'Yellow' (Final Version)

Yellow

They say the curse still lingers... That silent afternoons carry his noise, pedalling roughly through the villages’ desolate paths. That he looks around. That he waits. Not like he had much to do ever!
Jayadols’ remaining few inhabitants now only walk to get to their destination... or it is rumoured they will fall.
When asked about this, she only laughs... her coarse laughter, wet yet. Never hinting. Though everyone knows she knows. It was her curse after all.
And she sings diligently every afternoon. To the silence they believe is him. Maybe just to keep them believing... Who knows?
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“Sheetaala Bauuaa sheetaala... chau gangya paari kheti meri, eeju kheti meri... Sheetaala bauuaa sheetaala...” (Sleep my baby sleep... I am to cross four rivers to reach my farm... so sleep)
As sand engulfs all in its piercing blanket. Suffocating within, everything that happens. Sharp heat pours, flooding the desert drowning that stands amidst: A forgotten piece of thatch, within it... forgotten people.
The lady of the hut, in her later thirties, sings. Her voice, coarse, like her face, coarse though not old, brushing against the walls of the home to return to her son’s ears, smooth, as he stares into her with emotion, drowsy and confused.
A door-long boy in small khakis, small... like him, for his age. Built of a villager, tanned face dripping with oil his mother has just put on his forehead, which she does thrice a day and chants along. He is shining, but remains quiet.
She is patting his face with pressure to make him sleep. While he looks at her through the gaps between her fingers, fiddling with her naval and spitting each time she pats. To show that he is awake! Mischievous he has always been.
After some time, the fiddling stops and spit remains.
Hariya waits for him to fall into deep sleep; her eyes are shut too... when the vision comes back.
The black of that night, its sounds catapulting her back... his small face distorted, yet vivid in its expression. Like he knew why he was being bathed in milk.
The devil must be drowned. The clattering of the steel tub against its lid, of milk being poured into it; Hariya’s hysteria, the thud of her feet against the wooden staircase when she had to be dragged up, while the men headed for the sacrifice, of chants and prayers, of screams of the pundit, Hariya’s escaping fall through the window, the crushing of the winter leaves underneath her feet as she limps to the river, of cold, of fire logs carried by men, of fire, of that piece of burning log she put upon the pundit, her rescuing Hari, the chase, the British officer who protected her and let them stay with her for the next few months leaving them at this small hut outside the village after he had satisfied all his motives, ensuring protecting though... All this against the noise of the boy of two who just looked on!
Who is looking at her now... she couldn’t let him see. Has he?
She snaps back, to find Hari sleeping. The vision has left her tired, and she is sweating profusely.
She comes out of the hut, to find other women who work with her already far ahead. She must hurry as she has to walk the distance unlike them. Quickly she puts a roti in her steel tiffin and sets out.
Hari gets up the moment she leaves. However, it is not the playful getting up of a child after his mother goes away; his expression is rather grave, as he looks out of the hole adjacent to the chaarpayi.
The sight of his mother. Walking unsteadily with her steel tiffin. Flickering in the loo. Around her, more women with more steel tiffins, but they aren’t walking. They are being ridden on bicycles by door-long shadows, like his.
A twitch runs his body. He frowns to distract himself. Then takes out a slate and chalk from underneath the chaarpayi and starts to draw.
Two little kids (About eight years old or so... his only friends from the nearby hut) hiss from the door, “Ber todhne aa riya hai??” They did this every day once their mother left for work.
“Na. Hat”, but he shoos them away.
And continues to draw. Cracked ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. He colours it yellow.
Hari made a new drawing every day while Hariya was at work and he made sure he completed it by the time she came back. Then they would talk about why he drew what he did because usually Hariya couldn’t understand what Hari made. It was Hari’s favourite most part of the day.
He looks at what he has just made. Then looks outside. It’s not the excellence in his drawing but something else about the picture that is pulling him. He holds it next to the hole and is now staring at the view and his imitation of it.
Drawing comparisons. Comparing intentions...
He must true to his drawing. He must pursue it. After all, he too is door long like the other boys.
Quietly so, he gets up and goes to the back yard of the hut, where he keeps his secret friend. Itthu. Itthu is a matka on which he has painted a face and made holes according to his eyes. Summons him. They talk via heat waves. Itthu looks on as Hari explains to him his desires. Both have their eyes peering into each other, their hearts upfront, as judging and contemplation takes place. Some more speculation and a deal is struck!
So Hari puts him on and sets out.
Towards the village. Where he and his mother are unwelcome, but what does he know... little devil!
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The village is still, stirred only by sounds of the Radio from selective few houses, along with the continuous din of the loo.
Itthu and Hari walk slowly marvelling at the built of the houses, majestic and calling.
Outside one such house, parked is a bicycle like the one he drew! It stands consciously like it is being judged. It is!
By a brown matka, heavy on a slender body, with long legs covered in small khaki. And a 20 year old boy underneath. Their eyes maliciously set on the bicycle. The bicycle maliciously set on their eyes.
Two smiles and two nods!
And the cycle follows them outside the verandah. Gleaming like a gladiator. Dust rising over their trail, in rebellion, in tribute. As they march through the village road, ignoring the developing protests of the path and the mighty houses that stand on its side.
As they go further the noises begin to grow heavier. It is making Hari uneasy but he keeps his mind on the reward and keeps striding forward. Itthu is also shaken by them. Both trying very hard to endure.
They are voices and they seem to be prompting something which Hari can’t figure out... some sort of a discovery... some sort of a connection... that is making him feel very familiar and unknown at the same time.
Steps begin to pace.
He is near the end of the village, a few more houses and he will be through.
‘I can. I can. I can. I can. I can... Itthus we can’
They have approached the very last lane of houses when Hari just stops.
In front is this house with enormous red gates, a verandah with blue walls around to fence. There is no one outside the house but he can see that the main door is ajar. What has struck Hari most is a sealed window directly above the main door. Hari seems to remember the window somehow... maybe from his dreams but he can’t place it anywhere.
He looks back to the cycle. Itthu also seems to have withdrawn. Ditcher!
And he looks back at the house to find... it has turned into night.
He is inside the house. Being bathed in milk!
The devil must be drowned. The clattering of the steel tub against its lid, of milk being poured into it; His mothers cry, the thud of her feet against the wooden staircase as she is being dragged upstairs... Locked in the room directly above the main door. It has a window, while the men are headed for the sacrifice along with him, sounds of chants, and prayers, of screams of the pundit, Her mother shouting and finally jumping out of the window...
He wants to run and hold her but he can’t.
‘Maa...... Maa..... ‘ Hari is now shouting trying to get himself to run to her and save her. Hariya falls.
‘Maa..... ’ He is shouting mad in the want to run to her but he can’t.
‘No... No... No...’ He is crying and shaking his head vigorously.
It is in this movement that Itthu looses balance and falls off Hari’s head, falling off and breaking into pieces, dying instantly. It’s this noise of the shattering that breaks Hari’s experience.
And he finds himself back... in the daytime, in front of the same house.
Only this time, when he turns back... he is not alone. But surrounded by his murderers.
His yells cautioned them and they came outside.
To complete what they couldn’t eighteen years back. He just smiles at them... looks on!
She watches him, the cycle, as Hari is assaulted by his captors. They are blaming him for their misfortunes as they beat the life out of him. Why... he still can’t understand...
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One only feels pain when one knows the reason behind it. So Hari never felt anything when he was being thrashed.
Nonetheless he knows what is to come. After all, he had always had the shine!
He can smell that he is in his house... yes it is his home. Its dark and he can see his mothers’ silhouette near the chulha... Hariya, His mother. He calls out to her.
At once she is beside him, caressing his wound with a hot rag.
He looks at her tenderly and she kisses him back. Hariya was a strong woman.
‘I know why Maa... ‘
And she bursts out putting her head on his chest.
‘Your oil finally worked...’ he says almost laughing. It brings a smile to Hariya’s face.
‘Why did you go there... why?’ she can’t resist asking. Hari looks on.
He put his hand under the chaarpayi and takes out his slate.
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Not until what seems hours does Hariya even move from beside him. She just lays there her head on his chest. Eyes shut, for from today no visions will ever haunt her. Then slowly she picks up the slate and brings it near the stove.
Light falls on it making it glow. It is Hari’s last drawing.
Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
And a lady with a steel tiffin box behind. Being ridden.
By a door-long Khaki wearing fellow.
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Hari’s last desire.
And she falls on to her knees and cries out...
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The red gate house in Jayadol stands forsaken. All the family members succumbed to the plague that hit the village just two years after Hari’s death...
Some people claim to have heard Hariya from within her cot yelling a curse to the family and the village.
If it’s the truth, only she knows!
As for Hari... he is too busy riding to give a shit about anything. Occasionally, one also finds exquisite drawings on random walls in the village... people just leave them alone. The little devil that he is :-)
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A Childrens short film! watch with headphones... let me know how you'll like it!!!!

How I met your father

:-)
The bright morning of yesterday, while you were in bed...
Fast asleep in your hospital ward.
Me beside, holding your plaster hand... deep in love. Me and your hand!
With your girlfriend staring greedily from the opposite end of the room.

:-|
HE ENTERED.
A rugged man of the 50s soared above me.
Eagle Eyes. Laser-like.
And I knew the time had come!
But while my face prepared itself for the upcoming strike, my wit took body control
Forcing my hand to reach the pen in my pocket then quickly to her hand.
“Get Well Soon”- From ALL your college friends
Ha!
I smiled at the eagle. 1-0 Sir!
I win.

:-(
But by the time I could absorb in my victory
The door opened again. Unveiling white fairies. Stethoscope equipped.
“So Shivam... I see you are very happy that she is recovering. But stick to her. She panics when you are not around.”

(No face left to depict how I felt)
The quickness of it was the most savage part. The eagle tightened its wings.
The mere force of it blew me over. Nobody saw. Nobody noticed. Where I flew...
So now you know why.

PS: Please give Moushi Rs. 100 for giving this letter to you.
I can’t tell you where I am because the letter might be intercepted.
Sorry for having you face this alone.
But it’s not worth being together. If that means we have to be in adjacent hospital wards.

I still love you!

‘5 must have agendas for the party I vote for list’

One thing we have to honour. Our Indian Politicos have balls like no other! I mean theirs have to be bigger than the ‘just’ nuts to come up stuff like ‘English abolition’ and crap like that in times so pressing as todays.
When the world is on the verge of bankruptcy, every country is struck by terror... Heath Ledger is dead! But NO... these dumb‘d’ucks are just NOT RECEPTIVE towards these issues.
I mean if I Ever Were to Use a ‘downmarket’ word like ghonchu, it would be to address these fools!
But Naah... I am not just going to sit and whine, like you do, but come forward and present my ‘5 must have agendas for the party I vote for list’ !!!

Point 1-
Better medical facilities: We had to fly my Amma from her village to Bombay... Oh MuMbAi sorry... after she complained of back ache and the doctor there suggested a Kidney operation. A KIDNEY operation for god’s sake! When it turned out to be a spine related problem. And I swear on my pink polka dotted pants, I Am Not Even Kidding! I mean medics is simple in most part of our country- Chest pain: Heart Problem. Lower back pain: Kidney transplant. Head ache: Crop the damn head!

Point 2-
Stronger defence: Oh... c’mon. None of the forsaken parties have highlighted this clause in their agendas. Recently, I was travelling by train to Churchgate and there was this bag lying near the door. Our ‘fist class’ compartment did pay heed... everyone came and joked, even from the other end... but we had no one to complain to. NONE of the stations had any official; no telephone number for help... in the end one flower print, velvet shirted man just picked it up and put it down on the platform when Bandra came. He said, “Kam se kam yahan koi police wala toh aayega... aur hum toh bach gaye naa!”

Pint 3-
Gay rights: The world has embraced them, and it’s time we do too. And I am not just talking about legal acceptance but initiative for social awareness and schemes to promote gay recognition in our society. How about having ‘Gay ministers’ for a start! Indian Harvey Milk!

Point 4-
Better Infrastructure: For living, education, business... I am talking about a MEGA PLAN to bring about that desired change! As for the required finances, proper utilization and channelling of public money should do the trick. Disruption of corruption! is the key. Tell me you will do this and only then I will vote for you.

Point 5-
Efficient Legislature: Please. Please. Please. Some party please tell me they are looking at improving the legislative procedures in our country. We have a wonderful constitution, pay due respects! All social evils can be cured with proper laws and implementation.

So I am hoping some political worker, while surfing porn or something (I will accordingly use keywords!) stumbles upon this article and READS it more importantly.
As for you’ll tell me what more do we expect from our coming government... Lets see if e can get our voice through... Deaf Ears!

The story for my next short film!!!!!!!

Yellow

A burnt hutment on the outskirts of a forsaken village. Sand infested gusts casting an ironic golden shadow on the sad land. Sharp heat dripping flooding the desert, drowning that stands amidst: A forgotten piece of thatch, within it... forgotten people.
“Sheetaala Bauua sheetaala... chau gangya paari kheti meri, eeju kheti meri... Sheetaala bauua sheetaala...” (Sleep my baby sleep... I am to cross four rivers to reach my farm... so sleep)
The old lady of the hut, in her mid-thirties, sings. Her voice, coarse, like her face, coarse and not cruel, brushes against the walls of the hut to return to her son’s ears, smooth, as he stares into her, with love, drowsy and confused.
A door-long boy in small khakis, small... like him, for his age. He is fiddling with his mothers naval with one hand while picking his nose with the other while she pats his face to make him sleep. He looks through the gaps between her fingers, spitting each time she stops patting. To show that he is awake. After some time, the fiddling stops and spit remains.
She sits head down for another while, trying to recollect what she is thinking, before jerking herself off sleep. Briskly picks up her steel tiffin box that is hanging on the wall above the stove and sets out. Into vulnerability. Into fire. Of false hopes.
For survival.
The boy gets up the moment his mother leaves. However, it is not the mischievous getting up of a child; his expression is rather grave as he looks out of the hole adjacent to the chaarpayi. At the sight of his mother. Walking unsteadily, flickering in the loo. Around her, more women with more steel tiffins, but they aren’t walking. They are being ridden on bicycles by door-long shadows, like his.
A twitch runs his body. He frowns to distract himself. Then takes out a slate and chalk from underneath the chaarpayi and starts to draw.
Two little kids (Way too little for his age... his friends) hiss from the door, “Ber todhne aa riya hai??”
“Na. Hat”, he shoos them away.
And continues to draw. Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
He stares at the drawing. Then looks out. And looks at it again. Drawing comparisons. Comparing intentions.
Quietly then, he gets up and goes to the back yard of the hut, to his favourite matka (He painted a face on and made holes according to his eyes). Summons him. They talk via heat waves, his hollow eyes fixed on him, both their hearts upfront. And a deal is struck!
So he puts him on his head and sets out.
Towards the village. Where he and his mother are unwelcome, but what does he know... silly boy!
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The village is silent, stirred only by sounds of DD television from selective few houses. Outside one such house, parked is a bicycle like the one he drew! It stands consciously like it is being judged. It is.
By a brown matka, heavy on a weak body, with finger legs covered in small khaki. And, underneath it, a 20 year old boy. Their eyes maliciously set on the bicycle. The bicycle maliciously set on their eyes.
Two smiles and two nods!
The cycle follows them outside the verandah. Like a prisoner. Dust rising over their trail, in rebellion, in tribute. As they march through the village road, ignoring the noises reverberating along the path. ‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal.’
They grow heavier.
The boy is running now. Faster with each step. “Go slow” the matka warns! “No” he runs faster, the cycle beside. Shaking. “Go slow.” ‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal.’ He is sprinting now “No.”
More noises, and as he shuts his eyes to shout... he trips over a stone... hitting the ground. The matka shatters, dead instantly, quick and easy. While the bicycle, in its final attempt to escape rolls over and knocks on a nearby house gate. Sounds flood in from the houses.
The boy is still on the ground. As doors open and people are scrambling out of their houses.
But, just before they can catch him, he collects, both his self and dreams, and runs. While the cycle looks on, panting in one corner. Mockingly!
They follow him till the village wall, hurling stones and sticks. And then dismiss their pursuit.
‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal. Pahaadin ka Pagal’
But he runs fast right till the house.
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He is happy to return to the unease of his house. Its dead smell fills his senses bringing them to life again, as he relishes the heat and hunger and despair. Not that they make any sense to him.
The vision comes back to him. And he gets back to his drawing.
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The sun has almost dried when his mother comes back. And so has she. She finds her son sitting in one corner near the hole. He is holding a cloth against his knee wound, which is heart red. But she can’t see that.
She squats near him, eyes shut. The stench of her sweat makes him dizzy. He puts his head on her feet and caresses them. Her hard feet. Then takes out his slate from behind and puts it in front of her.
Initially she doesn’t notice, she caresses back his hand, that’s when her hands touch his knees.
Immediately, she lights the stove and brings it near too see.
Light falls on his knees.
She looks at him, he looks at her.
Then he brings the slate near the stove. Light falls on it making it glow.
Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
A door-long boy in short khakhis riding a cycle. And a lady with a steel tiffin box behind. Being ridden.
All yellow.
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The First Kiss!

7 things that may help

I still remember mine. Always will.
The dingy insides of my room had never smelt so sweet. Like the flowers on the bed sheet had come alive (To rescue me just in case I farted). We lay there waiting. And waiting some more. Both first timers gathering pictures from the movies, words from songs... anything at all that could help! Guide.
Cursing random questions that popped involuntarily: Tilted or straight, Do noses clash, What if I miss, Is it really possible to! Oh...
And then it happened. Within moments time had been sealed. Doubts swallowed. Because I did miss! Slightly. Yet it was such a joy.
The moment still lingers in the insides of my lips, just one thought away. Half actually! Such is its magic.
And therefore it is important that we make it unforgettable.
I was lucky to not have screwed mine and I want you to make the best of yours. So here is some stuff you can use:-
• Time it perfectly: Unless you are the wham-bam-thank you ma’am kind of person, try and wait for a significant day. Like the monthly anniversary, or Valentines or New Years... Some date you can remember. Forever (without having to note it down on your ‘The people I have kissed’ spreadsheet.) Or if you have the balls, it could also be immediately after you propose. That’s very special (Caution- But beware of where you do it. Love isn’t in the air everywhere)

• Be yourself: You don’t have to be Leonardo Di Caprio and suck the life out of your partner. Though French ones are no big deal, but even a simple press on the lips is just as special and provocative. Whats important is that you be yourself. Let your first kiss represent the person that you are. Share yourself with your partner and get to know him/her too. Trust me ‘Lips don’t lie’! The first time.

• Its Okay! to laugh: Or miss, or shiver, or freeze... Embarrassments make sweet memories. (However don’t share them publically unless you are being paid to do so!)


• Pre-play: You know you are going to do it, and its better when you are already in the love mood. So talk right, bring it on by remembering your best of moments, funny romantic stuff that you have shared together ... get the flow and then let it lead you.

• Don’t miss ‘that’ moment: Sometimes comes a situation that despite being against all rules, amidst all odds just feels right. So when that happens and you will know when it foes, don’t let it go! Get someone else’s balls if you have to but just GO FOR IT.

• Place: May or may not be important. Depending upon the kind of person you are. Like if you get intimidated by people around, go for private places. The moment is about the two of you and nobody has to get a piece of it.


• And Lastly: The key lies not in creating magic but in discovering it, inside each other and within (Sure you understand!)

Go! Kiss the world. (‘World’ translates into ‘the person who will mean everything to you’)
Sick Bastards :-)

He ha ha ha ha ha ha!

She told me she vomited last night… and the night before we had been together!


She called me at 8:00 in the morning to tell me ‘I had the most ridiculous sperms ever… to have penetrated through her barriers. And mine’.

I laughed for some time… and then some more before saying ‘What the kcuf!’

What followed next was a hodgepodge of Google researches, remembrances of when and where and how and why, cold arguments…

And the decision was made!!! A preggers test would be taken (At my house. By her)


Although we chose to ignore (Or rather she threatened me to!) the fact that:

‘NNNothing had even happened… everything had been in the ‘fore’ because by the time the ‘play’ could come, my watchman called to tell me dad’s car was back”


But before I could elaborate more on that thought, she was standing on my doorstep. Holding her bag with two hands, smiling with two lips. It was the first time I noticed she had disfigured lips! And before I could notice more, she stormed to my kitchen. She was drinking cold water.


And she drank with vengeance,

Like the drunkard in the bar!

Her armpits wet with sweat…

I could smell from far.


Her bag was my item of interest though. Which did disappoint me when it unveiled an iPhone big and Cadbury thin (While I was expecting an enormous apparatus!), medicine-like sachet, pink in color… and I thought: Pink or White?


I took a picture!



And was almost confident about the process after I read the instructions 5 times.

While 5 is the amount of minutes it took to decide our fate.


The quietness still looms in my head… of the day when I took my first pregnancy test! With her.