I'm working on that

I think there's some unwritten pleasure in the physical acting of 'posting'. It's almost a release, a letting go of some idea or a thought. Every post makes me feel a bit lighter. Its like the feeling when you finish a night at the gym. Exhausted, but emphatic.

But much like the gym, its getting here that's the hardest part. I've been restless these last few months. Many things have changed after finishing Scarborough Fair. For starters I've stopped enjoying watching plays - or so, I love theater, but I spend more time analyzing the lights and movements and am always, always wearing my skeptic critic hat. It's not nice, and I wouldn't want anyone to do it when they come to see my plays.

Now I'm feeling a bit better. A hint of a rhythm perhaps. The first trickle of sweat. So let's keep going.

I've also become incessantly restless. Adheer as my Dad loves to say. There's a constant need to do - anything, everything, something. But thats where it seems to end. A lot of ideas, a lot of energy and general enthusiasm, but unfortunately very little action. This in-turn is making me more restless. It's an endless loop, and I'm ranting. I know. It's inexcusable.

Ok, so on to brighter thoughts. Since a decent set of shows and a more than positive response (apart from one critic - I'll sort him later), many people around me have been asking about a new show. A new show? I don't have one I said - or to clarify, I don't know what to put up. Lost for content you could say, and I'm quite sure I don't want to adapt another playwrights play. It seems all selfish and indulgent, but I feel its 'his/her' play, and not mine to change/adapt or murder. So I must write a new original, and must stop using so many I's. I know. It just shows how unfit my mind is.

More push-ups, incline on the treadmill. Here we go.

Now, with this structure in mind, accompanied by my restlessness, I set out a few weeks ago to try and find an idea to write about. Anything that can interest me. Read books, watched a lot of plays, read some interesting plays, some classics, and savaged through the papers in search of the elusive 'aha!'. It's not that easy. By now, my mind is splitting at the seams with too many leads, little swarm of gems that can go in places, any script, but no overarching theme. I love this world overarching. Rolls of the tongue. Much like rambunctious, pretentious, grotesque. yummy.

Back to the point on hand. These little ideas are not all mine. They're picked up from friends, their stories, random observations, alcoholic revelations, articles, everything. Most of them ended with a "I should put this in a play" twinkle/smirk/furrowed frown.

So here they are. My Play-list. (And wow. even I know that's cheesy)

1) Minstrels in the Gallery. 2 acoustic guitars next to the wings. Sing, laugh, converse. Thing Flight of the Concords meet the Kings of Convenience.

2) Van's morning messages: My buddy van sends us Good Morning messages everyday. They're funny, witty and very easy to digest. Great way to start the day, and super fillers in-between scenes. Aha!

3) Ramesh: He's a character a bunch of created on a very drunk night. He's about everything and nothing at all. A guardian angel you could say, just a couple of whiskeys down. He's also got an evil half brother Suresh. I can't say more, but I know you're interested now.

4) Juniors: Crazy names if our kids were to become superheroes. Imagine naming your kid Crash, Storm, Microbittu, Maya, 'I don't know', 'I really don't know', Aluminum, Magnesium, Ditsy, Pork and JhonnySun. Now put them in a room, and let them beat the crap outta each other. There was even a kid that was born five years old. Just saying.

5) Talk to the bag: How a guy on his first date decides to get into a lady's bag and to his surprise discovers a world of goodies, just waiting to be explored. She calls him a mind reader for the rest of the evening. He calls it elementary.


6) Bro tips: just a blog with a lot of interesting reads about Bros talking sense to other Bros. This stuff is gender neutral, but ridiculously funny.

7) Songs that set the mood: Here's my list of songs: a) Iron and Wine - Naked as we came, Innocent Bones, b) Jethrotull - Lifes a long song, Minstrel in the gallery. c) Peter Paul and Mary - The Wedding Song.

8) We're all the same: Here's something interesting I read recently in Bill Brysons ' A short history of nearly everything' - Every atom we possess has almost certainly passed through several stars and has been part of millions of organisms on its part to becoming you. This means that a significant number of your atoms, up-to a billion belonged to Shakespeare, and a billion more to Buddha, Genghis Khan, Beethoven, Gandhiji etc.

Now that's just friggin' cool.

9) The perils of blue tac: I'd never used blue tac before. But when I did, it took a lot of different shapes and sizes. Now all thats fine. But when I did this act unintentionally in my bosses cabin, and when the shapes were long and sometimes curved balls, and when my boss might be, or most surely is gay, is when it became, lets say, slightly uncomfortable. ahem.


So that's basically it. It feels good to put this down finally. The head feels lighter, the mind exercised. Now to wait for the pain to kick in.



Live out of imagination, not out of your history. Excellent quote. Read it somewhere.

whale tale

she said wake up
body green in mortal greed
he swam alone now












art credit: vanburn

pause

it's difficult to be inspired again.

perhaps when you're empty as hell. and maybe this is a good learning. to not pour your heart out in one project. to save some fuel for the ride ahead. its a terrible feeling - to be like this, without a cause, just drifting aimlessly. hoping to get lucky, to wake up the next day alive and ready for the task ahead. but it doesn't come that easy. or perhaps i don't look hard enough. i try or is the game not to try at all? to give 'it', the elusive 'aha!', its moment of fame. to let it sneak up on you and take in the applause. it takes teeth to scratch the surface. and i'm headed for a root canal.

a friend told me a writer always writes. he must feel the need to at all times. only then is he a writer at heart. i can't write, not now i tell him. i don't agree with you either i said. i write when i must. i write when i have to. i write when my heart says it should, not when my head commands it to. i scribble in my head till i need to put it down or risk bursting at the seams.

perhaps this is my time to ramble. till i stop and begin to write again. someday, one day, maybe today. amen.



take your time he said
simmer till its golden brown
you could write today

mr in-between

mr. in-between,
that’s who i am,
bumming in my bubble,
unaware of any trouble

idealism is my weapon,
i think no harm, i do no harm,
never mean and always keen,
thats me, mr. in-between.

i hate to argue, and hate to fight,
but debate the world and all its plight,
“judgment is bad, sarcasm is worst”,
my neutral take leaves this bubble un-burst.

come’on mr, they all do say,
where is the hunger?, where is the love?
i gently shrug and offer a pause,
“hmm...perhaps when there’s a worthy cause?”

but don’t i know it won’t last forever,
this habit of walking the dotted line,
with every second it begins to fade,
this bubble of life, that i have made,

for many have entered and left at will,
spent some time and had their tummy’s fill,
off to greener pastures!; another unfinished scene
shutting this shop is mr. in-between.

once upon a time in dadar

As the steady trail of comments from my unknown Chinese fans continue (much appreciated guys, even if you are just spammers and hackers...lets face it i am quite comfortable with being needy), and the skies continue to shed endlessly, i have a little nugget to tell.

Of all things that are making bombay fun for me, the least has been the train. And mind you, i have my systems pretty well chalked out. Living in bandra, i get the starting train at 8:57am, empty, spic and span, with enough room for me and my umbrella to rest comfortably. Add to that, i have the back-up of the 9:18am which means i get 10 min more of nap time. super. Now that seems idyllic doesn't it --- a morning train, empty, 20 min to office and an evening train back without much chaos. All this bullshit about Bombay being a tough city to travel in - what a bunch of baloney.

or so i thought. All this changed one morning in my first month - the blessed day i missed the 9:18am backup.
Troubled, confused, i finally managed to locate an alternative train heading towards my office form the adjoining platform. Things seemed pretty much under control. The train came in, passengers got out, we all got in, the rains continued and i got ticked off again for waving my umbrella. typical day i thought.

now here's a bit of background. there are 2 stations between bandra and dadar - 1) mahim junction and 2) matunga road. Ipod plugged in, newspaper out, i swayed blissfully with the rhythm of the train. Blame it on the morning rain, or just a good hair day, but i was feeling jolly - smiling at the regulars on the train, moving aside for the passengers at mahim and wondering again why in god's name they would name a station - 'matunga'? (we even have an 'elephinstone'...but lets not get into African derivations here).

But something seemed wrong as we crossed matunga station. i could feel it for a while, brimming under the surface, but now it became more evident. The regulars stopped playing cards and huddled up close to one-another. The 4 guys who were defying death till 5 minutes ago by hanging half way out of the train suddenly had a change of heart and came inside. The smiles slowly turned to serious grims, the ipods came out, and some sort of re-alignment seemed to happen. It was on auto, as if a drill they could all do in their sleep.

The corners went first, then the space along the walls and finally the aisles.I was left hopelessly in the middle, clueless of what was about to happen. As the train slowed down at dadar station - all i remember hearing was someone in the adjoining cabin screaming "dadar aa gaya, dadar aa gaya". bam. and then it happened.

now i understand that bombay is a multicultural city - people from all over come here, and live harmoniously. they fight, bicker but there's still some common unsaid bond of humanity that connects them. Come dadar, and i was beginning to question this whole notion itself...
They came in, as warriors, savages looking to hunt down their prey. They came as vikings - born to own and rule - they were pirates - they took, never asked. They were hustlers yes sir. Came in, synchronized, experts at this deed. Used their stomachs for leverage, their hands for balance and their numbers for impact. They dint smile. Hell, they knew they dint need too.

The message was pretty clear - comply or be prepared to die. And within a matter of seconds, the train - from being a joy ride with familiar faces became a concentration camp on wheels, plummeting forward. You wonder what'll kill you first - the sheer force of a 100 bodies stuck dangerously close together or the odor that comes along with the experience.
I'm quick on my feet else id been kissing the floor in no time.

Once in, the the second leg of the journey begins. How do you manage to get out at your station? Now that ive done this a few times, i can share my strategy. You feel a bit like Abhimanyu, weaving through the chakravyu, one man at a time. A hop to the left here, a step right there. A little shove here, slip in your umbrella there. Playing tetris is a good way to practice.
You cautiously ask the man in front "boss, lower parel utarna hain?" - pray to god he says yes, cause otherwise its back to the drawing board. And so you try again, this time in another direction, hopefully with more people watching your back.

It really does make you question why you take the trains every morning? why you chose to slum it out without really needing too? and why is it that despite all this daily chaos, you feel your tolerance level has reached a new high?

The answer seems simple enough really. This is the flavor of the city. Bursting at the seams with all sorts, shapes and odor of people. You might enjoy a little bubbled existence for a little while, but there's always a dadar to put things right back into perspective.

the city's a constant struggle - but isn't that where great fighters are born? you decide.

the long and winding road

i love running. i don't get to do it as often as i should, but the looming guilt of a baniya paunch ( i'm skinny mind you, but it'll come - it'll turn up magically one morning, and i cant do a thing to stop it.) and the constant reminders from my mallu roommate (what a joke - he doesn't even eat rice) convince me to get re-started every few days.

and well that's one of the pleasure of staying in bandra. its beautiful - especially this time of year, with the rains and the muck and the lush green in the trees. it makes you want to get out everyday.

but the bigger question is where? in a city like bombay, where space makes you rich, i've found two respectable options:

- 1) every now and then i try one of those colony joggers parks. they're crowded with rather aged regulars (who stare at you when you lap them for the 19th time in an hour, especially when u you whisper out a "oh yeah" in motivation for round 20). Plus these parks are well hardly parks. I might have a heavy delhi bias here, but i was really surprised at how small these joggers parks are. and honestly, theyre nothing like the movie. i thought they'll be big and green, not brown, tiny and dusty. As my bombay friend says often " dude, go back to your lodhi garden if you wanna jog". haha. amen.

-2) The other approach is well the road less traveled. and for some very logical reasons. jogging on the road isn't easy - especially when its rained the previous hour, dodging muck, stray dogs, cars (who for some reason will drive "thiis" close to the puddle, daring you to jump last minute) and the riksha bhaiyas - that'll run over you without breaking a sweat, and scream out the choicest gaali without even an a hint of an acknowledgment. how rude. The only way to counter them is to do what my same bombay friend did once - pretend to be marathi and ask him why he's driving a riksha in bombay. it must be done convincingly mind you. they'll drive out of sight without a peep.
but i, obviously havent tried that yet. the only bit of marathi i get is the one forced fed by reliance through the phone " yeh number banda haain" or something like that.

back on the jog, forgetting all the woes that my knees will give me 10 years later, i continue on my charted route right till the carter road sea face - fully loaded along the way with three major junctions carrying the average speed of "get out of my way dude" and the climb to the summit of pali hill. On the build-up to the hill i rake in the mexican smells from 'papa pancho', scorn at the members coming out of gold gym, but that's all mostly in vain.

No amount of inspiration or motivation can prepare you for the climb. I've tried "eye of the tiger", i've tried the "departed soundtrack", i've even tried house dammit - and i hate house. nothing works.

so i try, and i try, and i try, at 2.5 km/hr, running what seems like almost walking, well just almost. once atop, the rest of the journey is a hoot. Its almost like the final leg of the tour de france...youre running downhill, its faster, the crowds whizz by, and you can smell the sea. the finish line. A final junction to encounter and you're there - carter road - populated by about 1000 more people, joggers and walkers and pet owners and lovers and loafers and writers and peddlers and what not. right there, staring at the sea as if its this magical pool that has an answer for everything - whatever your question may be and whoever you may be.

i try and spend some time there to cool off and just be. still without a thought. exhausted and empty. all that's left then is the long road back, all the way home.

oh and have i mentioned the legs in bandra? mama mia....well maybe another time.

you know, it don't come easy

how much is enough. when do you stop to think. to listen. to hear, change, and listen some more. day, night, asleep. listening to my thoughts. i encourage my dreams. is it wrong?

from whenever i can remember, i’ve been told - think now, and for today. capture what you can, who knows about the future. but why? why not for tomorrow. the tomorrow that i dream about. the tomorrow that's bright, broad, breathtaking.

i do build castles, i do visualize. i think of what i want, what i wish. imagine myself almost living it. touch, feel, smell... i like to indulge my senses. immerse them. enact those dangling conversations, experience those superficial sighs. they're my lifelines, my destination. its where i feel at home. most.

sometimes the wait seems endless. without a go back n end, a destination. a hazy vision.

But its power is strong. it pulls, empowers, enables. breathes life into the lungs, injects fuel in my veins. goosebumps. ooh. its beautiful, yet painful.

i go back to it when i can. just close my eyes. they come alive, these images i've clicked in my mind. its almost a reflex, capture before it fades away. the stored sugar when i'm starving later. starving for expression, for escape, for release. it works wonders then.

my best friend calls this my bubble. she thinks i live - blindfolded, totally unaware and with unrealistic expectations. and then i think, what good is reality really? sure, one must'nt lose out on the moment, the present...but how can i just be expected to live on auto drive...give the accelerator to fate or karma or whatever one might call it? let it be, let it be they all say. bah. i never really liked the beatles anyway. at-least not until they broke up.

thats when we finally got ‘imagine’ and ‘here comes the sun’. the point is - is optimism really that bad? is it wrong to believe that a perfect place, a perfect person and perfect life awaits. isn't it what we should all work towards creating. is int it the only thing that remains ours, our own, unconditionally today. my dream is mine. and i might lose, fall down, but its mine, to enjoy and to despair in.

as i sit writing this rather narcissistic post, belting out my emotions on a boring saturday afternoon on my first weekend in bombay, i wonder. i wonder about this bagel shop i sit in bandra with its overhanging trees, its free wifi, and the women in flat chappals mind you. i wonder what experiences im gonna have here, on these roads, with these people. its silly, but i think its the start of a beautiful relationship.

bite me reality. let me dream in peace. it be awesome.

the girl who saw numbers

a one, a one, two, three, four

what could numbers signify?
what could they perhaps imply?
one, and two, and three and four,
were they spiritual or just impure?

through the night would she debate,
these numbers and what they indicate,
twice a day every day, number plates and the cricket score,
the only constant in her life, there they were - one, anna two, three and four.

and many theories did she hear,
from friends and foes and others dear,
imagination!, coincidence!, perhaps just the lack of sleep,
but she knew it as something more, a connect that went far more deep

and then there came another floating thought,
with the potential of a scarier plot,
a life long gone, a window to the past?
signals and signs, a historical forecast?

uneasy in her daily sleep till a voice did she begin to hear,
twas smooth and composed in tone - this wise credo of her fear,
"bullshit sista!, get a grip will ya dawg,
pickles and chips at night again.. bah! get up and go for a jog!"

"numbers are fiction y'all, they exist only in your head,
why would the spirits waste time on you once they're dead?
and if you must, consider it, a gesture of a gentle nudge,
the universe is troubled my child, we're 'this' close to holding a grudge"

"tighten up your game girl and lay of that chocolate mousse,
i've had it with your laziness! and your broken knee excuse,
O! so pissed am i, for this time its personal strife,
but he's a patient old fool, the Big G, he ordered me to count till five!"

huff and puff this chant continued till she broke down enough to cry,
in her sleep she begged for mercy and promised to give an honest try,
and thus ends happily this sorrow tale, one that shook her very core,
of the girl who saw the numbers - one, anna two, three and four.