My days are filled with moments, seconds, minutes and hours when I cannot write and/or do not write. This includes times when it is physically impossible to write, or even scribble, like, when I am driving or when I am lying face down under a towel on the massage table of a spa with a woman’s tender hand on my thoracolumbar fascia (is that a bone or muscle or one of Jupiter’s satellites?) or I am having my half yearly single lap in the swimming pool. And then there are those occasions when it may be possible to write but it requires a lot of ingenuity, effort and determination. Like when I am in the midst of a rehearsal of a play or a very boring meeting, or having a drink in a noisy and half dark bar, or having a frosty argument with my wife or just while taking a shit. Come to think of it, it’s not that difficult to write while taking a shit, unless you are taking one of those emergency dumps at an airport or a five star hotel or a mega-mall. But my love for reading and unstinted commitment towards time management for last 25 years, has forced me into a habit of reading when I am in the loo. It’s such a compelling habit that at times I am in a state of nerve wracking distress on the ledge of the bathroom door, while my daughter and wife are desperately rifling through the bookshelf or magazine racks to find something suitable for me to read inside. Ok that’s all about my scatological routines; in gist, I read while shitting and thus I cannot or do not write. There are some other times when I can perhaps write but I do not because of simple ethical dilemma. Like when I am in office. No. I was lying. I do not write in office, not because of an ethical dilemma, but because of the fear of being found out by my juniors and other colleagues and thereby facing a disgraceful end to a brilliant career and the sight of my daughter going to a municipal school and me drinking arrack in stead of $40 vodkas and single malts. Life is tough for a truant author. Or should it be a truant corporate executive having delusional aspirations to be an author?
Anyway, it is an imperative to come to the point after a fairly long digression at the very beginning (my fatal weakness, and natal too). It is just that my days are filled with times when I do not or cannot write. Interestingly, it still leaves me with a fairly decent amount of time in a week or month (aggregated over the miserable days) when I can write. But funnily, or rather sadly I must say, sadly in a totally pathetic way of a loser, during these times, I do not write. I do not write when I am free to write, because I cannot figure out what to write. I do not have anything to write; no ideas, no stories, no heart rendering emotions to write a poem about, no visions, nothing, nada. Zilch. So, if at all I open an empty page and wield a pen or pressing ctrl+n in Microsoft Word, with an intention to write and with some modicum of determination to persevere for at least 15 minutes, then I sit for all those 900 seconds, in front of the blank page in a blended state of fear, anticipation, crappiness and emptiness. Like a woman heaving on the delivery table with no baby inside her womb. What a fucking pain!!
On the other hand, when I am not in a position or disposition to write, I get all the ideas. But that is a different story altogether.
Monday, 8 February 2010
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
silence and questions
Silence is what you have chosen
As a shield or a spear, I know not
If a shield, then cast it away
For I do not wield a sabre
And if a spear, then stab
At will
For I do offer neither a shield nor a battle
All I have are these hooks
Of questions
Which stick to my flesh
And pester to be answered
They will fall off with time
Which, they say waits for none.
But it seems, with me,
It has found a stable partner
As a shield or a spear, I know not
If a shield, then cast it away
For I do not wield a sabre
And if a spear, then stab
At will
For I do offer neither a shield nor a battle
All I have are these hooks
Of questions
Which stick to my flesh
And pester to be answered
They will fall off with time
Which, they say waits for none.
But it seems, with me,
It has found a stable partner
Monday, 28 December 2009
Chaotic, isn’t it? Love?
So, …I went and watched the play Chaos Theory at NCPA last evening. Alone. I went and watched a play at NCPA on a balmy Sunday evening after Christmas – A L O N E!! Well it is not as bad as it sounds. It was, in a way, a result of my own design.
But then I am not going to theatre alone in future. It’s kind of depressing, you know. To be there, where everybody else is strutting around with women in different shapes, sizes, age, dresses and un-dresses (if there is a word like that for not having enough protective cover). And the types – so many of them. There were the perennial Parsee women with short cropped hair, high pitched voices and a permanent snigger with all things Indian; whose costumes I always find to be a queer and confused mix of Western and Indian. And there were the SoBo women with their Jimmy Choo shoes, Bulgari bracelets, Prada Bags and Falguni Peacok evening dress, who trophy husband in tow, continue scoring on their record book for air kissing during the dying days of the year. The middle class was also there, but why waste my time talking about them. They are boring, ain’t they, wearing boring salwar kameezes (one daring one wearing butt enhancing tight jeans with red pullover) and what not, playing second fiddle to their husbands or fiancés or boyfriends (if they are allowed to have one), looking at their faces with mixed feelings of admiration and lust. A few teeny boppers (or anorexix and desperate late twenties disgusing as teeny boppers) with very short skirts, hot pants and spaghetti straps were also their to challenge and distract my libido but I was beyond them, at least last evening; I was.
And then there were the Delhi-Kolkata intellectual types - wearing ethnic prints, oxidized silver jewellery, large bindi and dark lipsticks. Most of this variety are dusky and I have hots for these. I think these women are horny and I have this perennial fantasy of having a one night stand, nay, make that a one month steamy affair, with one of these people. For deep inside, I think I am one of them – hey, stop right there!! I don’t mean I am a woman trapped in a middle aged man’s shapely (ovoid is a shape) body. I mean everybody who knows me, knows that I am an intellectual stuck in a wrong job. Thus I have kind of a contractual lifelong option to have, sometime in my life, a relationship (short and sweet) with one of these women, where we will drink a lot of cappuccino and beer and vodka or whatever form of stimulants they may be, talk about constructing Derrida, post-colonial subaltern (if they can speak or not), documenting the reality of Agnes Varda and such stuff about which nobody has any clue of and have lots of sex in all sorts of settings, themes and positions (as long as it does not hurt my weak back, sprained ankle or the aching knee). I know my destiny is just waiting, but last evening wasn’t the time.
See, that’s what women do to me – having or not having them. I wanted to write a 3 line review of Chaos Theory and instead I have washed my own dirty linen (with ethnic prints) in public (if they chose to come here).
Anyway, I liked Chaos Theory. I mean, not in any of those ways when a movie or a book or a play becomes a great moment in one’s life. It’s not a great play. But it had its moments and merits. The theme is not new but has been around for some time. It’s When Harry met Sally without the happy ending. And without an unhappy end too – this generation has done away with being emotional and judgemental. The production was spiffy, what with a digital screen depicting the settings through Andy Warholish backdrops, and two dimly lit wardrobe corners where the protagonists were changing after each scene. The pace was as it should be in these times – brisk. The dialogues were smart, although certain tones seemed a little out of place for 60s’ St. Stephens. But it had a lot of humour of all kinds – some tacky and clichéd, some pretty original and some quite sophisticated. The references to literature were a bit tenuous at times but still well quoted at the best of the moments. The play made me laugh and made my throat choke and corner of my eyes shine at a few intense moments (this is attributed to that extra drop of estrogen that makes me like rom-coms and chick-flicks). Anahita Uberoi was excellent in bringing out the nuances of this complex relationship which ran deep under the corny banter of 3 decades – banter and games which tried to hide and run away from a love which did not find its place under the sun (I am choking again). Zafar was a little monotonous though, and I am not sure, whether it was the script and direction or his inability to understand the underlying poignancy of the theme which lay under his smart alec dialogues. However, at the end, I thought that the playright himself was suffering from the same block that the characters did in their life. Like them, Anuvab could not bring himself to tell a story of unfulfilled love, a story of circling around each other but not having the courage to embrace the love – he could not tell an intense story without making it extremely light hearted, so that the couple next to me thought it was a comedy with a few romantic moments. The playwright felt apologetic that he has to tell a story which has a theme which is not well accepted by today’s milieu – sentimentalism.
At the end, I had to look around furtively if I was the only one to have pulled out my handkerchief and was relieved to note that Anahita had, what looked like real tears, on her cheek and most people around me had a faintly sad look on their face which was smiling till minutes ago.
There is hope for love.
But then I am not going to theatre alone in future. It’s kind of depressing, you know. To be there, where everybody else is strutting around with women in different shapes, sizes, age, dresses and un-dresses (if there is a word like that for not having enough protective cover). And the types – so many of them. There were the perennial Parsee women with short cropped hair, high pitched voices and a permanent snigger with all things Indian; whose costumes I always find to be a queer and confused mix of Western and Indian. And there were the SoBo women with their Jimmy Choo shoes, Bulgari bracelets, Prada Bags and Falguni Peacok evening dress, who trophy husband in tow, continue scoring on their record book for air kissing during the dying days of the year. The middle class was also there, but why waste my time talking about them. They are boring, ain’t they, wearing boring salwar kameezes (one daring one wearing butt enhancing tight jeans with red pullover) and what not, playing second fiddle to their husbands or fiancés or boyfriends (if they are allowed to have one), looking at their faces with mixed feelings of admiration and lust. A few teeny boppers (or anorexix and desperate late twenties disgusing as teeny boppers) with very short skirts, hot pants and spaghetti straps were also their to challenge and distract my libido but I was beyond them, at least last evening; I was.
And then there were the Delhi-Kolkata intellectual types - wearing ethnic prints, oxidized silver jewellery, large bindi and dark lipsticks. Most of this variety are dusky and I have hots for these. I think these women are horny and I have this perennial fantasy of having a one night stand, nay, make that a one month steamy affair, with one of these people. For deep inside, I think I am one of them – hey, stop right there!! I don’t mean I am a woman trapped in a middle aged man’s shapely (ovoid is a shape) body. I mean everybody who knows me, knows that I am an intellectual stuck in a wrong job. Thus I have kind of a contractual lifelong option to have, sometime in my life, a relationship (short and sweet) with one of these women, where we will drink a lot of cappuccino and beer and vodka or whatever form of stimulants they may be, talk about constructing Derrida, post-colonial subaltern (if they can speak or not), documenting the reality of Agnes Varda and such stuff about which nobody has any clue of and have lots of sex in all sorts of settings, themes and positions (as long as it does not hurt my weak back, sprained ankle or the aching knee). I know my destiny is just waiting, but last evening wasn’t the time.
See, that’s what women do to me – having or not having them. I wanted to write a 3 line review of Chaos Theory and instead I have washed my own dirty linen (with ethnic prints) in public (if they chose to come here).
Anyway, I liked Chaos Theory. I mean, not in any of those ways when a movie or a book or a play becomes a great moment in one’s life. It’s not a great play. But it had its moments and merits. The theme is not new but has been around for some time. It’s When Harry met Sally without the happy ending. And without an unhappy end too – this generation has done away with being emotional and judgemental. The production was spiffy, what with a digital screen depicting the settings through Andy Warholish backdrops, and two dimly lit wardrobe corners where the protagonists were changing after each scene. The pace was as it should be in these times – brisk. The dialogues were smart, although certain tones seemed a little out of place for 60s’ St. Stephens. But it had a lot of humour of all kinds – some tacky and clichéd, some pretty original and some quite sophisticated. The references to literature were a bit tenuous at times but still well quoted at the best of the moments. The play made me laugh and made my throat choke and corner of my eyes shine at a few intense moments (this is attributed to that extra drop of estrogen that makes me like rom-coms and chick-flicks). Anahita Uberoi was excellent in bringing out the nuances of this complex relationship which ran deep under the corny banter of 3 decades – banter and games which tried to hide and run away from a love which did not find its place under the sun (I am choking again). Zafar was a little monotonous though, and I am not sure, whether it was the script and direction or his inability to understand the underlying poignancy of the theme which lay under his smart alec dialogues. However, at the end, I thought that the playright himself was suffering from the same block that the characters did in their life. Like them, Anuvab could not bring himself to tell a story of unfulfilled love, a story of circling around each other but not having the courage to embrace the love – he could not tell an intense story without making it extremely light hearted, so that the couple next to me thought it was a comedy with a few romantic moments. The playwright felt apologetic that he has to tell a story which has a theme which is not well accepted by today’s milieu – sentimentalism.
At the end, I had to look around furtively if I was the only one to have pulled out my handkerchief and was relieved to note that Anahita had, what looked like real tears, on her cheek and most people around me had a faintly sad look on their face which was smiling till minutes ago.
There is hope for love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)