escape it but you realize later (and most
people never do) that you have just been living on concessions.<br />Internet offers the much needed respite from this constant
vigilance and trade. For how long is a separate story altogether. But over two
decades of sexual expression stands on the anonymity provided by the medium
which has allowed people to escape and practice their desires.<br />But the thing about virtual sexual expression is (and this
is not a fact but my own observation as an online user of sexual platforms)
that rather than working for your existing personality and accessing that, such
expression ends up creating a separate persona of you (Based on excess and
manufactured aspirations) which it functions with and for … causing dissocia
between the person you are on and offline... leaving the offline self of the user unfulfilled just
the same. <br />Travel is another escape which a lot of people resort to, those
who can; they go to places where nobody knows them and try to live they sexual
life they want. But then again, most just leave all they have discovered behind
when they go back and return to the familial tyranny of home.<br />Lack of discourse on sexuality is one of the main reasons
why we are so unequipped to handle our sexual nature. We are quick to declare
any unfamiliar behavior or act as perverse and organizations only chance upon
the insecurities of the people and stigmatize it as a measure of control,
appropriation, regulation, maintaining order and demand etc.<br />I think it shouldn't be so difficult… for me and everyone
else around. I don’t want to be manipulated at every level of my social
intercourse. I want an environment where my sexuality flourishes and not for
sex' sake, also for sex sake, but for the sake my overall growth and well being.
It has to start with me fighting myself and my prejudices and self image but it’s
also about the people around me who need to think a little more about what they
expect from their sexuality and others’ before putting a tab or tag on it,
which is what the controllers want us to do.<br />Sex is the biggest product in the market and the more uncertainty
there is over it… the more curiosity there will be among its consumers, the
more ways there are to sell it, and over sell it, in any way the sellers may
please. I don’t want to buy something that I must produce for myself. What do
you think? <br /><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-51640301776822669142014-08-08T04:21:00.001-07:002014-08-08T04:21:26.348-07:00Quirks.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGX4zGNUR4ADiY21ZyfV1jARv4s3znRoYWdfojkQ1QTbCVQt6G2xjYNluEoBds2mQkgxlKJLGAlEMZLOxZ3GnS1pBFjRJu9LP-2IWp6uM3mw_tiPmjK2zpJNCrPaf6xqEFIG0Gv6gGs60/s1600/Quirks+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGX4zGNUR4ADiY21ZyfV1jARv4s3znRoYWdfojkQ1QTbCVQt6G2xjYNluEoBds2mQkgxlKJLGAlEMZLOxZ3GnS1pBFjRJu9LP-2IWp6uM3mw_tiPmjK2zpJNCrPaf6xqEFIG0Gv6gGs60/s1600/Quirks+(2).jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-37073197056780900412014-07-12T23:16:00.000-07:002014-07-12T23:16:06.207-07:00While you are in the kitchen.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing is
stationary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You make
breakfast, and here my hunger is consumed by thoughts, premature. No, not
thoughts of you, but what you do. The songs you play seep straight into my guts.
Else, nothing is straight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Everything
is dance, and play and whizzing. Your bed is not your bed, but my seat. You are
not you but my imagination. But I imagine as I fear. Nothing is straight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It´s all
spaghetti, prepared in homemade tomato sauce mashed with our very own hands,
pulped to lust and juice. Yes, juice is the correct word to describe the
movement inside me. It has been pouring for over twenty four hours now. That´s
how wet I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-91225354719601505622014-06-25T04:41:00.001-07:002014-06-25T04:41:49.468-07:00#Lovelets - A lot like love, just which lasts a short while. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
(A 200 words series)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB7RG3LsLc-1jRKKB9TBr4GPAp7bS44hSfW1Ljn_0BnQ4AfhGZ92OTNZQG3x6ybhyphenhyphenenB0OpsASdbHnjj4Ajz8GZNx9CVTH_dhKW9YtCPt98C0TK1bmw5UNxzWCWzJOueMFJIguE7xBb_E/s1600/Lovelets-+david.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB7RG3LsLc-1jRKKB9TBr4GPAp7bS44hSfW1Ljn_0BnQ4AfhGZ92OTNZQG3x6ybhyphenhyphenenB0OpsASdbHnjj4Ajz8GZNx9CVTH_dhKW9YtCPt98C0TK1bmw5UNxzWCWzJOueMFJIguE7xBb_E/s1600/Lovelets-+david.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-23206225250544393822014-05-16T12:11:00.000-07:002014-05-16T12:11:18.226-07:00Ek raat ki baat hai... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aaj phir poora din nikal gaya, kuch dhoondhaa nahi. Toh ab
raat mein kahaaniyon ke peeche nikla hoon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11:54 ho rahe hai. Koi aisi film mil jaaye jismein apne aap
ko dekh sakoon… yaa aur bhi behtar apne aap ko jee sakoon. Kyonki jeevan thoda
kas saa raha hai aajkal. Darasal meri baaton mein mat aayiye, lekhak hoon, naa
chahte hue bhi cheezon ko tod marod kar keh deta hoon. Par sach mein, seedhe
seedhe shabdon mein bhi kahoon to jeevan thoda kam saa lag raha hai aajkal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aur filmein poori. Uss poorepan ki talaash mein apni
harddrive ki drive par niklaa hoon. Koi chehra aisa dikh jaaye jise bhulaa naa
paoon, ya kuch lavs jo mann ke khaalipan mein jagah banaa sake, koi shareer,
kisi ki aahein, koi frame, sound track… kuch bhi chelgaa. Darasal soundtrack
itna samajh mein nahi aata dil ko, Aaj kal shareer lagta hai zor se... </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Filmon se itnaa mil jaata hai ki asal jindagi se ummedein
kam karna aasaan ho jaataa hai. Haan kuch filmein kabhi kabhi aisi dikh jaati
hai jo aapki saari thakaan dho deti hai
aur achaanak apko nazar aata hai aapka saaf jeevan. Uski saaf gandagi, saaf
naainsaafiyaan, shaitaaniyaan, mauke, khushi… khoob saari khushi…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kya baat kar raha hai… yeh sabh jee raha hoon mein?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Koi kareebi rishteydaar mar jaaye toh rona nahi aata, par
filmon mein har chotti si naa khushi aise uthkar aati hai tsunami ki tarah ki
bhaagne kaa khayaal bhi nahi aataa. 12:19 ho gaye. Daaye yaa baayein? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dukh ho raha hai bahut. Pataa nahi kyon… jiss par pyaar
aayaa usse keh nahi paaya. Closet drama bahut dekhtaa hoon. Kabhi asal zindagi
mein jiya nahi naa… dukh hota hai ki kabhi dukh dekha nahi… warna filmon ki
zaroorat hi nahi padti. Kaafi time bach jaataa. Time aur jeevan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jeevan ko bachaane mein lagaa hoon bas. Log kehte hai VLC se
achchaa koi video player nahi, par mera VLC player aksar ataktaa hai. Update
shapdate sab kar kar dekh liyaa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-57240695477655999922014-04-27T23:06:00.000-07:002014-04-27T23:06:22.429-07:00Finding Lucy: In the crowd. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't often think about that night. That night when Lucy left me standing outside the purple car, while Lucy was inside. <br />I stood there in the middle of the desert. Noone to talk to, letching at the prudish moon, all out and big and proud. Lucy, was inside. <br />I wanted to open the door, get on my knees, and claim Lucy. Or save Lucy, as I dream. But I couldn't. I couldn't help but think, even if it was just out of bitterness, that Lucy didn't deserve it.<br />
About the snake who gives himself so easy into any shape, I wonder about its reality. I wonder about its power. I wonder in pain. And longing. For my love for it is the same, despite all its grime and deciet. <br />
Lucy was still Lucy, but not the same. Or was it my devotion that had changed? Devotion could be a constant. <br />
<br /> About the mud that was upon Lucy, who had gained so much vanity because of what it was upon... She felt happy. But what about Lucy? What had Lucy gained? No, Lucy didn't lose anything. My devotion is a constant. <br />I wanted to open the door, stand on my feet, and claim that vanity. I knew I could. I could try at least. That happiness would be so much more, the mud can never know, when that happiness would be mine. <br />But that's the thing. I can't claim Lucy unless Lucy claims me. I will just wait outside the purple car and when Lucy is done, I will drive them home. </div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-12502373021584275152014-04-26T07:03:00.000-07:002014-04-26T07:03:01.037-07:00Finding Lucy: Forbidden Fruit. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am afraid. I am afraid to harm you. Or I am afraid of harm. <br />Harm rests underneath my intentions, even when my intentions may not have been harmful. I resist, I drip, I take muffled full breaths, whenever I am around you, knowing fully well that you are not around. <br />But that's the thing. I do not know fully well.<br />Why aren't you anything. Why aren't you anything? Why aren't you factual. <br />Because I know in fact... you have a body. <br />...<br />If I were to try and touch you... Would you turn back and tell everyone you have the upper hand? </div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-61587230865549915542014-04-18T03:59:00.000-07:002014-04-18T03:59:03.747-07:00Finding Lucy. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Lucy told me he lost his job… I was happy. I was happy
to have Lucy home with me. In my head, I imagined that it meant I could have
Lucy all to me, without a care for what Lucy wants, if that’s what Lucy needs,
in my head, in my pathetic head, I started to dream Lucy while Lucy was there in
front of me sipping heat and sweat. Even dust, but in my head, in my pathetic
head, dust and Lucy were exclusive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucy told me he was ambitious, if it were so it was my grievous
fault to love him like that. And yet in my head, in my pathetic head…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who are we? Can we stop? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Lucy drinks nowadays, he drinks a lot. I stock my
fridge with everything Lucy doesn't need, in the hope that it would make Lucy
need me. But Lucy and I are exclusive. Yet, in my… well, you know! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucy doesn’t know how I even live. I clean the kitchen
whenever Lucy wants to comes over. All that remains, grease and egg, of the
steak I tried to make three nights before, Lucy has never seen. Lucy has no
idea, that I am Lucy in my very own way. That, in my head, in my pathetic head,
I am Lucy or worse… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it because I am Lucy, or it is for Lucy isn't with me. Because
if Lucy was… with me, like Lucy is in my pathetic head… we wouldn't be Lucy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-36371371451523960702014-04-02T04:17:00.001-07:002014-04-02T04:17:13.979-07:00Beloved, love is <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best love is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is the best </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most loved </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is Love </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When love</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is Love</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is loved the most</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The worst </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most longing </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is for the love </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is for the one you </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You never went </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through with</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is love </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is best </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagined and </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Left to love </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In you, and you are </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Love</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is love is you </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Best love is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
lost</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And lived </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in your </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
imagination </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love it is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagined </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And free</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From love there isn’t</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That isn’t going to be </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your heart </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Its nice if you read this after having heard Nina Simone sing in this wonderful video. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/RLyk7Jst9Bk" width="420"></iframe></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-64091997936241810762014-03-24T22:46:00.001-07:002014-03-24T22:47:01.740-07:00My beautiful fanatic. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<br />
So confident about what you're fed.<br />
<br />
I was brought to you in the corner of the night<br />
Sleepy and tired, I lied about who I am, because of who you are<br />
And I was in the mood to celebrate.<br />
<br />
Yes, celebration got the better of me. <br />
<br />
But mistake that not for manipulation<br />
It was fear<br />
And compassion for your madness<br />
<br />
Some mid day we may have a meal of good<br />
And tell each other stories<br />
Maybe we will understand, or mostly won't <br />
What is easy<br />
That we have experiences, similar and dissimilar<br />
<br />
I hope you Travel, my beautiful fanatic.Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-54363256337195572382013-12-23T00:35:00.000-08:002013-12-23T00:35:29.937-08:00Colourblind at Prithvi. Come! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Still from my play Colour Blind - Aranya's new play<br />
27th,28th, December 6 and 9pm, 29th December 5 and 8pm.<br />
Director: Manav Kaul.<br />
Come one, come all! Tickets on BookMyShow #Theatre<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fPJO_WH86JcfuOmCySKaPz3ANmJY1-60jtHfn73ZqgU1DeDMSvY_ZJJsR-ml90_wPIwz8oTFog4hUaqbdzP4ADuhL7mhv1RfX2QLCvprlLFXUiW5hX0d_8x0gDnitDLsrGuri9in3YI/s1600/DSC_2365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fPJO_WH86JcfuOmCySKaPz3ANmJY1-60jtHfn73ZqgU1DeDMSvY_ZJJsR-ml90_wPIwz8oTFog4hUaqbdzP4ADuhL7mhv1RfX2QLCvprlLFXUiW5hX0d_8x0gDnitDLsrGuri9in3YI/s400/DSC_2365.jpg" width="325" /></a></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-86267497552008734962013-12-15T22:08:00.002-08:002013-12-15T22:08:47.587-08:00My play Colourblind comes to Prithvi this December, Come one, come all! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Watch the teaser video by clicking on the link below to get a hint of what to expect. Tickets on bookmyshow!<br />
<br />
My play <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/event.php?id=587834334605402" href="https://www.facebook.com/events/587834334605402/" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;">Colour Blind</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> comes to </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/prithvi?source=feed_text" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_58cl" style="color: #6d84b4;"></span><span class="_58cm">Prithvi</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> Come one, come all! </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">27th, 28th, 29th December, 6 and 9 pm shows. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Director: Manav Kaul</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Cast: Satyajit Sharma, Kalki Koechlin, Swanaand Kirkire, Ajitesh, Neha, Amrita, Me, Avantika, Padma, Chitrangada!</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/81892333">ColourBlind Teaser Video</a></div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-83794366452703658882013-12-09T02:37:00.000-08:002013-12-09T02:37:09.822-08:00 Death by emasculation: Chickening out of a bar fight. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apart from that, the only two things I could focus on were:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write about it now, knowing full well, such a situation is
inexplicable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reminded me of James Dean. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In ‘Rebel without a Cause’, Jim asks his father,’Would you
do something dangerous, if it was a matter of honor’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
James Dean, the hero, the reckless boy unafraid of death
passed away at the age of 24 leaving behind this question in my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would have been a yes, yes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I would have run and fulfilled my bloody choice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it would have mostly been a yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Definitely a yes, had I had my bull-fighter buddy along with
me tonight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s exactly why I did what I did for my friend years
back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After all, we are the society. Not that angry fucking bird
pouring out slurs and spit, like it’s the truth.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
...</div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-21823340668750440612013-11-29T02:06:00.000-08:002013-11-29T02:06:22.274-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpIFlaWdP3zNwG3FyPsjBhUjZYJukF4ye11iTNxoqwdv_TqD48yciJnSpsF7VST7UjsMHbxn76MluCndoeypKlfvNChzcYqOi2HJdKOu_K1HhWLeFiOpcer-6EHhRJMFihzNam4p1snY/s1600/1461863_10152444083091632_1292064178_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpIFlaWdP3zNwG3FyPsjBhUjZYJukF4ye11iTNxoqwdv_TqD48yciJnSpsF7VST7UjsMHbxn76MluCndoeypKlfvNChzcYqOi2HJdKOu_K1HhWLeFiOpcer-6EHhRJMFihzNam4p1snY/s400/1461863_10152444083091632_1292064178_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Good folks in town who plan to run away from the city end of December, do come and watch my play <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/colourblind?source=feed_text"><span class="_58cl"></span><span class="_58cm">ColourBlind</span></a> at <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/ncpa?source=feed_text"><span class="_58cl"></span><span class="_58cm">NCPA</span></a> on the 5th of December.<br /> <br /> Others just come for the shows at <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/prithvi?source=feed_text"><span class="_58cl"></span><span class="_58cm">Prithvi</span></a> 27th, 28th, 29th December... Because Prithvi is where the love is!<br />
<br />
Director: Manav Kaul.<br />
Cast: Satyajit Sharma, Kalki Koechlin, Swanand Kirkire, Ajitesh, Shivam, Avantika, Chitrangada, Padma, Neha, Amrita, Deep, Avinash. <br />
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-26762971480936313912013-11-25T06:01:00.003-08:002013-11-25T06:02:33.229-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tWrXXyXD1wlVFizfqWV9FoWtfFwUkMZkKXwzn4rYrNsM7sjtuuoF1HO1sXthTBZEQUF04KlpEKTM4gz6GPpqTfswYrpNvGu-aT8ypXxscseOrBNzQ6DSsnUiZjhU5X5t9TWy8EHLpWE/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tWrXXyXD1wlVFizfqWV9FoWtfFwUkMZkKXwzn4rYrNsM7sjtuuoF1HO1sXthTBZEQUF04KlpEKTM4gz6GPpqTfswYrpNvGu-aT8ypXxscseOrBNzQ6DSsnUiZjhU5X5t9TWy8EHLpWE/s400/Untitled.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-17830194341553311982013-11-13T01:48:00.003-08:002013-11-13T01:48:41.187-08:00What is it about? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t like wearing underwear either, I high-five him on
that in my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Endless unwitnessed wander, unless someone stumbles upon him
one fluky night… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His life, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One terrain after the next, weather after weather, with
nowhere to return to,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A one way trip. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
New facing, trying to similarize them with those he has seen
in the past, but nothing is none for sure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even the sack has enjoyed belonging, doesn’t this dude miss
it? I wonder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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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. </div>
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Just like that, I am washed aside. I can see all my stuff
flowing away at a distance, going farther and farther away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The homeless man. Still has his skin, his smell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-9354765189553807742013-10-18T02:25:00.000-07:002013-10-18T04:07:48.655-07:00A Phenomial read: Meeting God.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I stumbled upon this article and was really intrigued by its idea.<br />
Let me know what you think about it?<br />
Source: StumbleUpon.com <br />
<br />
<h1>
Meeting God</h1>
<hr />
You were on your way home when you died. <br />
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. <br />
And that's when you met me. <br />
"What... what happened?" You asked. "Where am I?" <br />
"You died," I said, matter-of-factly. No point mincing words. <br />
"There was a... a truck and it was skidding..." <br />
"Yup." I said. <br />
"I... I died?" <br />
"Yup. But don't feel bad about it. Everyone dies." I said. <br />
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. "What is this place?" You asked. "Is this the afterlife?" <br />
"More or less," I said. <br />
"Are you god?" You asked. <br />
"Yup." I replied. "I'm God." <br />
"My kids... my wife," you said. <br />
"What about them?" <br />
"Will they be alright?" <br />
"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." <br />
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. <br />
"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." <br />
"Oh," you said. "So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?" <br />
"Neither," I said. "You'll be reincarnated." <br />
"Ah," you said. "So the Hindus were right." <br />
"All the religions are right in their own way," I said. "Walk with me." <br />
You followed along as we strolled in the void. "Where are we going?" <br />
"Nowhere in particular," I said. "It's just nice to walk while we talk." <br />
"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?" <br />
"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." <br />
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." <br />
"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." <br />
"How many times have I been reincarnated then?" <br />
"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." <br />
"Wait, what?" You stammered. "You're sending me back in time?" <br />
"Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from." <br />
"Where you come from?" You pondered. <br />
"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." <br />
"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?" <br />
"Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own timespan, you don't even know its happening." <br />
"So what's the point of it all?" <br />
"Seriously?" I asked. "Seriously? You're asking me for the meaning of life? Isn't that a little stereotypical?" <br />
"Well, it's a reasonable question." You persisted. <br />
I looked in your eye. "The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature." <br />
"You mean mankind? You want us to mature?" <br />
"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." <br />
"Just me? What about everyone else?" <br />
"There is no one else," I said. "In this universe, there's just you, and me." <br />
You stared blankly at me. "But all the people on Earth..." <br />
"All you. Different incarnations of you." <br />
"Wait. I'm everyone!?" <br />
"Now you're getting it." I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. <br />
"I'm every human who ever lived?" <br />
"Or who will ever live, yes." <br />
"I'm Abraham Lincoln?" <br />
"And you're John Wilkes Booth." I added. <br />
"I'm Hitler?" You said, appalled. <br />
"And you're the millions he killed." <br />
"I'm Jesus?" <br />
"And you're everyone who followed him." <br />
You fell silent. <br />
"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." <br />
"Why?" You asked me. "Why do all this?" <br />
"Because someday, you will become like me. Because that's what you are. You're one of my kind. You're my child." <br />
"Whoa." You said, incredulous. "You mean I'm a god?" <br />
"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." <br />
"So the whole universe," you said. "It's just..." <br />
"An egg of sorts." I answered. "Now it's time for you to move on to your next life." <br />
And I sent you on your way. <br />
<hr />
By Anonymous. Transcribed by Mac Davis for Philosophy Circle's reading catalogue.</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-86978543282656377262013-10-14T04:15:00.002-07:002013-10-14T04:15:35.855-07:00Isis <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isis, the daughter of Kama<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The unfortunate one, for she was born when a tree was
burning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Under the tree was a snake, who befriended Isis<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then stole her virginity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isis turned, becoming her destiny <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She would live her life under the same tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love Isis, and want to be able to be like her<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How she gives, and she gives just one thing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, the son of Carna <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Born when a root was rotting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Living off its mud </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ready to give the the one thing I can</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is no surprise <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love her so. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-16867617137135169702013-10-10T02:29:00.001-07:002013-10-10T02:29:21.585-07:00Woman’s World: Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Remember I told you about the woman who caught her husband
in the act?!<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many times over. Upon many women.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stupid woman, yes the same! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another greasy tale. It was short and sweet and… regular. I
couldn’t figure out the surprise initially.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She refused. She would rather spend time with her children
or at her dance class catching up on all she had missed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, I told you… It was regular. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until she went to cook. Her tone of voice changed when she
narrated this last part of the story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She found a used pan in the sink. Her husband cooked, yes,
but turning over the dosa on a pan… no, not him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stupid woman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3739666256173423501.post-80429677333650285192013-10-05T01:50:00.000-07:002013-10-05T01:50:21.722-07:00 Notes from my play ‘Colourblind’!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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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’.<br />
<br />
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) <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
(Most of it was originally written in Hindi)<br />
<br />
... <br />
<br />
I once went to a forest. I walked for hours, went deep inside and when I reached nowhere, I just sat there.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But I sat still, unsure of anything, as I usually am.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
‘I am too old to play your games, too rusted’, but I appreciated the hospitality.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I felt like a tree, belonging in the forest.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
So many years I spent in my other world trying to find a place, offering my sense and soul and everything else I could...<br />
<br />
The forest took me in just like that. She took me back to where I came from, into her womb. <br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Train hille Baul gire!<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He sang, we cheered... sorry, shadhu’d... danced and passed funny comments... it was a real celebration! <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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... <br />
<br />
By the time I was done thinking, the third guy entered, repeating one of the songs... ‘taka lagbe naa...’<br />
<br />
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...’<br />
<br />
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’.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Woh: Arre, yahaan akele khade khade kiss baat par has rahe ho?<br />
<br />
Mein : Bas, aise hi...<br />
<br />
Woh: Aise hi? Chalo yahaan se... log samjhenge pagal ho gaye ho...<br />
<br />
Mein: Pagal ko agar log samajh te toh dikkat hi kya thi.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
Apni lines bolna shuru kiya toh ek baar phir... wahi bhagwaan ko dekhne ki ichcha jaagi.<br />
<br />
Aisa khayaal aaya ki mein apne abhinaya mein bhagwaan dekhnaa chahta hoon. Ek natak mein sunaa tha ki bhagwaan sach hai, aur maaya bhi...<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
About a Man<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He flew Between this and that<br />
<br />
And those<br />
<br />
Free<br />
<br />
Full<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He was time<br />
<br />
New every moment<br />
<br />
Once gone, gone<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He was life<br />
<br />
I lived him<br />
<br />
While he was mine<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I still dream of filling him<br />
<br />
But who can own time<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Carnal<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Then, he turned her over and started to go down.<br />
<br />
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.’ <br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Hey, its free writing.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Shivam Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430450376594008721noreply@blogger.com2